your
eyes
blue like
tiles in a
pool make me think that
I’ve drowned. I’m a sweet water ghost.

Comment by Rebecca Sabin — May 6, 2009 @ 9:46 am

Reds
thrashed
Real
then Man U
and Aston Villa
Rafa wants more, soon he might smile.

Del
bought
her pearls
their beauty
made all her friends gasp
he smiled at his gullible girl

Nick
stole
a ring
from the shop
to impress his girl
but her dad was a detective

Comment by Bob Crittenden — March 24, 2009 @ 11:00 pm

The Fib Review, an online Fibonacci poetry journal, is currently accepting submissions for the upcoming fourth issue due to be posted late spring 2009.

Submissions of Fibonacci style poetry can be submitted to musepiepress@aol.com before the April 24th deadline. Please make sure you type “For the Fib Review” in the email subject line. Submit plain text only in the body of the email. No attachments will be accepted. Contact the editor of the Fib Review at the same email address if you have questions. http://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/intro.html

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — March 18, 2009 @ 4:49 pm

love
will
never
say what is,
only promises
which cannot ever be given

Comment by Peter Mahoney — March 17, 2009 @ 12:10 pm

‘Out!
Out
damned spot!
Out, I say!
The smell of blood. What’s
done cannot be undone. To bed.’

Comment by K. Costa — March 16, 2009 @ 1:27 pm

I
Have
Three warts
My surgeon
Is taking them off
They are my excuse
for lack of offers of kisses

Comment by D Linden — March 11, 2009 @ 5:03 pm

Here
lies
despot
weighed by wealth
powered by goldfinger
outwitted by the gilt edge bond.

Comment by Bob Crittenden — March 10, 2009 @ 8:00 am

I’ve
tried
to wear
clothes of all
kinds and descriptions
But the cat’s pyjamas itch me

Comment by Bob Lock — March 3, 2009 @ 4:03 pm

I
was,
some say,
always a
superstitious type.
I don’t think I am now… touch wood

Comment by Bob Lock — March 3, 2009 @ 3:56 pm

Free!
To
good home,
a poem
with barely used rhyme.
A gift to you, it once was mine

Comment by Bob Lock — March 3, 2009 @ 3:55 pm

My
first
book is
a horror
and fantasy tale.
Its called Flames of Herakleitos

Comment by Bob Lock — March 3, 2009 @ 3:53 pm

I
am
writing
a sequel
but it’s taking me
longer than I thought… writer’s block!

Comment by Bob Lock — March 3, 2009 @ 3:53 pm

Find
me.
Postcards
still arrive,
the time and date stamp
smudged and faded in the corner.

(missed a syllabell!)

Comment by Heather Taylor — March 3, 2009 @ 10:29 am

Find
me.
Postcards
still arrive,
the time and date stamp
smudged and faded in corners.

Comment by Heather Taylor — March 3, 2009 @ 10:28 am

Words.
Fail.
Sometimes.
In trenches,
birdsong surpasses Shakespeare.
The beauty of a Serpant’s kiss.

Comment by Laura Saunders — March 1, 2009 @ 1:06 am

The Philosophy of Cats

sentimental poems of cats –
T.S. Elliott
covered that
as best
he
could

cats –
wise,
cunning–
carefully
amorous of all
but sentimental of no one

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 28, 2009 @ 11:38 pm

The Man in the Moon

sky
dark
the stars
transfigure
the mumbling blabber
whispering, she talks to the moon.

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 28, 2009 @ 11:37 pm

An American Dream

Dwindling, like a funnel spinning
a whirlpool of debt
pulls me down
below
hopes
dreams

avoiding the debt collectors
those harassing calls
for money
spirit
faith
dreams

filling up my empty belly
with cold spaghetti
lights flicker
as the
dreams
die

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 28, 2009 @ 11:37 pm

Pounce

stalk
wait
watching
anxiously
until you spot it
the one free taxi in the rain

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 28, 2009 @ 11:30 pm

The Blossom

deep
pink
blossom
fragrant trap
the flower’s portrait
androgynous, with tendril’s grace,
it lures the gerbil as its prey
with marked emptiness
broken stem
it hangs
low
deep

