New Zealand Poetry - Publishing Poetry From Aotearoa

I feel sorry for him He created the animal it is It"s like a huge boil riddled with wormholes Transporting everyone"s behaviors In and out share it around It"s not your friend He hopped to the user database at his college Into the library or laboratories he would have gone Somewhere other users were logged into Jumped onto someone"s session Up the hallway jumping from user to user Until he hit the student users database Then a compiled script of pearl which his father had taught him as an 8 year old He then ran its parse script Gone done the list copying everyone"s records Zip to his storage Then posted it on a website known what it is for today A website the other faculty members were now a member of The very next thing he did was write the terms and conditions In the movie, he was ridiculed on a pre-attempt of accessing the user database The college guardians persecuted him through a tribunal That I believe the second parse was an act of protest Those terms a

...Monday The First Full Moon In April. 1 it"s been nine years since and I"ve a heart-full of unexpressed wickedness dissolving in the Crystal Magnum of my chest so it can"t manifest and like a dripping icicle it takes a while this way, so when I picked up the water bottle and drank without checking it wasn"t something else I thought what would of happened if I"d swallowed four moans of Proof in a few swallows in the dusty working thirst of early Autumn? I may have gone back to hells" ago attractions. but the shortest routes aren"t always best. even this tempting the Imagination with the possibilities the colour wheel of loading stalls my c.ooperative p.ursuits u.nity. my bottle sat heating forgotten on the front seat in the carpark and there was no one to cover me if I left and the staff are such a mixture that it wouldn"t be bizarre if someone needed courage to get them through their shit from nights so remiss of common sense they had siphoned

  the hard yards to William ‘Pop’ Rumble  my grandfather on my mother"s side had the kind of look in his blue eye that put the wind up me, a sharpness that seemed to me, in my heedless and running years, said he saw to the bottom of me and what i was up to, and who knows, perhaps what i would and wouldn"t become. he"d done the hard, the rotten yards between trenches and from the merry-go- round of machine-gun fire at passchendale* carried his life back in one piece to drive his locomotives up and down the hard-won track our towns were stitched together with. his mates from old war days no doubt said he was strict, a sour bugger for on anzac day he"d walk in no dawn parade to let the chill of bugle call unhinge him, he"d enter no pub and no drop of beer would touch his lip that day lest in a moment"s foolishness, a careless bloody laugh, he might be seen to betray the catalogue of horrors he kept back in mind and nightmare, and even more, lest anyone think

What’s the good of rhyme or near rhyme when there’s emptiness.   I’ve tried to, hard, nail in a botched shack on a hill in my head, meaning. Net whatever specimens to fill – a bowl, an aquarium – with.   What can rhythm do to tell you that I’m falling into. I draw nice pictures of you with your hair pulled tight & your face plastered to the wall.   When you wet yourself my first instinct is to mop the floor. Is this idea right or wrong?   I’m turning in like I’m at the azimuth of understanding nothing. Which is wise, probably.         http://bit.ly/2LJ2pvX Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

blackbird lady to a favourite NZ artist, Susannah MacDonald this lady i know, have never met, she paints the things that come where your dreams leave off giant conical shells of the family volutidae large as touch in the brain the wrapt cape and spindle of their form decayed the growing mouths of shadow drifting with cumuli above a sea of island and blue reflection, painting what your dreams have left off this lady draws, have never seen, and wings begin to thrash she paints the blackbird as first you heard it tasting of blue dark drops of evening in the hearing in thicket of head when the moon blows silver round through the eye, know where your dreams go off their way her brush and pen take over, finding what your dreams left off april 2018 [caption id="attachment_894" align="alignleft" width="226"] by Susannah MacDonald with her kind permission [/caption]   http://bit.ly/2LJl1fF Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

The old man’s leg kicks The winger whips wide He is on the frosted field, taut frame and ten quid in the bank Big runs, cold air in his lungs Betrothed on the sideline He asked for her hand Planted spuds for diamonds. Fifty knicker if you dig ‘em yourself His arm swings The foe is in memory; the fist sinks in flesh Go on - go on - The screen flickers - He is standing alone The cheering has stopped http://bit.ly/2LHtRu9 Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

