Waiata Dawn Davies

New Zeeland

Kaye Aldenhoven 

Northern Australia

Philip Johnson

Northwich, Cheshire. England

Tammara Or Slilat

Arbel, Lower Galilee, Israel


Jim Bennett

Wallasey, England

Catherine Kanaan

London, England

Sally James

Edenfield Nr Ramsbottom,  Lancashire, England

Stuart Nunn

Chipping Sodbury, England

Paul Blake


Louise Jones

Wolverhampton, England

Angela Keaton

Hoylake, England

Caroline Davies

Wing, Buckinghamshire, England


Mick Moss

Liverpool, England

Bob Cooper

Nunthorpe, United Kingdom

Sherry Pasquarello

Pittsburgh, PA, USA

Barbara Philips

Toronto, Canada

Gary Blankenship

Bremerton, WA, USA








I thought the morning colours

would be singing for this day
deep throated reds, high
voiced yellows choir like
on the skyline, but no
Morning is holding its breath
wrapped in pearl
waiting for our poems.




Morning on Poetry Day  


I wake too early

my pup still lolls on my bed

my grandsons will arrive later

they’ll write and draw

on the big table on the cool verandah


at that table my family celebrated

my seventh birthday, then Christmas 1951.

Mum decorated the damask cloth

with grape leaves and cherries -

imitating red and green of English holly


this morning I’ll eat my porridge

at this blackwood table

listening to boys chatter

but now, I’m listening to birds

waking in my Macarthur palms


7.40 a.m.

Rest day from work so am up early

and ready to set off to training session

in Sandbach


Moving and Handling


sometimes I feel Like I am trapped

married to the job


her hands are all over me




8:40 a.m


"Darling, Rise and shine…"

My virtual lover wants me to cyber with him.

"It would be a shame not to make use of this lovely morning erection"

he coaxes me. I look at the screen. He certainly wasn't lying.

A warm tingling wave ripples on my skin, leaving goose bumps as it subsides

Like small shells on the shore line. Strange

How we've developed new ways of making love, creating

passion without meeting, attraction without bodies,

satisfaction without organs… but still

I'm dying here, dying to meet him face to face, body to body

to feel his warm skin, breath him deeply, taste his sweat…

No screen can give you that. Ever.




8.15 a.m.
I have been awake a little while
dog walked and fed
now I'm just sitting
looking out across the garden
the trees still green
just starting to show
the first turn of Autumn
a breeze shifts the branches
sunlight mottles the ground
from the utility room
the sound of a fast spin cycle
and in the kitchen
the kettle clicks off
I think I may have 
five more minutes
before I have to get moving
just time to read the emails
and to write a snapshot


8.00 a.m.





Catherine Kanaan

8.30 a.m.
A new day dawns


The grey dawn whispers to me

“Go back to sleep, your dreams

will have more colour than this day.”


“But I see a ribbon of pink

among your wisps of clouds.” I reply.

“I see summer flowers still blooming

 a pine tree pointing upwards forever green

trails of an aeroplane comb your hair

changing your curls into waves.”


“Ah,” she whispers back “You only look east,

look west and you will see how grey I am

smell the dampness in my air and listen

there are no birds singing.”





8.30 a.m.


Don Giovanni in the gym – a Walkman poem


The rapist on the rowing machine

eyes Zerlina on the bike. (Mazetto’s

in the weights room with Leporello,


who, tattoo’s flexing, is working on his pecs).

Donna Elvira’s tee-shirt (pink and sparkly)

says she’s going to try something different.


Mad – mad as you have to be

to work here, but Giovanni likes

the cut of her tights. Me –


I’m the Commendatore this morning,

turned to stone already, ready

for breakfast and my overdue revenge.



waking alone -
the winter duvet
back again


Woke up on the third call,
the clock won't do another dely,
so it screaches me awake.
The sun is breaking through
cracks in the curtains.
Spotlights of dust.
My head thick
with last nights wine
and getting late to bed.
Today is National Poetry Day
and I will be going
out later to hear some poets
reciteing poems
in the coffee shop.
For now
I have to drag myself awake.
Clear my head with a coffee
and a drag.