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 28, 2009 @ 11:20 pm

Tattoo You

Red
Blue
Yellow
butterfly
her “tramp stamp” tattoo
an artist suffering for art

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 28, 2009 @ 11:19 pm

Perfect

She
smiled
across
the table
she less than perfect
he perfectly lessening her

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 28, 2009 @ 11:17 pm

Gravity

sea
breeze
beaches
kissed by sun
St. Tropez sizzles
weightlessly I float back to earth

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 28, 2009 @ 11:15 pm

Stretched
out
under
polythene:
Twisted by bare hands,
thumbs and fingers pulling cheese straws

Comment by Cass Elliss — February 28, 2009 @ 9:10 pm

air,
trees,
water,
fossil fuels–
we use resources
as if there is no tomorrow . . .

Comment by JoAnne — February 28, 2009 @ 8:59 pm

red,
green,
yellow,
violet,
indigo and blue,
London’s sky wears a tiara

Comment by Bob Lock — February 28, 2009 @ 6:34 pm

tie,
bind,
painful
twist and prune,
all bonsai suffer
in prisons of terracotta

Comment by Bob Lock — February 28, 2009 @ 6:32 pm

eat
corn,
lay eggs,
preen feathers,
avoid farmer’s gaze,
battery hen lives one more day

Comment by Bob Lock — February 28, 2009 @ 6:31 pm

big
cock,
flaccid
and floppy
in the noonday sun,
yet next dawn it will crow and crow

Comment by Bob Lock — February 28, 2009 @ 6:30 pm

HYMN TO UNKNOWN POETS

Take
heart,
poets,
jubilant
and unrecognised,
fame is only one fib away.

Comment by Emma Dalloway — February 28, 2009 @ 11:19 am

The
day
I smelt
“girl” on my
ex-boyfriend’s fingers,
I popped my shoulder out of place.

Comment by Jennifer Edgecombe — February 28, 2009 @ 9:47 am

Bough
bends
over…
Snap! As the
sleepy eye descends,
thoughts rush upward above the brow.

Comment by Jennifer Edgecombe — February 28, 2009 @ 9:46 am

FAMOUS GRAVES

Delve
Deep
Earth mounds
Secrets crave
Paparazzi hounds
Together we dig famous graves

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — February 27, 2009 @ 7:59 pm

SIN

Sweet
Fruit
Blameless
For man’s fall
Bible does not show
The lies of Adam – tears of Eve

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — February 27, 2009 @ 7:53 pm

COMPASS OF LIFE

North
Wind
Begins
Life’s new breath
Foetus in the womb
From nothing to uncertainty

Strong easterly fills the mainsail
Dust blows in our eyes
Howling wind
To youth
From
Babe

Dusk
Brings
Twilight
Wind of change
Fading to the south
Autumn of our knowledge gained

From the westerly wind of age
There is nothing more
Three sixty
Returns
To
Naught

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — February 27, 2009 @ 7:47 pm

Man
Knife
Bleeding.
Hospital
Theatre, daylight.
Last bleep. Darkness; another life.

Comment by Fabienne Reynolds — February 27, 2009 @ 5:17 pm

Quill
Ink
Paper.
Words crop up
Poem driven by pen
If I write one I can write ten.

Comment by Fabienne Reynolds — February 27, 2009 @ 5:15 pm

Oh,
My,
What’s that,
It’s quite bad.
That smell is Real bad.
I do not know what that smell is.

Comment by Liam Gibson — February 27, 2009 @ 4:20 pm

trampoline:

Spring
Spring
bounce bounce
jump bounce jump
went up to high, can’t
get down now! Someone please help me!!!!

Comment by Caitlin Brown — February 27, 2009 @ 4:15 pm

Sniff
Sniff
Atchoo
Winter Has
Given Me A Cold
Can’t Wait For Spring To Come Around

Comment by Gracie Heath — February 27, 2009 @ 4:11 pm

We
are
not too
far apart
Just a phone call or
a hand span on my plastic globe.

Comment by Laura Nelson — February 26, 2009 @ 10:38 pm

Young
girl
tumbles
down stairs; starts
her loud dry tears; wants
their smiles, not their dour silent sneers.

Comment by Laura Nelson — February 26, 2009 @ 10:37 pm

In
a
crowd of
people some
one touches my arm;
looks away. We are all strangers.

Comment by Laura Nelson — February 26, 2009 @ 10:36 pm

Next
time
I’ll do
better; next
time I won’t make the
same mistakes as I made today.