Leaves are stricken pale.   Gold (the interplay of cloud/moon, head- lights) - the flax shadows the letter box.   When shall the cat learn?   There’s nothing here to be frightened of.   The sudden rush of wind, feet, is no threat; do you think I’d let something bad happen to you?   It’s cool & you’re next minute all:           what’s   that? - A car door slams &   . http://bit.ly/2LGtGze Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

I was walking on a road , i saw a bird a bird who was finding someplace to hide his head in the stormy rain he was all alone looking for a shelter and a home A bird who don"t  know how to fly he is standing here , in a rainy night sky he saw a tree nearby asked that tree can i ? Tree replied in sweetest voice i am the shelter i am the home for millions who are new to this world world where birds like u always finding place in Que But here there is no Que u can rest your head till i am with you. the night passed by the bird took the shelter by the tree he knew this time will pass by the morning came with the new light though it was still raining outside there was no sign of sunshine the bird hear a beautiful voice oh it was a nightingale singing a beautiful lullaby the bird asked the tree is she one of us who got no place to hide ? the tree said we are all the same Just the same the bird went to the nightingale on the top of the tree he saw the world from different eyes rain fallin

Cold, Cold night No one to say Hi !! So I look at the sky Clouds passing by Cold, Cold night I look up high Calling my Name A Star in the sky Lonely, Not alone but, I am fine, Said I Stars shining Bright I see them in the sky Sitting on a tree I see them passing  by A stare the star gave me Asked me a question why? Sitting on a tree You’re counting us passing by? Hold my Hand Come and see How I am here and why Know Me, Know my life, know the Star who’s in the sky Some day you can tell the one Sitting on a tree, watch the stars go by He showed me his world I was stunned by its light Can I be like you, one of you? Asked I!! Yes you can, My Rising Star, My child But Not sitting on a tree Counting stars at night Wake up , wake up, My rising star Oh, LORD It’s a morning light A story , A dream, A Lesson of life A look at the window On my right The Sun is out Shining bright Oh yes my LORD In my mind Thank you for the dream Now I can see THE SUN, THE SHINE THE STARS, THE SKY No sign of clouds

This carriage groans with its own heft. It has been here too long: The paint falls from its flanks, The leather of its seats has formed patterns: Little stars spreading into other stars; white lines of split leather. Please be seated. Face forward. There is a clock in the platform window; black hands saying It is time to go. It lurches and yaws, and the luggage nets wobble. A child grasps the pitted stainless steel posts. Wobble and roll. A frail woman in a wheelchair waves as the carriage slides from view. Her man is aboard, beaming, sucking in the engine’s black smoke: Past the duck-back cottage, past the white church - Ever up the line. Tickets, please - and silver snips punch a hole. The young conductor gives them a twirl: There"s a gunslinger on the line http://bit.ly/2HHQJHx Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

1 five December two16— the PM key stops turning— resigns. 2 prepardernin Hindsight. tv cameras from helicopters, army supplies. the sluicing rains have closed the only functioning road. 3 located where I work, a landfill on a plateau, our store of clothing, blankets, was busted into (by my landlord, in fact, in his 4 x 4, to snap the chain off padlocks at the entrance, and through the broken gates the undressed evacuated backpackers that night the 7.8 charged bull-bar like from Waiau on through Culverden through gears of three dimensions beneath the white bull moon, screeching bull, roaring Kingswood stationwagon, 12.02 a.m., the sparsely attired people fleeing the sea-loud shore this almost Summer night, you will picture accurately tiptoeing in their cellphone torch lights over shards of shattered crockery and sets of glasses, mistletoe-remembered, frosted, shot-sized tumblers and shattered castle stacks of crystal from estates, four or five different languages, kicking through the Hu

After all; I am Possessive.   I should. Be alone. It stings. A year. Before. I’m grown.   Listen to the wicked wave hiss. It creeps up; whores.   I’m bare as a white sheet.     http://bit.ly/2HMwTLv Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