Post Script


artist travelled to Ukraine

captured forever scrapped plans

because of silt join fight

against miners

a killer had not been heard of

taxis with special needs

are nothing like aircraft

the only exit is blocked

with yellow and green ribbons

missed the chance to be a hoax

a floating tree trunk created a stink

I kept asking after a crash

why the result expected

to open up a promised

iconic alternative

a band of dust swirled around a star 

10 a.m.



I'm awoken early. Some passing noise

The glass milk being delivered to the doorstep

below the bedroom window.

I try to grope back into the dream

of friends, some pub somewhere

but the name of the pub and sleep eludes me.

Too soon the radio announces

Seven o'clock and the day rushes on.


The bed is full of boys.

The forefinger of my left hand is full of pus.

a three week old splinter or not even that

a fragment of a year dead bramble tip

that caught my hand. Should have done

something about it sooner. Throb.


Over breakfast I hold the throb in a bowl of hot salty water.

You lance it with the sharp tip of your Swiss army penknife

The children squabble. You tell me

to phone the doctors. Talk reassuringly about antibiotics. Throb.


Our elder son practises keyboard in the front room.

The TV is switched off but will soon come back on.

I leave the house before my usual deadline.

A flurry of goodbyes. Kisses.

'Hope your finger gets better'. Throb.


I drive to work surrounded by autumn.

Trying to notice trees and the stuff

that inspired Keats but even the sunlight

isn't helping. The day rushes on.

If only I'd done something earlier.

Used a sharp needle.
The line of Rowans greet me on my way into the office.

Must remember to ring the surgery





fuzzy liquid crystal wobbles

vaguely in the darkness

while a battered brain deciphers

three sixteen, oh god

but the bladder bids me

to the bathroom

where I sit and watch

a wedge of light

arc across the carpet

as the door slowly closes

a weak beam

looking for the Luftwaffe

though it only finds my toes

curled up like baby bears

I flush and shuffle

back to bed





Wake up and cough the smelly

as the particles of consciousness

come back to me in random pattern

an explosion in reverse

they settle in and take their rightful place

as bit by bit the mind makes sense

of all these disparate elements

that form a sort of logic

although it takes a while

it all comes back to me

the who and where the hell I am

the things I have to do today

the phone calls and the meetings

and the hundred other

time consuming details

of a busy life

but all I really want to do

is get back to the arms of Ingrid Bergman

which is odd because

I don’t remember dreaming her.


The Fridge Poems (on National Poetry Day 2007)

Written 8.20:

are yoghurt pots
I could crack apart
peel a lid and taste
cool smoothness, a flavour.
In the lush cherry purple
I lick the shape of a poem.

7:30 a.m. pittsburgh pa.


the sun hasn't brightened yet
pale at the end of my street
it moves slow
i match it
heating leftover coffee
cutting a slice of  bran bread
cutting a pill in half with a pill splitter
the blue matches my robe
odd that.




muted dawn slips on fog

no trumpets blow as inertia

seduces one to lie on leaves

sliding into melted gold


but errands must be run

agendas honoured, help granted

as morning falls into urgencies

while I regret my coffee is cold


but it’s not about the coffee

it’s the mist that pillages

words which weave vibratos

along the boughs of my harried mind





there is no connection this morning

no way to tell if there was an earthquake I did not feel

to access damage from the hurricane

that blew away the neighbor’s umbrella

to check whether I won a contest

I did not enter


to receive poems written earlier

this NPD

I one of the last before

the vast uncharted Pacific sea


nothing to do but


and the same news

as nearly every other day





12 Noon


The sun should be overhead but

all I see are silver clouds above
grey stone banks and green
pasture where five hundred
dairy cows line up ready to
stroll to the milking shed.
They are noisy to-day because
their calves have been weaned,
heifers to the feeding tray while
bull calves wait for the stock truck
to take them to the works.