Comment by Laura Nelson — February 26, 2009 @ 10:35 pm

He’s
got
a huge
house with rooms
manifold. He seeks
a mate to shield him from the cold.

Comment by Laura Nelson — February 26, 2009 @ 10:33 pm

Caught
up
in fight
on bus. Police
man comes. No, we say,
It definitely wasn’t us.

Comment by Laura Nelson — February 26, 2009 @ 10:32 pm

a couple of fib art reviews…

*****
*Dali on film*

‘tache;
ants;
eggshell;
Salvador
finds florid form for
imaginings of the modern

film;
hush;
grainy;
audience
absorbs wild cracklings
with the damping gloss of hindsight

*****
*Damien Hirst, for the cows*

tail,
rump,
eyeball –
held tight in
desperate singing mesh;
fragile relationship of parts

*****
*Louise Bourgeois’ Spiders*

come -
my
parlour
holds comforts;
forget the danger
of fibreglass perspective shifts

great
eyes,
metal
peepers, spies
come not singly nor
in battalions, one in each palm

will
do.
come, my
parlour asks
not hand-held comfort -
only danger’s metallic lilt

Comment by louise whiteley — February 25, 2009 @ 7:35 pm

*****

*she sells sea shells*

she
cleans
sea shells -
detergent
marbles hands, makes raw
plaster beds for plots to gestate

she
sells
herself
to dreamers
spotting them through lids
grammared with the hope of disgrace

she
bakes
bitter
birthday cakes
spangled with meringue,
beside the uninvited shore

she
sells
sea shells
on the sea
shored, rafting, sunk, dipped
in expectation’s briny ink

Comment by louise whiteley — February 25, 2009 @ 7:34 pm

*****
*document*

in
front;
behind.
an ethic
of positioning
stymies the camera’s hooded eye

*****
*storytelling*

crick,
crack
story
floods wide eyes
dents in pavement minds
brimming with tongues, words fred-astaired

*****
*toothed*

teeth
like
molluscs,
those bearded
impositions squat
like gritty pearl in salt-swept gum

*****

dirt
lurks
under
snow; unseen
parings of eyeballs
two moons; one above, one below

*****
*thought control*

aum…
aum…
mind like
goldfish flick –
meditation fails,
hot thoughts like weed on rush impaled

*****
*ad-sent*

brand
dead
replaced
with black lines,
traceries of loss
that blossom in vast program gaps

Comment by louise whiteley — February 25, 2009 @ 7:31 pm

Free
map!
Chaos
shaken from
cereal boxes;
Australia is now the centre.

Comment by Jennifer Edgecombe — February 25, 2009 @ 12:21 am

VIGIL
Cold
Tomb
You are
Not here now
And I cannot sleep
Will you not come to me tonight?

MEMORIES
Many
Days
Make our
Memories
Very important
Ours are eternally special.

Comment by Sue Gerrard — February 24, 2009 @ 4:44 pm

If
you
find my
brain is full
of holes, feel free to
hide rabbits and squirrels in them

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 3:38 pm

One
night
a man
visiting
us drank our shampoo—
very bubbly alcoholic.

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 3:36 pm

a
man
on TV
says it’s sexual
sifting flour with
his hands for Christmas pudding

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 3:32 pm

There
is
no song
for me now,
no prayer, there is no
friend beckoning me anywhere

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 3:29 pm

the
gid-
dy roots,
rain-intox-
icated, find place
in a ground dark as outerspace

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 3:25 pm

Now
you
see me
here but I’ll
disappear, and when
I’m air I’ll be everywhere

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 1:20 pm

some
times
you will
have to turn
your back to the sun
to get to where you are going

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 1:17 pm

where
and
how do
you fit, where
and how can you go, what
is it to know not to know

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 1:08 pm

You’ve
let
me grow
old, now let
me grow young, let me
sing loudly, let my song be sung

Comment by Leah Armstead — February 24, 2009 @ 1:06 pm

If
I
cry, let
me into
your warm moral club.
Make me pure with perfume and pie.

Comment by Rebecca Sabin — February 24, 2009 @ 12:07 pm

I
did
not do
a thing to
you. calmly I stood
wishing my hair looked good. The end?

