The Poetry Kit MAGAZINE



Response Poems 







by Mick Moss


My weakness is a curvy shape

a cleavage, lifted, on display

a smiling eye, a tempting nape

all spur me on to have my way


long legs below too short a skirt

a teasing laugh, a husky voice

with such I cannot fail to flirt

I really do not have a choice


I can't resist this luscious list

though like as not I'll just get pissed




 on stories

 by Frank Prem


he is a man who lives on stories

finds them daily on the path

like tiny nuggets

that shine under his light


                                                   after summer

                                                   the awning was raised

                                                   to accommodate the sun

                                                   lying each day a little lower

                                                   in the west


                                                   a magpie landed heavily

                                                   grasped for balance

                                                   on the wire

                                                   outside the bedroom window

                                                   small flaps

                                                   frantic for a find balance

                                                   against the sway of arrival


                                                   raised up his head



                                                   glory glory




                                                   glory glory glo-or


                                                   such easy praise

                                                   nonchalant joy

                                                   balance in the trill

                                                   of the passing melisma


he plucks a word

into his hand from empty air

holds it open-palm

to see what it might do


puffs lightly

lets it drift away

satisfied that he understands


                                                   after six days

                                                   the clove was smooth and moist

                                                   swollen with promise

                                                   but no sign of a stalk

                                                   no green


                                                   and what of that

                                                   let six turn into twelve

                                                   let time be arbiter

                                                   let the clove

                                                   find the heart it needs

                                                   to grow


                                                   what is time

                                                   if not that space


he walks

anticipation in each stride

towards a thing

that must be seen

and drunk

and tasted


his paces

on the outskirts of dreams


one step inside them


                                                   in the mirror

                                                   eyes watch just as keenly

                                                   as the watcher


                                                   a familiar stranger

                                                   dressed in deep etched lines


                                                   in sags

                                                   and grey



                                                   the face that holds the eyes

                                                   seems full of life

                                                   amused perhaps

                                                   ready to look upon

                                                   another stage that is a journey

                                                   complete within itself



                                                   happy tale


he stoops to the daisy


but colour- faded


calls to mind the purple

and gold



contemplates the ending of a thing



the beginning