Returning home from rock-climbing

a movement in the sink catches my eye,

as movement attracts the eyes of predators

It's too dark for a gecko


It's too long for a gecko

a perfect miniature monitor -

Meerten’s monitor, newly hatched

attracted by the smell of raw pork


tiny jaw gapes wide

an attempt to bluff me

dorsal skin starred like the Milky Way

underbelly spotted with tiny dark flowers


My grandson releases it into our garden

to hides under coconut debris.

How did this beautiful goanna

get into my kitchen?



3 p.m.


Cinnamon, curry, black pepper and ginger,

The slow-cooked chicken pronounced its fragrance clearly,

the pile of steaming rice, rich with scented moisture,

orange carrots and green peas wallowing in its golden luxury,

a once-in-a-life-time salad concocted by my nephew, who studies to be a chef,

made of lettuce, herbs, pomegranate, blue cheese, zucchini and I have to check

my recipe book for what else, the proud smile of my brother, the happy faces of all,

my tummy purring  with satisfaction, the dogs gobbling on the leftovers,

outside the afternoon breeze fluttering the leaves and the Arbel cliff, 400 meters above

the Kinneret looms out against the pale turquoise sky, melting past and future into the Now.




back home

beaten my way through the traffic

ready to record an interview

but in the silence

before the phone call

take a few minutes to read

a few more pages


I left George and Lenny

on the hillside again

I know what will happen

I have trodden this road

with Steinbeck many times


I want to leave them there

on that evening before they move

down to the ranch


sometimes I think about that camp

the inevitability of what will happen

the way they are held captive

to the writers will




1 p.m.

lunch menu 1.30


the long kiss goodbye


I watched geena davis  killing

bad guys on tv last night


one tough cookie


it’s christmas


I watched the boob tube

3 hours  yesterday

so figured I’d better

crank this out


help help

I’m drowning

in sorrows


one aging acquaintance to another


bless you


I thought

you’d died


how lovely to see you in the flesh


the day is grim and grey

even the sun is pale

when it  sheepishly

emerges for its requisite


then effaces

behind a cloud


I fell like a ton of bricks

at your feet


you stand red with fury

in the middle of the road


gio told me he panicked

sometimes at the thought

of dying

he’s 8


roya came for a ticket

to the antiques fair

she’s as highly strung

as my piano


fabiola came with my keys

she complains that her husband

follows her


I try to write in between visits

try to push through the old words


I want to get out


help help

I’m drowning

in sorrows


1.30 p.m.


It is early afternoon, the sun smiles

and mocks the dawn’s mutterings.

The day has dried like a clean sheet

blown dry in autumn’s glow.

Still the birds are silent but my dogs

lounge in the midday warmth.

Slowly brightness is filling

the room where I write

words flow instead of rain


Make my eyes seep into shadows

and my cheeks wet.

3.15 p.m.



They knew, that unnamed gang who made this camp,

how much an edge can give you. Height

to look down from, backs against the hills,


as though to brace your spine. Distance

to see beyond the land you know, to where

things turn misty, Welsh, uncertain.


Did Tyndale, clerking a living here, see

how far he had to go, the fire in the end?

Those six who left for France, they must have known


that he – or he – or he – wouldn’t come back.

And yet they did, to this fortunate village,*

one of the few with no memorial to the fallen.


Gowen, Grivell, Leach, Taylor, Warren, Weare:

(oh, what a lout the Gowen I tried to teach!)

commemorate their place – here – on the edge

1 p.m.


Cloud processions
stately as kings
across a pale sky;
the spotlight of the sun
turns the treetops
to a bright tweed,
and the old lady
in the unmatched shoes,
walking her dog
in Archbishop's Park,
throws back her shoulders
as if she remembers
warm hands upon them.






The poets read their poems

and left me a bit cold

words for the sake of it

nothing more

but here at the computer

it all seems to have a purpose


I am going to the cafe tonight

to read a poem

when everyone has gone


Lunch Times

falling equipment covers up crossfire

unseen pictures set out beliefs

let  people pass judgement

resolve their issues

uncontested relationships deteriorate

acrimonious break up remains common

counter criticisms not grounded in family life

are vastly underestimated

from witness accounts

orgy in bushes limits cuddling

there was no evidence failed asylum seekers

were cleared of false imprisonment 

lots of populist measures under the bonnet

turn it into a hundred day marathon




On the roof


I've escaped onto the roof garden

leaving the sad people eating sandwiches at their desks.