Comment by Rebecca Sabin — February 24, 2009 @ 11:25 am

I
did
not do a
thing to you. Calmly
I stood, wishing my hair looked good.

Comment by Rebecca Sabin — February 24, 2009 @ 10:46 am

Gas
Light
Glowing,
Pilot light.
She’s just struck a match
Before that, fire had flickered out.

…and also…

In
Last
Night’s dream
I had died
And come back as the
Late, great, author Raymond Carver

Comment by Gregson — February 24, 2009 @ 2:44 am

Cheat
caught.
Match lit.
Stilletos
in petrol light up
the black sky. Your tanned feet scar free.

Comment by Flood — February 23, 2009 @ 10:50 pm

Time
Won’t
Stop, but
When it does,
Will we stop and start
Again, or end where we begin?

Comment by Nikki Johnson — February 22, 2009 @ 7:55 pm

Sunflower

Helianthus
greet mornings
with a desire
to spin like Vincent’s stars
to violate moods held violet low by night
whirl one way its furious arc repeat the sun’s/brave rage of morning

Helianthus mad with light with sight of sun cannot restrain the law-drawn
whorls that oppose within and fulfill its turning
with its own eye’s surprise
of double sight
coming light
of
night

Comment by Curt Curtin — February 22, 2009 @ 7:24 pm

Life
for
ever :
sustaining
our world’s resources—
replacing riches we consume.

Comment by JoAnne — February 20, 2009 @ 4:59 am

A
Globe
Dying,
Once was flat
Dying, yet spinning
In front of blind and futile eyes.

Comment by Nikki Johnson — February 19, 2009 @ 7:49 pm

Words
make
nice shapes
in my mouth,
twinkle tastes like pear;
I avoid cock, ooze and abscess.

Comment by Clare Hill — February 19, 2009 @ 7:01 pm

I’m
stern
but when
you put my
head in water, I
see money and beauty the same.

Comment by Rebecca Sabin — February 19, 2009 @ 5:47 pm

Writing Poetry

Lined
page,
begging
for pencil
to inscribe the words
that will make her weep, or him smile,
that heighten the emotions laying dormant within
that will capture the reader’s soul
to hold close its breath.
Poetry-
on the
lined
page.

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 19, 2009 @ 12:56 pm

Recipe for His Pain

cold…
green…
light cream
crème de menthe
and crème de cacao
he downs another grasshopper
chasing his demons
back to hell
and pours
one
more

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 19, 2009 @ 12:52 pm

I Had a Dream

dark
cell
captured
around me
red eyes shining – bright
heat upon my forehead – burning
like a hot poker
the eyes watch
I burn
and
wake

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 19, 2009 @ 12:49 pm

A Plutonian Fib

dark
space
I stare
contented
at the universe
not caring to be part of it

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — February 19, 2009 @ 12:47 pm

No
need
to bind
the love stamp
to the valentine
bought early for my late husband.

Comment by R. Joyce Heon — February 19, 2009 @ 6:10 am

Dawn
bursts
with birds
black against
a red crucible
forging the day’s long pilgrimage

Comment by Beebe — February 19, 2009 @ 2:46 am

blue
green
bangles
glittering
scatter over you
hoops circling outside and inside

Comment by Dr M — February 18, 2009 @ 7:00 pm

each
day
that I
incise my
presence on the earth,
its dusts accumulate in me.

Comment by Derek Sellen — February 16, 2009 @ 9:54 pm

I
quite
like that
you have a
mushroom head, big feet.
It makes me think of toast and air.

Comment by Horatio Bernez — February 16, 2009 @ 2:47 pm

Love
blooms
on days
like this, but
is Valentine’s Day
needed to show your affection?

Comment by Bob Lock — February 14, 2009 @ 3:04 pm

I
have
never
ever seen
a dragon. It’s the
biggest dragon I ever saw.

Comment by Tracey Herald — February 14, 2009 @ 2:55 pm

Girl
Pope
Meeting
Euphoric
Smile to each other
Abandon caution and elope.

Comment by Geoffrey Alexander — February 13, 2009 @ 11:00 pm

If
you
take the
‘try’ out of
‘poetry’, you get
a poet with nothing to say.

Comment by Jayne Stanton — February 12, 2009 @ 9:02 pm

You
are
stupid
and wierd, but
I am clever and
can see for miles without glasses.