Where does sound go & when does it stop? [Note to self: research this]   I saw a boy with his hands torn off – a still, on impact.   The next shot is a girl opened wide; the mouth, the eyes call - .   The moment solidifies, is livid, remains what it is in the grave, dead but living.   I fold at the crisis, the crossroads, not up to it, unused to.     If I’m drowned, snuffed-out anyhow; abused, bum- rushed off the stage, I remain –   a boy that wants of course joy, love. http://bit.ly/2Hztak1 Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

filled     for Keikei   heard in the warmth the leak of cricket into summer a tap of darkness that can never be turned off the more you try the more it trickles soaking up through the dry grass of the hill and the wind filled us with secrets our hands told each to the other the islands were laid on sea like cloud about the sky by that wind filling us with secrets we told each other through the knots of the puriri trunk and branches waving the wind onward we turned the world around us simply by turning round ourselves where the ridge gave out into everything every green and blue and the wind filled us with secrets we parcelled in our touch the crickets leaking autumn into summer Duder regional park march 2018 http://bit.ly/2HwQ2EV Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

suffering gives reason to believe & not to. i’m bedevilled meanwhile   by symbols, images of death, martyrdom, memory, the clump   of body blows, curved steel on flesh; the severing of a boy’s   consciousness. i choose not,   not because it’s rational, but as protest.   i have striven not for correctness, philosophic   consistency, but to care less.   2 the ascetic starves himself, is mean, walks barefoot   to the shops, on hot sand; no   beach bum tho, on the road   to morocco or grey street, hamilton.   he, or she, has discipline; skin,   bone; eyes the size of   saucers, open wide.   fool. visionary!   3 & when it’s gone, you think: ‘did that happen?’, mouth open – o, stupid! marco is so stupid - o.   he might have lived - if he’d played his cards right - longer.   4 the stillness of the stem held between two winds.   the silence of the morning.   birds resonate like leaves on the plum tree; mute, invisible.   this evanescent miracle is nothing   really.   http://bit.ly/2HtN

Hold my hand, Let"s walk back.. Along the brinks of memories Across the rivers of tears Over the petals of hopes Under the clouds of dreams Passing through Harsh winter Lonely autumn Tear-filled summer The warmth of love in colorful spring To where we met To rewrite the moments Let"s walk back.. http://bit.ly/2Hs5G0o Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

The cat’s fur lights the dark on the other side of the glass. Her tail   disappears, like a swish white dress or a   fish, infinitely Dear - darkness   shows me …   Decidedly, I’m pre-Aquarian. I tell you I have flown   over sea & mountain. During the brandy, half dead,   I thought of it – the waves, & beneath the surface, in the trenches…/   The mind stops. http://bit.ly/2HuhD5L Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

DAMNED by Sonya Young He was a religion that no one followed A church with cold, empty pews He nailed himself to a crucifix Then waited sadly for good news He watched mankind marry the devil With no divorce papers to be found All these damned non-believers The emptiness to which they were bound The angels were bruised from falling Their wings were plucked and spare Feathers all blackened by brimstone Everyone gasping for fresh air He witnessed spontaneous stigmata People bleeding hope through little holes No help for the lost and lonely ones And no redemption for their souls Skeletons surrounded a makeshift altar Casting judgement with bony eyes The atmosphere was thick with hypocrisy So much hate, falsehoods…and lies His bible held no decipherable verses No respect for the long haired man No body of Christ, no compassion Bloated egos grabbing whatever they can The weary nuns all had bad habits And hearts that were devoid of love Anointed with a whole lot of nothingness Guidance sought

POW! a man like me but much younger, out- gunned, commandeered.   I’d cut you down from the suffering which humbles the spirit.   You never recover. In London, wait; take orders, bow & later, alone with yourself, feel like a tool, & struck down at 50. You gave your wife   6 children & 1 more to your girlfriend: 7 is my number.   It broke you. http://bit.ly/2u816lO Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

My feet move w/out thinking. You pass me on the pavement. Occupy the back room of. I can’t remember - not one step; heart-   felt -     ; moment; how I got, the way I went. It remains: the weight of -   One step - .I’m like a robot. Even now, & tho I’m conscious of it, my words are congenital; pre-   disposed to. http://bit.ly/2HXl45Z Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

