When without you;

Scrolling; I kiss your display pictures

Seems it has become a ritual

Browsing through the reveries

Once you gave me that key-holder

I caress it as if an amulet

Just sipped-in something bitter

Navigating you inside somewhere

Can sense those flashes

Of amorousness

Arms holding me from behind

Every part of me getting unwind

Fingers flickering...

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It was January

She let the freezing ocean cover her naked spirit

Its bottomless darkness could potentially kill her

Still she knew that it was only by facing death

that she would discover life.

ida

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I have a large knife in my hand
and I’m not afraid
to skin this mother
to sliver away at the
stiff upper lip of a
toughened epidermis
banish wrinkles, dents and prickly bits
and behold it
cleansed, stripped, unveiled
If you ask me again
I will plainly chop
the thing in two
while I wonder what I could be

This repast, the fourth of the day
mentally diarised between
broken blinds and...

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I see you

I hear you

I feel you

Is what you tell me 

Still

I keep explaining

Keep excusing 

Keep blaming myself

Please

Don't tell me you understand

Listen.

- nicoline 

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WORDS OF WONDER

A word on a line
joined with many and more,
a story to tell 
from behind a closed door.

A line on a page
and a paragraph to make,
from a thoughtful sage 
to the ones who forsake.

A page in a book 
telling tales short and tall,
just have a quick look,
hear the whispering call.

A book on a shelf,
many dusty old tomes,
a wealth of words 
from across quiet rooms...

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The collection of Frida Narin's poems are not a nostalgic work; the past is not in the habit of painting romantic pictures. The boarders in Narins poems, from north to south and from east to west, are not lines separating humanity. The flags in the collection of Narins poems are not raised to separate the people of the earth from one another. These flags must be sown to create a carpet for childre...

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~~I was to write a poem, to tell you how I feel. But I feel rants are more raw, expressive and real. So here's a rant, just for you. My bubby pumpkin owl, my baby boo. It may rhyme from time to time, but the message of love will remain and you'll always be mine.

Savannah Sienna Rose. Such a name is so deep that it dwells within itself to decipher what it means. A name that is travels beyond two...

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Oh deep, dark depression,

my uninvited guest,

the persistence of oppression

is precluding my life’s zest.

The dark before sunrise

of a dawn that just won't break,

suppressed by a thirst for my soul

that only sorrow can now slake.

The wisps that you are weaving

are clouding my damp eyes,

a cold and cloying shroud

that’s covering all that I desire.

...

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How can a lie

make the whole world cry,

yet they claim there is nothing to see,

where nefarious knaves

and the covetous crave

beneath covers so stealthily, free?

No thought for the plebs

as they weave dangerous webs

in a world already complex,

where the sins of the saints

have done nothing but taint,

confuse, deceive and perplex.

To forgive and forget,

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May the ink that flows

from the nib of my pen,

forever entertain you.

With words of love;

of life and wonder,

like beams of light

through clouds of thunder.

May the blood that flows

through my hand as it writes,

forever reassure you.

With thoughtful verse

and encouraging rhymes,

to ease you through

your challenging times.

May the emotions that fl...

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To feel her warm and gentle hand

upon your smiling face,

her tender loving caress is like

a sweet and soothing grace.

Teasing, as your fingers

trace a tantalizing trek

along her silken stockings

as you tenderly kiss her neck.

Gazing into enchanting eyes

so deep with dark desire,

whirling pools of life and lust,

dancing in dangerous fires.

A hint o...

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The whistle blows to sound the charge

and over the top they bustle and barge,

covered from head to toe in mud

and soon tainted with flesh and blood.

Up the ladder with slippery rungs,

a scream of rage from terror filled lungs,

adrenalin coursing through every vein

with the fear of not coming back again.

Knee-deep mud sucking boots from feet,

tangled in barbed w...

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The stains upon the bar

tell of many sad tales

of love, loss and tragic lives;

and drink to drown out the wails.

Another washed out soul

seeks the solace of the glass,

to wash away the memory

of another broken pass.