Comment by Camilla Nelson — February 12, 2009 @ 4:40 pm

The
shape
that is
edgelessly
changing, weaves itself
out of me, shapeless, unmaking.

Comment by Camilla Nelson — February 12, 2009 @ 4:39 pm

My
soul
is sick
and black with
sinking sin. I rinse
it white, and black it goes again.

Comment by Camilla Nelson — February 12, 2009 @ 4:35 pm

I
wait
for the
clock to stop
time keeping, to start
rechiming the hours, counting down.

Comment by Camilla Nelson — February 12, 2009 @ 4:33 pm

I
am
wire coil,
glass casing,
metal rim: light bulb.
Electrify me. Turn me on.

Comment by Camilla Nelson — February 12, 2009 @ 4:27 pm

“Can’t
quite
reach it..
Tom, hold this for me.”
I held it for her,
watching her bum wriggling wildly.

Comment by Camilla Nelson — February 12, 2009 @ 4:25 pm

I
am
a mess
of many
coloured strings rolled into
one large birdsnest of a muddle

Comment by Camilla Nelson — February 12, 2009 @ 4:14 pm

Give
and
it will
be added
to the bill
in order to pay
for all that we no longer have

Comment by Camilla Nelson — February 12, 2009 @ 4:02 pm

I
Hate
Counting
Just hate it
I am a poet
I don’t know how to count to eight

Comment by val — February 11, 2009 @ 2:34 pm

One
small,
precise,
inventive,
spiraling poem–
whorled by numbers—we have a FIB!

Comment by JoAnne — February 9, 2009 @ 8:09 pm

Rhonda

Then
The
Surgeon
Spoke: “Your world
Is going up in
Smoke.” And I replied: “It’s Cancer?”

Choke
My
Throat and
Tell my mum
I said goodbye. She
Always hid her cigarettes too.

Comment by Abigail Palmer — February 9, 2009 @ 8:01 pm

The Passenger

“Search
And
Destroy”
He said with
The Stooges. But now
It’s “Search for Swifter
Car insurance”… Iggy sold out.

Comment by Abi Plazzma — February 9, 2009 @ 7:57 pm

It
Fell
We played
Kids again
Precious time before
The first of the complaints was heard

Comment by Eltanin — February 9, 2009 @ 6:49 pm

Resubmitted with spelling corrected

Peace.
Still
And Slow
Dissolves,
Shattered by love
Going down different pathways

Comment by Wullie Purcell — February 9, 2009 @ 4:05 pm

Oops! re-count & re-submitted:

Low
sun
laser
rays glare through
bare boned winter trees
magnified by stark snow blanket

Comment by Jayne Stanton — February 8, 2009 @ 9:21 pm

Bronze
masked
sunday
granite based
polished and mounted
guaranteed tears before bedtime.

Comment by Eileen — February 8, 2009 @ 6:09 pm

Who
brings
white light
in winter
snow angels of course
now it is your turn to be one.

Comment by Eileen — February 8, 2009 @ 5:36 pm

Drip…
Drip…
Drip… Drip…
Drip… Drip… Drip…
Drip… Drip… Drip… Drip… Drip…
Arrgh! Plumber! Fix my bloody tap!

Comment by Bob Lock — February 8, 2009 @ 12:17 pm

Heart,
mind,
and soul.
Each one a marvel,
humans have them all.
Can we best the sum of our parts?

Comment by Bob Lock — February 8, 2009 @ 12:01 pm

this?
that?
why can’t
i make up
my mind about what
drivel to submit on this page?

Comment by Miriam Yarmolinsky — February 8, 2009 @ 6:15 am

Eggs,
gnats.
The two
will not make
for tasty breakfast.
Unless you happen to be snake.

Comment by Miriam Yarmolinsky — February 8, 2009 @ 6:09 am

Man’s
mere
machine,
cannot find
words to say his thoughts—
so hunts them reading poetry.

Comment by JoAnne — February 8, 2009 @ 2:52 am

New
shoes:
stylish,
hazardous,
uncomfortable—
designed to keep women in place.

Comment by JoAnne — February 8, 2009 @ 2:50 am

Iced
white
crystal
confetti
perfect confection
from the fingertips of angels

Comment by Jayne Stanton — February 7, 2009 @ 11:37 pm

‘Entente Cordiale’

I
hide
behind
platitudes
safe in the knowledge
that we’re speaking the same language.