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WAILING AND SHRIEKING by Sonya Young Long thin limbs…like twigs…emaciated and scrawny Jutting out arrogantly….from a gangly frame She enjoys the drama of thriving on self-destruct Victim mentality rules her life…blame, blame, blame Reliving old hurts over and over, adding new ones to the pile Bending the poor ears of all those willing to listen to…. the wailing and the shrieking…the self-pity…the woe is me! Copious glasses of cheap, sour wine suck the youth right out of her face and the calcium from her bones Cigarettes etch deep furrows on her blotchy skin Men are strangely mesmerised by the fragile brokeness of her…the endless theatrics and they forgive the harsh, abrasive laugh that leaps from the depths of her throat from time to time…bitter…ironic! Swallowing pain killers like lollies…barely ever partaking in a morsel of food….happy to starve her body and soul A stuck record bemoaning her fate over and over Refusing to acknowledge that others have problems too More wailing…more sh

there’s time tho to stop; retract the word, your step, back to where/before you even thought of it. no sweat – the hand- gun is/ - and, gone.  a fact for a long   long/. historians   know but not why, by what way you come, some chance! determines. or wanting discipline. the mind fidgets like a hand, as a spasm in sleep keeps us in/, the dark dark http://bit.ly/2DKPsg7 Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

 1. to know him is to love him   what goes on but bone, flesh, tight curls; the stories I would tell. Go   on: score your nail down. i fear tho i might burst or fold like there’s no   stuff to hold me.   2 stuff                                                                                                                 1 March 2018   there’s now, & now; the rest is shadow-play, a dream -   one day; you slip off, across the room & no-one knows you’re gone. http://bit.ly/2FUwtFV Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

She is anchored to this endless plain; her hair trailing, the dress a filling sail. The hills are a half smile reaching to a purple haze; the river peels the bank. She stood for a moment then reached for the earth. It blew from her fingers and she spun and raised her arms and her voice became the river and the wind http://bit.ly/2FRVlxO Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

DAMNED by Sonya Young He was a religion that no one followed A church with cold, empty pews He nailed himself to a crucifix Then waited sadly for good news He watched mankind marry the devil With no divorce papers to be found All these damned non-believers The emptiness to which they were bound The angels were bruised from falling Their wings were plucked and spare Feathers all blackened by brimstone Everyone gasping for fresh air He witnessed spontaneous stigmata People bleeding hope through little holes No help for the lost and lonely ones And no redemption for their souls Skeletons surrounded a makeshift altar Casting judgement with bony eyes The atmosphere was thick with hypocrisy So much hate, falsehoods…and lies His bible held no decipherable verses No respect for the long haired man No body of Christ, no compassion Bloated egos grabbing whatever they can The weary nuns all had bad habits And hearts that were devoid of love Anointed with a whole lot of nothingness Guidance sought

This is a forum for discussion about your books, http://bit.ly/2Dw52fr Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry

This months selection is an aged post from Dean English but still, this poem is a great intimacy theme that Dean delivers often. Dean is a top posting poet on this site I am grateful he shares his work here for us all to enjoy. Some of his poetry is very tongue in check even a little naughty but that"s done I believe to inspire the reader"s interests. Poem post below Clearing The Wardrobe 1 http://bit.ly/2ItUL7e

POW! a man like me but much younger, out- gunned, commandeered.   I’d cut you down from the suffering which humbles the spirit.   You never recover. In London, wait; take orders, bow & later, alone with yourself, feel like a tool, & struck down at 50. You gave your wife   6 children & 1 more to your girlfriend: 7 is my number.   It broke you. http://bit.ly/2DsD6Jo

BEAUTIFUL EMPTY SHELL by Sonya Young Sleeping in a bed of futility Restrained by society"s rules The moon is surly and bitter Her heart stained with fury A goddess of everything shallow Seduced by invisible forces Her reality now tissue thin A plague upon her mind A portrait ....a masterpiece Canvas torn and the paint screams A smile ripped right in half Framing life"s grotesque illusions The casting couch made of concrete She with her red gypsy heart Spread her legs and sold her soul Grazed hips and dampened dreams Self esteem now found in a bottle Confidence a hand full of white pills Life is read from a screenplay Fame leaves a beautiful empty shell http://bit.ly/2DqsgUg

I used to have a drinking problem: I always ran out before I’d had enough. And I brought too much, and drank beyond the usefulness of alcohol—people getting drunk happily releasing as they go. I used to have a problem with unanimous. No day belonged to when I wasn’t really sure the Sun was not a Router— in a world built for fiction; I started off determined that this wasn’t Evolution but Addiction— people growing out of each other copious in starlit, through disaster, and audit, and economies borrowing and borrowing, for warmth, for wart removal, the environment, the burrows and bunkers and stations, colliders, soldiers, stalwart psychoanalytical conclusions made by leafy large windows about Pensions. I used to stand in lightning with a rod, a storm Chaser, a hail gazer in safety goggles, icy tic tacs loud in the mouth; I used to get my teeth bloody hot with the research of the habitats Conspiracy rabbits grew on people, ears and eyes tickled in radio interference from blood-sedated em