Another wheeler-dealer,

another gambling god,

another weary player

bet his life upon the sod.

The rings around his eyes

mark the t...

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Yes I Will Wear One

(lines written in response the suggestion that

those who are mentally ill should wear

wristbands to identify their conditions)

Yes, I will wear one:
retiring, undefeated,
or at least not admitting it,
as I back away,
hot tears rolling from eyes 
spiked with despair
down cheeks
hollowed by time,
I will wave 
both my arms
in the air, cry:
It's not me...

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The flickering light calls from

across the disused railway embankment

like a lonely beacon sending signals

into the misty grey dawn.

Quietly questioning a world

still wrapped in strong arms of slumber.

I consider sending an answer,

would that I understood its coded question.

I’m drawn into its intoxicating world by

the pulsating rhythm of its incandescent heart...

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I drove home from Sunday night folk club with a storm over my house in the distance.  The beginning of this came to me.

Leaves and walls and windows spin,

a jigsaw broken by a falling sun.

Heat,

the road home,

a breaking storm.

I wonder what we began.

There is no calm centre,

power and colour after.

Yesterday isn’t the journey,

no...

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How frail, in truth,

is the world that we tread?

Captains and kings

claiming calm sea’s ahead

as they’re riding high

upon their silver spoons

laughing, as below

the world withers too soon.

How thin the membrane

of life’s brittle bubbles,

building our barriers

and avoiding all troubles.

Do we wonder at the reasons;

do we hide or protect

as we inch to t...

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A single word;

a phrase or gesture

can trigger a feeling

of wondrous rapture.

To be told that you're worth

more than the drifting sands

that daily slip through

your trembling hands.

To be surrounded

by such appreciative people

makes me want to shout

from the highest steeple.

Words of thanks,

so loud that you all know,

that for you, the ink

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The following was written by
my niece Cynthia Smothers Carter
and is used with her permission.


Rain...again...
But I have come to the conclusion that
it has always rained on Memorial day
and I have figured out why.

The rain is the tears of all our fallen
Soldiers past, present and future. 
Thank You for Your service and the
ultimate sacrifice You ...

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Graffiti grannies they are very canny

they never get caught

but their skills are highly sought

they spin a yarn knit and sow

There cover never gets blown

Statues get covered

As do park benches and poles

Even Chinese boulders

Well I suppose we all need something to do when we get older.

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I
Am
Deflated
I

Once
Soared

High

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~~Press Release
Date:   March 27, 2015
Subject:  Call for Submissions for THE POETIC BOND V
Contact:  Trevor Maynard, email poetry@trevormaynard.com
 
Introduction
THE POETIC BOND is an international poetry anthology published in paperback annually.  This year the series is entering its fifth year, and expectation is once again high for this year’s crop of poems.  Over 120 poets from 17 diff...

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When my hands begin to tremble

You’ll place your hand in mine

When my eyes become hollow

That you’ll gaze into them

When I’m at a loss for words

You’ll kiss me so the silence

Can speak for the both of us.

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Wish I could turn it off

Buzzing

Whirring

Voices echoing around

Wish I could reboot my brain!

I keep it all inside

All my worries

Fears

Stress

But I'm scared Scared I'm going to crack up

There's only so much I can think about

Keep it bottled up

Even though it's not healthy

I need to release the cork

Don't want to be in that dark place again

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Thy pen; no mighty sword here preach
Where words, metallic, fall.
On blood-ink lines; stained city streets -
Oh time, thou horrors crawl.
Wrought freedom flits, it waxes, ebbs,
Whence censored bullets rain,
But fallow not among the dead
Doth liberty remain.
 

Copyright © Simon Austin 2015

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Alcoholic with sick on his shoes,
Sat on a brown wooden bench
In the middle of town
With his old dog,
Flea ridden,
Shaking, gray,
Lacking good vision
Waiting for a meal
A dropped pasty or pie
A sandwich, perhaps rye.

I, was never taught in school
To be such a man
It was always
You could become a lawyer,
You could become a teacher,
You could become a business man
Never, you could ...

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