Comment by Mike — February 7, 2009 @ 12:02 pm

BUY!
NOW!
and fill
up your cart.
the emptiness still
pounding in your incessant heart.

Comment by hellotansy — February 6, 2009 @ 4:56 pm

LOVE

Love
Seeps
Down years
Drips in hearts
Trickling memories
Flowing past, evaporating.

G W Colkitto

Comment by G W Colkitto — February 6, 2009 @ 3:39 pm

Black
hole,
warps time,
sucks matter
and traps gravity.
So… who pulled out the bloody plug?

Comment by Bob Lock — February 6, 2009 @ 2:06 am

one
two
three
a clock rock
four o’clock tick tock
Boom, goes the bomb, good night, good luck

Comment by Dominic O'Rourke — February 5, 2009 @ 11:59 pm

The
Wave
Seeking
Its centre,
Golden arc heaving,
Is behaving in set sequence
Ceaselessly breathing
Itself in
It roars
Back
Out

Comment by Alice Trueman — February 5, 2009 @ 8:40 pm

(*Bertrand Russell, mathematician and philosopher of language)

Comment by m . j . r . b . — February 5, 2009 @ 5:51 pm

This
word;
these words
Russell knew
slid out, fleeing, flew
their forms, and boundless meanings grew

Comment by m . j . r . b . — February 5, 2009 @ 5:49 pm

A
Sound
Inside
Lettering
Reincarnated
Onomatopoeically

Comment by Alice Trueman — February 5, 2009 @ 5:20 pm

On
Time
You Say
Wont Happen
We All Know Better
Then To Believe In Annoucements

Comment by Georgina Easterbrook — February 5, 2009 @ 1:50 pm

We
Are
Born. Some
Do no more,
Live hesitantly
Till found dead clutching our CV.

Comment by Sean Odaat — February 5, 2009 @ 10:08 am

So,
Mayor
Boris,
Giant Haystacks
Are found on your head
Yet you remain electable.

Comment by Diarmuid Fogarty — February 5, 2009 @ 8:20 am

Truth-
truth
remains
elusive.
Answers, as always,
Lie between what we know as facts.

Comment by Diarmuid Fogarty — February 5, 2009 @ 8:11 am

Sleep,
dream,
it’s free!
Well, for now…
for when they tax them
we’ll be left with just our nightmares…

Comment by Bob Lock — February 4, 2009 @ 7:59 pm

does
one
flashlight
still provoke
a magnanimous
gesture by the catwalk princess

Comment by Simon R Bate — February 4, 2009 @ 5:53 pm

Hare,
race
Tortoise!
Are you mad?
He’s so slow I’ll win,
I’ll even have time for a nap…

Comment by Bob Lock — February 4, 2009 @ 5:30 pm

I
don’t
hope to
convince you
of anything by
devious semanticist spew

but
one
intends,
certainly,
an economy
in relation to verity

Comment by Mhairi McGhee — February 4, 2009 @ 2:06 pm

INNER VOICES

Lust
Greed
Desire
Temptations
From inner voices
Silenced by the cicada song

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — February 4, 2009 @ 9:34 am

ESCAPE

Foul
Air
Gasping
Holed up here
In our pointless lives
No future in this bleak nightmare

Break
Free
Find life
Pay no fee
To the gatekeeper
Reach out your hand to steal his key

Come
Bring
Freedom
Let us sing
Under clear blue skies
And drink deep from a mountain spring

Faith
Hope
Belief
Cuts the rope
When we dare to dream
And run against the downward slope

You
Me
Us all
Can’t you see?
Look within ourselves
We all rule our own destiny

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — February 4, 2009 @ 9:34 am

Oh
Why
and then
How, but what
about after that?
Lunch! Something from last night, warmed through.

Comment by Richie Pen — February 3, 2009 @ 11:21 pm

Long
years
after
birth are spent,
seeking out warning
signs, heralding our departure.

Comment by Fran McMahon — February 3, 2009 @ 2:42 pm

Spam
left-
overs.
Recycled
into leftover
spam. Reproduced, ad nauseum.

Comment by Fran McMahon — February 3, 2009 @ 2:40 pm

Limescale

Small
things
collect
like limescale:
our taps fold their arms
stubbornly and refuse to turn.