No one comes up here. The door

is supposed to be locked.

After a cleaner tried to jump off.

Probably a cry for help.


Only the toughest plants survive on the roof

Sedums bleached to a pale yellow

Sweet pungent scent of sage

and a sea of pebbles reminiscent of a beach.

The day rushes on. Soon I'll have to go

to my meeting. For now I'll sit.



Afternoon 14.01


Well it’s NPD in Britain

and Cultural Heritage Day in Europe

Serbia has the chair

and wants to emphasise

they celebrate their cultural diversity

how times have changed

except here

where the posties are on strike

and the jury watch ten year old video

of Dodi and Di

pissed as farts in a lift

in order to decide

the final verdict

it’s 50 years since Sputnik

Nigerians are busted for the biggest

internet scam ever

and school uniforms cost too much

I’ve just written a scene

for a movie that will never be made

but you have to do something

I guess.


Written 12.39:

In the fridge tray I feel
the lettuce's crisp words
tomatoes brightness,
a firm yellow pepper
and my pen a knife
considering touch.

11.30 a.m.
lunch decisions
poking around the fridge
opening cupboards and waiting
not sure
can't decide
come back to my keyboard
a bit more political blogging
too full of baloney
not hungry anymore.


NPD 1:00 PM 07



leaves exude toast aromas

luxuriate wantonly on pathways

through the park lit by fall expectations


tail twitching signals

two grey squirrels streak

carelessly around the sentinel fountain


in the yarn store colours

sing eden harmonies

urge outpourings of giddy arias


street cacophony clamours as omnipresent hues

celebrate exuberantly and in fenced shaded

gardens impatiens loom complementary waves




on the deck in the sun

nearly asleep


a squirrel runs

along the fence


mouth full

of peach pits



his quiet harvest

can’t disturb my nap



5.45 p.m.


My neighbour's chimney smoke

blows east above the newly
clipped pine hedge. Her yellow tulips
nod to the pansies, like celebrities
condescending to urchins.
The scent of woodsmoke
lingers because the farmer
has burned an old hedge
without a thought of
global warming or carbon footprints.
The sun shines through
my windows at last. Between
the grape vine and my porch railing
glistens the biggest orb web
in the world.


it’s past 8 o’clock    



are all those boys in their beds

it’s past eight o’clock?


Well two are in their beds

and one in mine.

He’ll be too heavy to shift

so I guess I’ll be sharing

with a small boy, and that exhausted pup

who now dozes, dreaming of catching up,

her sweet muzzle on my clean feet



the glass lantern with its tiny candle light

flickers on the chest, carried in

from the pool, where it supplemented

the meager light of the Milky Way

arcing the gap between dark palms


a balmy breeze

lightly stirred the trees

in the most romantic way

as boys played water rugby.




Where on earth do they come from,
these words at these hours, 
in all their languages
off many different tongues
all so hungry?
Waste words scribbled on scraps of paper
on public transport on the way to work
lost to the scream of those carved
on the back of a South African's hand
in darkness
deep underground
declarations of love splled in blood
on gold

two bites at a cheese sandwich and off out again
have invite to Chester to hear our poet laureate
talk about her year and all the commission entails
Jo Bell has also helped coordinate National Poetry Day
She let out a secret
Next year the North West is to be the hub for the event
she wants it away from London
                      poetry to the ranks usually made to travel
                      or be left out in the cold!
                      Thank you, Jo




Climbing up the Arbel we saw a group

(definitely tourists – light complexion, knee length trousers, excited smile)

hurrying up the cliff with long strange parcels. Never seen anything like it, so

we hurried in their wake. At the top of the cliff, the Kinneret lying calmly 400 meters down,

the Golan heights pinking away in the sunset, they spread brightly colored wings and

started fluttering them, I was sure they would vanish into the thin air the moment

I reached them, but they kept on swaying their flags and explained with a smile

of Christian compassion that they were praying to God. Indeed,

they couldn't have Found a better spot to get closer to God.