A BLOODY INTERVIEW by Sonya J Young You were an elegantly dressed and well spoken monster in your top hat and white gloves All around you, candelabra on every surface.... with hot wax dripping lazily like slow, greasy tears sliding down a powder-pale face... You looked out through gauzy curtains which hung from a four poster bed you relished your dark gifts and admired the ostrich plumes that decorated your coffin, your other place of rest.... Outside, relentless steamy rain and endless pain and cravings that couldn"t be satisfied by pathetic mortals, no matter how hard you tried.... Inside, an inferno of destruction and heavily fringed curtains ablaze Oil paintings melting like crayons as another unsuccessful attempt to burn the souls of the damned.... Frenzied piano playing until the keys began to splinter Corpses hidden amongst the dolls began to reek, began to leak in the New Orleans heat... The yearning for the scarlett life-force of humans and animals, tormented your mind an

WATCHING by Sonya Young I"ve been watching you people With your random acts of evil Fighting pointless battles With your glass swords... I watched the earth give birth But Mothers" milk was rancid So you drank from the sea... The clouds and I have witnessed Your precious pain As rigour Mortis hardened Your decaying hearts... I watched closely As you crushed the skulls Of your enemies to dust And snorted lines like cocaine Now we have dry rain Waterfalls of fire And the sun is going to sleep. All those hours with gilded edges And you used them to spread The ugliest beauty And forgot all about love and truth I watched you become hellish creatures Lying in fields of beating hearts So now you swim in your worst fears With your feelings on life support And I will keep watching Your foolish rampages .... through my Bevelled eyes. I will reach out to hold hands with God....As I cry for my exquisite children ...trying to survive In the harsh, bloated world that you left behind. http:

WOODEN SHUTTERS by Sonya J Young You curl up in the nest that you built from human hair, veins and tiny bones Guarded by angels with concrete wings too heavily burdened to even think of helping you A black chandelier swings above your weary head casting shadows on your already darkened dreams You close the wooden shutters on their rusty hinges and watch flakes of old paint flutter to the ground A hessian dress-makers dummy observes you from it"s murky corner it seems to have more life than you ever had Your heart is as black as liquorice but no where near as sweet A strange vapour sneaks in through the smashed window panes deep into your lungs and you take your very last breath on this sorry earth http://bit.ly/2tTbihZ

And the white lines shining in the wet night-varnish now setting at dawn. I"d slept good, for where it was, the Karori Sports Club porch light on all night, and the beautiful restraint of the Alsatian police dog and his fit pacific handler waking me, bristled snout right up at my covered head, silent, sniffing, disinterested even, leaving me to it, and it rained on all night, and now the sky is bluing, and I"m walking to an indoor pool where I"ll swim an empty lane for 40 minutes, perform crisp flip-turns each lap, the water parting un-parted at the spring off the wall, the light of the rising sun I hope will find some water near me so that I"ll swim through the different brightnesses. http://bit.ly/2DempBs

In response to Marks question this morning I have added the response here, I will be making more informed forum posts in the coming weeks as to what has been going on behind the scenes good on Mark for asking I am more than happy to share Hi Mark, The instances of pingbacks you see in the comments is where I have set up posts here to be auto posted to another website/blog/social-media/bookmark-index. If you look at some of PERALDIVERs previous posts you’ll see pingbacks where the poetry he has shared here he has also shared on other poetry websites. Some of the dailyblog poems I put forward also made pingbacks to the original post here. The reasons for doing this is by sharing to other networks its important to allow the posts to link back to us here. The hope going forward is to build an index that originates from here and when shared it is then having it point or link back to us. This is important in the terms of Search Engine Optimization or “link juice”, going forward it is where I