Comment by Jenny Adamthwaite — February 2, 2009 @ 1:42 pm

You
come
early
with rain-beats
to plunder my world
my snow-heart melts out of season.

Comment by Eileen — January 31, 2009 @ 6:28 pm

Late
sun
over
Findhorn Bay
my blue bicycle
re-birthed as a bright butterfly.

Comment by Eileen — January 30, 2009 @ 6:49 pm

The
War
To end
All wars LIARS
Only we people
Can end the wars with compassion

Comment by Maxine Bellingham — January 30, 2009 @ 2:33 pm

herbs
mess
with brain
tingle tongue
spurge, hemp, mint and thyme
feed the urges, quell the hatred

Comment by Donna Gagnon — January 30, 2009 @ 3:05 am

Oh
pink
feather
boa, drape
my vroom and oomph. Rouse
my rumba, stir my cha-cha-cha.

Comment by Jacqueline Saphra — January 29, 2009 @ 7:27 pm

choked
white
outline,
chalk defined,
exsanguinated -
a puddle’s corpse in summertime

Comment by Ben Caile — January 29, 2009 @ 7:08 pm

FOOTBALL (ACCORDING TO EMRYS, AGE 2)

You
need
two balls:
Jupiter
and tiny little
Pluto. Position them. Point. Dance.
Roll them together for a kiss.
Sing football crazy,
football mad.
Pat both
balls.
Bow.

Comment by Lloyd — January 29, 2009 @ 5:35 pm

Traced
in
shallow
memory
are cliches – like sand
swept smooth, licked by the ocean’s tongue.

Comment by Rowena Forbes — January 28, 2009 @ 12:57 pm

“Kids”
Grown
Christ-like
Standing strong
No longer children
No greater joy have I than this.

Comment by Barbara Lowe — January 27, 2009 @ 1:54 am

Monster in my Backyard

green
slime
dripping
from the trees
broken gazebo
a trail of destruction – chaos!
How much damage can a twelve-year old make while playing?

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — January 26, 2009 @ 6:22 pm

DEPRESSION

Blue
Mood
Despair
In a hole
Outer rim clouded
On a clear day the sun won’t shine

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — January 26, 2009 @ 6:13 pm

STIGMA

Words
Words
Voices
In my head
I see in their eyes
Judgement coming from their closed mouths

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — January 26, 2009 @ 6:08 pm

Mardi Gras

Drunk
shirt
lifted
bare my breasts
for the world to see-
those screaming hordes at Mardi Gras
What was I thinking!
But oh boy!
look at
my
beads!

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — January 26, 2009 @ 6:08 pm

Rice

Child
sits
alone.
In his lap,
the small bowl of rice
he scoops, circumventing the grubs.

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — January 26, 2009 @ 6:00 pm

Yes
You
jolly
well check the
syllable count in
electroencephalogram!

Comment by fassbinder — January 25, 2009 @ 4:00 pm

I
love
you, Mum!
She smiles – then
frowns. I love you, too,
so now confess what you have done.

Comment by Linda Daunter — January 25, 2009 @ 3:57 pm

The day I found a thesaurus and lost my virginity

Her
one
simple
proviso:
“Only if you spell
‘electroencephalogram’”.

Comment by fassbinder — January 25, 2009 @ 2:44 am

II

If
Her
Sister
Isn’t keen. .
There’s always Missy:
Her lovely Bichon Frisé. Again!

Comment by fassbinder — January 25, 2009 @ 12:07 am

I

If
She
Doesn’t
Fancy you.
any longer. Think!
There’s always her sister… Again.

Comment by fassbinder — January 25, 2009 @ 12:06 am

Flip

I
Have
Something
To confess:
Nan caught me tossing …
A fifty pence piece, while naked.

Comment by fassbinder — January 24, 2009 @ 11:51 pm

Itch
Scratch
Nightclub
One night stand
Went back to her house
I caught more than just a taxi

Is
a
white lie
any good?
Because it’s nicer
and I’m having trouble with fibs

Comment by David A Lovell — January 24, 2009 @ 11:45 pm

“Is
it
a bird?
Or a plane?”
“No! It’s Superman!”
The ornithologists go home.

“Is
it
a bird?”
“No! Batman!”
“Is robin with him?”
The ornithologists go home.