5.45 p.m.


finished for now

seven schools in four hours

identical readings

anonymous school halls

countless children packed in for

"The Visit"


hundreds of children's faces

identical questions

but no time to stop and chat

always getting on to the next one


maybe touched one or two

enough to make it worthwhile

the man from the education

who drove me round

said he though it went well







6.15 p.m.

had a shot at the kings road
to prop up my ragged wardrobe

wispy glamour passed me
cultured hair streamed by
speaking in tongues

suddenly I longed for you
wanted to settle back
into your ruggedness
where I feel

like a delicate bird



My cheeks are dry now the sun

is sinking westwards.

My eyes have cast their shadow

on the old bruise of sunset.

EPlanes still scratch the pale blue sky

their vapour trails criss crossing

bleed into a lather of clouds.

Now birds chirp as the day shortens

fly from the dull grey of a slate roof.

There are echoes of stars

in this early twilight,

the rustle of dead leaves along

cobbled paths, and on the slope

of the hill one black sheep

grazes among the white

as day and night begin to mingle.



Athletic Club


Under floodlights, they run the daylight away.

Despite all jokes, this is serious stuff,

to do with faster, higher, stronger.


Perfectibility’s the name of this game.

See Jo, married a fortnight, dragging a tyre;

see Greg and Darren, the sculptured brothers,


faster than looks possible from where I stand.

See Tom. Is that determination in his eyes

different since his dad’s heart attack last week?


I was never like these children – hated sport,

but longed to understand. Well – too late now

for more than talking a good race over beer.



7.30 p.m.


Dark now again, and I hear
the distant wail of sirens
from the hospital.
But a little before dusk
my phone chirped,
a silver bird singing
your plane had landed,
and when I looked out
the quince tree in the garden
was full of yellow suns





I need to write something

but I also need to get out to the chemist

it is hard trying to

write "in the moment"

as my guru said

when life is what is happening

and every moment has its

pressing need


Tam will be round later

will want to get into bed with me


there will be no time for poetry then

just sweat and grind

and that thing he does

that hurts


today I bought a book of poetry

this is the first I have ever actually owned

since I was a child

and I desperately want to sit down and read it


I have had library books over the past few months

and gone through lists of poets

people have suggested

but this was something I bought


it was liberating, that's the word

as liberating as writing poetry


but for now its the chemist

and William Carlos Williams

will have to wait just a little longer


Voice of Evening
a forgotten memento came from nowhere
exposed degraded state police were called
bogus buyers spotted the system hatched outrageous stunt
what in the world do you want with Art in Manchester
we make no comment



Come home to a house tick with dust

Forgotten a French friend was fitting windows in the front room

Radiators blaze heat though the open door

Children run up and down the stairs

Ask if we can keep the old window to build a den

Their father says yes.




Boggling number of poems

speed read

can’t do them justice

but remarkable that

out there

in the world

where we are

wherever we are

we are in touch

at the touch of keyboard and mouse

I find that comforting

so now to the pub

for another dose of verbiage

masquerading as art


Written 4.39:

Although I can't see you
you're the words that are in there
on packets, yoghurt pots, milk cartons,
and does the light come on
and you select yourselves
to make and arrange on each shelf
a deep, who will read,
ever so cool gleaming poem.


Written 4.58:

How it hums,
open or closed,
and now I see it
as if, like Eliot, for the first time,
with the shape and whiteness
of paper - and alphabet magnets
that have been there for years
re-arranged for today
to spell:  A    P - O - E - M


 5:30 p.m.
early evening late afternoon
in pittsburgh
makes no difference
we are 10 years behind time
here in our little fiefdoms
city states bound by
2 rivers that flow
into 1
time goes by
the evening crickets are early
dinner will be late
it makes no difference.