In response to Marks question this morning I have added the response here, I will be making more informed forum posts in the coming weeks as to what has been going on behind the scenes good on Mark for asking I am more than happy to share Hi Mark, The instances of pingbacks you see in the comments is where I have set up posts here to be auto posted to another website/blog/social-media/bookmark-index. If you look at some of PERALDIVERs previous posts you’ll see pingbacks where the poetry he has shared here he has also shared on other poetry websites. Some of the dailyblog poems I put forward also made pingbacks to the original post here. The reasons for doing this is by sharing to other networks its important to allow the posts to link back to us here. The hope going forward is to build an index that originates from here and when shared it is then having it point or link back to us. This is important in the terms of Search Engine Optimization or “link juice”, going forward it is where I

In response to Marks question this morning I have added the response here, I will be making more informed forum posts in the coming weeks as to what has been going on behind the scenes good on Mark for asking I am more than happy to share Hi Mark, The instances of pingbacks you see in the comments is where I have set up posts here to be auto posted to another website/blog/social-media/bookmark-index. If you look at some of PERALDIVERs previous posts you’ll see pingbacks where the poetry he has shared here he has also shared on other poetry websites. Some of the dailyblog poems I put forward also made pingbacks to the original post here. The reasons for doing this is by sharing to other networks its important to allow the posts to link back to us here. The hope going forward is to build an index that originates from here and when shared it is then having it point or link back to us. This is important in the terms of Search Engine Optimization or “link juice”, going forward it is where I

In response to Marks question this morning I have added the response here, I will be making more informed forum posts in the coming weeks as to what has been going on behind the scenes good on Mark for asking I am more than happy to share Hi Mark, The instances of pingbacks you see in the comments is where I have set up posts here to be auto posted to another website/blog/social-media/bookmark-index. If you look at some of PERALDIVERs previous posts you’ll see pingbacks where the poetry he has shared here he has also shared on other poetry websites. Some of the dailyblog poems I put forward also made pingbacks to the original post here. The reasons for doing this is by sharing to other networks its important to allow the posts to link back to us here. The hope going forward is to build an index that originates from here and when shared it is then having it point or link back to us. This is important in the terms of Search Engine Optimization or “link juice”, going forward it is where I

In response to Marks question this morning I have added the response here, I will be making more informed forum posts in the coming weeks as to what has been going on behind the scenes good on Mark for asking I am more than happy to share Hi Mark, The instances of pingbacks you see in the comments is where I have set up posts here to be auto posted to another website/blog/social-media/bookmark-index. If you look at some of PERALDIVERs previous posts you’ll see pingbacks where the poetry he has shared here he has also shared on other poetry websites. Some of the dailyblog poems I put forward also made pingbacks to the original post here. The reasons for doing this is by sharing to other networks its important to allow the posts to link back to us here. The hope going forward is to build an index that originates from here and when shared it is then having it point or link back to us. This is important in the terms of Search Engine Optimization or “link juice”, going forward it is where I

In response to Marks question this morning I have added the response here, I will be making more informed forum posts in the coming weeks as to what has been going on behind the scenes good on Mark for asking I am more than happy to share Hi Mark, The instances of pingbacks you see in the comments is where I have set up posts here to be auto posted to another website/blog/social-media/bookmark-index. If you look at some of PERALDIVERs previous posts you’ll see pingbacks where the poetry he has shared here he has also shared on other poetry websites. Some of the dailyblog poems I put forward also made pingbacks to the original post here. The reasons for doing this is by sharing to other networks its important to allow the posts to link back to us here. The hope going forward is to build an index that originates from here and when shared it is then having it point or link back to us. This is important in the terms of Search Engine Optimization or “link juice”, going forward it is where I

valmnz has just followed Editor http://bit.ly/2DdMPmz

1             Cohen   when Leonard Cohen died i tried to write about it & couldn’t,   couldn’t feel it.     II trump’s elected the next day, so there’s poetry in his leaving.   2 a fly landed on the shadow of his hand on the page. i thought it was a sign but nothing came of it, technically because this is no poem, to pin him down to, remember him for. it’s trash to say   we’re done for & nothing cares. the hum stopped ages ago but i was truly listening, thinking: the night to me is so lovely & there’s nothing i can say to prove it. http://bit.ly/2IbfLQ3