6:30 PM



a cardinal squawks at the feeder

he hops impatiently on a branch

as black gold of sunflower seeds pour

into his grail while the squirrel twitches


I leave them to their gourmand rivalries

breathe in heady sweetness of still warm air

welcome but not often expected in October

but I can sense frost that lurks just behind


heavy ruby hips of the rose that trembles

thorny branches arc wantonly over the gate

as if to welcome the lover that comes not soon enough

or comes only in mists of pendulous memories




on the way along the shore road

to visit a friend

whose father passed last night



I’ve never noticed



where simple family homes stood

new streets for super-developments

patches of forest


for houses made of ticky-tacky


where will the squirrels live

the jays?


where will the peasant call

the deer trail?


Night 9.34 p.m.


No moon to-night,
a warm fire,
a hot drink,
Schubert on CD
a new detective story
But you're not here.



finally, I understand what poets do

dead miners
handled and moved Sandbach
training for work
South Africa
News is a little off centre tonight
nearly midnight
Met Jo Bell and John Lindley
and Andrew Rudd, Joy Winkler
with Harry Owen
Harry announced he off to South Africa
The five had bunches of flowers
wrapped in gold
my ears beat to the sound of my own blood
dripping in the darkness
only I appear to have met myself
coming in as I go out





So now that the last guest has given me the final hug, the fatal kiss,

I remain, sole ruler of my beautiful new house, to reign over

the empty rooms of my daughters: the eldest called me from Nepal

yesterday, my youngest is busy organizing a field trip in the youth movement,

and the hollow look on my dead son's face

as he watches over me, calling the dogs in, closing the shutters, hoping

for a dreamless night.

11.00 p.m.


the house is growing quiet

in another room the TV is on

Charlie follows me

through the kitchen

out into the garden


the sky is clear

the stars and  planets visible

I think of all the poems

today shining in my mind

like stars across the sky


all the people who wrote them

some I may never meet

I think about the last time

we did this


Charlie rubs this head

against my hip

looks up at me


his eyes full of

wild poetry


9.44 p.m.


I walk home from my son's house
night  wraps itself around the city
and ties it with a rose bow

street lamps glow
window  lights  invite me in

as rooms spill into the street
I look at the art on the walls

as I walk from gallery to gallery




This night is a black curtain

so strong not even stars can pierce

the coarse fabric of sky

and from the half faced moon

not even a flicker can be seen.

There is mist hovering on bare

branches, clammy twigs

are dead men’s fingers

groping in the hedgerows.

I feel a dampness in the air

as if the sweat of the day’s sun

had opened every pore of soil.

Night creatures will scurry

in the wasteland of my sleep

but it has been a good poetry day

and angels will lighten the darkness

where no stars shine.





National Poetry Day


A day like any other? No, not quite. Book read:

 ‘Sick Puppy’: Carl Hiaasen. Music listened to:

Mozart, Shostakovitch, ‘Jacky Wilson Said’.


A day Descartes would have understood,

when poetry and physical effort both

made the running. Exercise and brain.


The sun shone, and the Cotswold edge

was lovely. Edward Thomas must have walked

that way. Tyndale too. And those six volunteers.


Meanwhile, my friends demonstrate the body’s frailty.

Roger dead two weeks ago. Bill and Joan,

both heart attacks. My best friend, Tony,


in that distant hospital, half his blood spilled,

leg hacked, re-made – please providence –

made good by surgeon’s skill.


So how to sum it up, this Poetry Day?

I ran and walked, fashioning language

as I went, and knowing I was not alone.


Food cooked and eaten with love in sunshine;

streets, fields and lovers, the pleasures of life

poured out all day to follow the sun.