1 Come the cold, darkening afternoon, the Earth tilting the drinker toward his retirement, the folding travel armchair in the sunny yellow corner by the elongated arms of knitted winter shadow, taken backward and put into the box, the lid screwed back on the little Malt left. 2 You’re old enough to remember when licensed premises opened at eleven, and Punters, for reasons: terrain, inclemency, to louden the hush of Infinity, waited the opening of doors to quieten the heart in its hoody, pacing the roped, square ring, in the appalling, impossible trinity: Love, Fear, and Mystery; waited like fighters no one will take on: the younger among us remember the animal, Tyson, exploding from his career. A story about his pigeons; a panting blackness of tyger. 3 Bars at eleven was Ali, nothing clay about him, TV off at the PM, goodnight, basket cases, Kiwi, Cat, the ladder of Fact, far call left in the bottle. 4 Sleep now loads in a petrie dish, G, Hz, & .i, as a pod our Kind communicate in

Tracy Neal account is now verified on the site. http://bit.ly/2D9qK8Q

Tracy Neal account is now verified on the site. http://bit.ly/2DavsmL

The nation’s loneliest building is anchored deep, steel legs wrapped in wire, and this looped on trusses. Here, the wind has no quarter; it roams and howls, tugging at the grey iron, bowing the walls. There is one inhabitant - a Land-Rover parked on dust. It is canvas and steel and wear plopped on thin gnarled tyres; it is something you must touch; you feel the frost and the wind and the river dust; it is in the handles and under the rim. There are foot marks – a lost traveller or an intruder come west, where the river is glacial grey, wanders and surges and, everywhere the light hints that summer has left, that here, autumn’s breath is near http://bit.ly/2FhTLBf

Mermaids like glitter called into the night, They swam in lemonade crystal currents, Navigating the ice chunks of iodine, Burnt haze danced around him, The Smokey shimmer his engulfed dinner coat, Dusk now sets it bares, Peach-puff was not an alley cat he knew, But he held on to his cats eyes, He was despised by unfed men, He enjoyed the unveiling Champagne sparkle the wine garden radiant, The cat remained obscured Watching unseen to himself, September 2017 http://bit.ly/2HVNflo

At the far gable end two small windows, which were barred on the outside, flanked a small narrow room, which was portioned off from the rest of the room. It was used as a dressing room for amateur dramatics. http://bit.ly/2FFVhOy

Mermaids like glitter called into the night, They swam in lemonade crystal currents, Navigating the ice chunks of iodine, Burnt haze danced around him, The Smokey shimmer his engulfed dinner coat, Dusk now sets it bares, Peach-puff was not an alley cat he knew, But he held on to his cats eyes, He was despised by unfed men, He enjoyed the unveiling Champagne sparkle the wine garden radiant, The cat remained obscured Watching unseen to himself, http://bit.ly/2HVNflo

Editor just created a new blog post . Iodine Dreams Editor just created a new blog post. Iodine Dreams Mermaids like glitter called into the night, They swam in lemonade crystal currents, Navigating the ice… http://bit.ly/2FEC9Af

Mark Prisco just created a new blog post . on writing I go with what I’ve got, a fly on my foot, the sky hung with intermittent starlight; a distant hum, near by like blood pumped;… http://bit.ly/2t5aQfR

I go with what I’ve got, a fly on my foot, the sky hung with intermittent starlight; a distant hum, near by like blood pumped; cars, cicada, city scum; glass reflects the room I’m in, holds me near/dear, returns my frown. I dream   of her. http://bit.ly/2sZBoz8

peterlebaige just created a new blog post . calling calling the stars are young voices in a park deep into the stone-washed blue of evening the moon atop that sky a ferris wheel drawing… http://bit.ly/2opXFS4

calling the stars are young voices in a park deep into the stone-washed blue of evening the moon atop that sky a ferris wheel drawing them in, cloud toward the silver wood and glades of sea i walk in the glad frost of their voices falling. july 2012 howick domain http://bit.ly/2FwYXCe

Mark Prisco just created a new blog post . renaissance midnight her light glows between the curtain low I’d close shop my eye- lids at a drop,,, I’m dead, tired & when I lie beside… http://bit.ly/2FpKtUr

midnight her light glows between the curtain low I’d close shop my eye- lids at a drop,,, I’m dead, tired & when I lie beside her I dream I, walk again http://bit.ly/2FoHETN

Editor just created a new blog post . A leaf fell from the trees Lonely a road cold Leave the critics to their retorts This is no scripture No ancient Latin definition It"s a story of how they met… http://bit.ly/2onGtgb

Lonely a road cold Leave the critics to their retorts This is no scripture No ancient Latin definition It"s a story of how they met For the rest of you this is where it begins She sits with an apple Entices the serpent The boy will follow Biting into her neck She eats the freshly picked fruit It"s crisp, juicy and grown with care. It"s a firework that burns with serpentine motion ‎We will ignite the sky with reports ‎Dazzle it"s story upon the trailing sky Confelli will drop floating to the ground beneath us ‎Only if...... ‎. http://bit.ly/2FleLYw

maungapammy just created a new blog post . Shoal Harbour Bright city light meets waking dawn Incandescent shoal shimmers Strangley symbiotic Harbour bridge traffic an aural backdrop To birdcall and lapping water Strangley soothing The… http://bit.ly/2HCRfac

Bright city light meets waking dawn Incandescent shoal shimmers Strangley symbiotic Harbour bridge traffic an aural backdrop To birdcall and lapping water Strangley soothing The puddles are delicious Shells cut my feet It"s all relative, I am content http://bit.ly/2HxNLG1

Mark Prisco just created a new blog post . on poetic composition my word isn’t blood or milk spilt or symbolical of it.   i’m cut by what’s remembered, what is not & the gap, a flat… http://bit.ly/2GvKJRh

my word isn’t blood or milk spilt or symbolical of it.   i’m cut by what’s remembered, what is not & the gap, a flat windy lot that rings like wooden chimes.   for days, as mice play in the cracks between my toes & fingers, i lie in the hollows or high billowing like wheat the colour of hair.   there’s nothing to it – the massive meditations of sky & mountain where i hear myself, think. http://bit.ly/2GzmAco

john keast just created a new blog post . The Bookseller The book seller does not look up He is lost in the art of the non-sale His book is held out: it a prop and… http://bit.ly/2HqXNsr

The book seller does not look up He is lost in the art of the non-sale His book is held out: it a prop and he the actor. Here he rules, with Frame and Sullivan; Michener and Collins The air is stale, fusty with his leavings He manages a feigned smile: ‘’Looking, are we?’’ There is no escape: not the poetry or cooking; not Home Mechanics A bell shakes above the door It opens to the sound of the sea; on this sloping street, it is escape http://bit.ly/2Ff7Ccm

Sommer Cullingford just created a new blog post . Abandon. I tremble goodbye to ground as a banner unbound in wolfish uplifts; undone by the shrinking farm of faces, breathing in the changeling depths beneath http://bit.ly/2F6FiZn

I tremble goodbye to ground as a banner unbound in wolfish uplifts; undone by the shrinking farm of faces, breathing in the changeling depths beneath http://bit.ly/2F9nugl

Editor just created a new forum topic . Featured Poem for Feb 2018 – poems by the sea by Mark Prisco Mark Prisco one of our top posters the man who introduced me to Dante I hold high esteem to have him a member, he has… http://bit.ly/2Ho6TpV

Mark Prisco one of our top posters the man who introduced me to Dante I hold high esteem to have him a member, he has a unique style of writing, he writes with an off the cuff flow the imagery I find enjoyable to read. It was hard for me to select one to be featured from his portfolio but I liked how he has crossed out some of the content here which is a lesson to the rest of us in that its ok to edit or maybe its intended to be unsaid context. Peters comment is on point with this post. I hope Mark continues to share his insights with the rest of us. The poem can be found here http://bit.ly/2HlS0UU

Editor just created a new forum topic . Featured Poem for Feb 2018 – poems by the sea by Mark Prisco Mark Prisco one of our top posters the man who introduced me to Dante I hold high esteem to have him a member, he has… http://bit.ly/2HjvRGV

Mark Prisco one of our top posters the man who introduced me to Dante I hold high esteem to have him a member, he has a unique style of writing, he writes with an off the cuff flow the imagery I find enjoyable to read. It was hard for me to select one to be featured from his portfolio but I liked how he has crossed out some of the content here which is a lesson to the rest of us in that its ok to edit or maybe its intended to be unsaid context. Peters comment is on point with this post. I hope Mark continues to share his insights with the rest of us. The poem can be found here http://bit.ly/2F9VeKI