Night. No words. No special poetry
in the day. The same old slog we have
to go through, till it ends.
And yet I found a parcel hidden by the bin
when I returned from work,
R S Thomas, casting an austere eye
across this life, courtesy of Amazon,
and on the screen the poems flowed
like a great river of fresh water,
or many flowers sent by friends.




thank God for KY Jelly

and William Carlos Williams

and computers

and a life that starts to mean something


I don't want to write poetry like I heard

at a cafe today

I want to write it well

not the quick rhyme

fell in slime

anything goes if you have the time

rubbish that means nothing


I just read

the  Road to the Contagious Hospital

and The Red Wheel Barrow

I am listening to the PK CD

and I have been reading over poems

from all round the world


and now I can't stop crying

because it has been there all my life

and I didn't know




Vikings were here
I can't stress strongly enough
pathways are turning into rivers
on the second day
the move will bring end
to our commitment
into treatment of witnesses
of a psychological thriller
hangs in the balance
contrasting but related
family connections
a wonderful part of our heritage
that I took as a joke
forgotten and neglected
not life threatening
the journey began
the book is here
in the shoes or sleeping bag
all are welcome

Night - 0.43 - Liverpool





missed the deadline

story of my life


Written 6.25:

Boiling rice
for the chilli con carne -
will it swell into a poem?

11.00 p.m.

11.00 p.m. pittsburgh and

3 chicken wings and
2 rum and diets
seven of us
as the evening wore on
the music loud
laughter louder
easy drive home
radio low
scrubbed face
striped silk nightshirt
and all of you.
to kiss goodnight.

11:30 PM


I am high on words

on poems read

on poems yet to be written

and yet to be read


and this I know to be

true before I sleep tonight –


exhilaration is reading a blizzard of poems

no one I know has quarrelled today

happiness can be an extraordinary lingering summer day

tomorrow is my twins’ birthday

celebration is love

love is celebration



10/4/2007 Bremerton, WA, USA 2130


headache and chills

early warning the misery looms

three weeks before flu shots available


too under the weather

to care about CSI’s gore

Mad Men’s manufactured nostalgia

any Survivor


or poetry shot round the world


tomorrow early enough to post

the last

to pen the final


comments beyond the horizon





a wash of words

from many places
even the "other side of midnight"



I'm sitting on my sofa gazing
at some gladiolas in the vase

I feel the wealth of words
that poured from my screen

it feels like love

and I wonder why the world
is not a better place



pages already yellowing
yesterdays news
overlaid by today's scandals
yesterday's people
still bleed and grieve and laugh
post poetry day



In the night, maybe,
I dreamed I wrote
a poem then woke
to find I had.


Other Single Poems

Paul Blake

Maureen Weldon

Cheshire, England

Jonathan Shaw M.V. Pozar

Observations upon some Words of Mr Sean O'Brien, Poet, on his Receiving
the Forward Prize for the Third Time, October Year of Our Lord 2007 - or
what I read in my paper on National Poetry Day

I wouldn't want a child of mine to do it:
I want them to have proper, safe careers.
I've wasted years and my good health to do it
and I can tell you that it ends in tears.

When I was young no other occupation
existed for the local lads like me,
than mining words to keep the British nation
supplied with couplets for its industry.

I've seen writer's cramp a mile below the surface -
the noble brows that furrowed deep with pain,
as they swung the pick at tons of brooding wordface
and spent their blood to bring it up again

Those trains of thought, those well-oiled tankas,
the buttered triolets you had for tea,
the castles in the air - each of you wankers
depends  upon the sweat of guys like me.
It gets into your veins like an addiction,
but I wouldn't let my kids acquire the curse;
it isn't a career, it's an affliction -
don't waste your life by trying to write verse!


 It is morning, early National Poetry Day.
 Because I am expecting a special guest -
 a poet.
 I have rubbed and scrubbed my flat.
 I will make up her bed with my best
 Because it is National Poetry Day,
 I will read W.B. Yeats : and my maybe
 most favourite poem -
 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree,'
 to take me home to where
  my dreams dance.



Annandale Street

Inside the aircon's
hum, outside the westerly's --

Ahead, brittle leaves dancing
behind a blue car's tyres --

A plastic bag full of wind
springing green branches

half a news-spread
crossing the bitumen --

34 degrees on the dashboard
Sky tinged purple with haze.
Discarded Remains

A fall from the shelf
hit the ground
break into pieces

I look about
sweep up the mess
decide the damage is done
no repair necessary

Pour the remains
into the garbage receptacle
think maybe
I should have
could have
glued it together

Shrug my shoulders
and say nah