Comment by Emma Purshouse — January 24, 2009 @ 11:38 pm

Match
Of
The Day
Highlights don’t
Have quite the same poke
Without Jimmy Hill’s (ahem) chin!

Comment by fassbinder — January 24, 2009 @ 11:33 pm

Why
Cry,
Woolworths
Stalwarts, when
There is Poundstretcher
Selling just as much crap, cheaper?

Comment by fassbinder — January 24, 2009 @ 5:31 pm

If
one
mouse and
its friend make
mice, can you explain
why this city’s not filled with hice?

Comment by Linda Daunter — January 24, 2009 @ 2:19 pm

Why
Cry
Woolworths
Stalwarts. When
There is Poundstretcher,
Selling just as much crap, cheaper.

Comment by fassbinder — January 24, 2009 @ 6:38 am

There
Is
No point
In asking
Me for a ciggy
Because I don’t share my ciggies.

Comment by fassbinder — January 24, 2009 @ 6:28 am

Boom Boom (On the rebound from the mistake of the last poem)

Start
Heart
Impart
Red fruit tart
Make feeling an art
Which flies, love punctures, like a dart

Comment by Matthew Hogg — January 23, 2009 @ 3:49 pm

Boom Boom

Start
Heart
Impart
Strawberry tart
Horse before cart
Make feeling an art
Which flies, love punctures, like a dart

Comment by Matthew Hogg — January 23, 2009 @ 3:17 pm

Six
months’
hard work
pestering.
“Ok. We can fuck
as long as I don’t enjoy it.”

Comment by Richard Tyrone Jones — January 22, 2009 @ 11:55 pm

If
all
it takes
is twenty
syllables why did
Shakespeare write such lengthy sonnets?

Comment by Georgina Barnes — January 22, 2009 @ 6:26 pm

Oh!
What?
No way!
Are you sure?
Unbelievable!
Well that is most unfortunate.

Comment by Adam Loxley — January 22, 2009 @ 3:39 pm

In
my
Bedroom;
A site for
incidences of
naked adam yawning loudly

Comment by Adam Loxley — January 22, 2009 @ 3:28 pm

Tick
Tock.
And it
never stops.
Relentlessly, the
cogs turn until I throw a shoe.

Comment by Jindy Mann — January 22, 2009 @ 2:38 pm

Ha!
This
reminds
me of the
time I was doing
a short speech and forgot the next…

Comment by Jindy Mann — January 22, 2009 @ 2:35 pm

Where
we
take hope
is not in
change itself, but that
it comes with sincere intentions.

Comment by Jindy Mann — January 22, 2009 @ 2:27 pm

NO! I mean;

It
is
pleasing
to use so
few syllables this
time instead of running out of

Comment by Jennifer Edgecombe — January 20, 2009 @ 12:52 am

Origami

There
are
jigsaws
of you all
through the house. We fold
them up like newspapers. We fold.

Comment by Jenny Adamthwaite — January 17, 2009 @ 10:10 pm

TEARS OF JOY

Here
Once
We lay
Sweet passion
I feel for your warmth
I kiss your lips that are not here

Blood bursts from my heart’s busted dam
Flooding my desire
Tears of joy
I wait
For
You

Oh
Love
True love
In torment
Upon your return
I lay here still alone and dream

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — January 17, 2009 @ 8:00 pm

Heart
Beat
Pounding
Lover’s eye
Beholds your beauty
Making pale the summer sunset

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — January 17, 2009 @ 7:57 pm

Edit Me with Words

point
click
select
copy/paste
then repeat again
until all the words have moved me

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — January 17, 2009 @ 1:42 am

Eclipse

moon
earth
eclipse
traveling
amidst the shadow
momentary demise of light

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — January 17, 2009 @ 1:27 am

The Oracle

pierce
prod
gently
the secrets
shielded from me
twisting past the walls
slowly extracting the passion
trusting, comforted, you yield slowly to the questions
that touch, the unchartered nadir
of your sheltered heart
spurting forth
your stark
true
soul

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — January 17, 2009 @ 1:25 am

footprints in the sand

waves
rush
filling
my footprint
the sides overflow,
wear down, until I am no more

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — January 17, 2009 @ 1:22 am

Oops I’ll try again with an apostrophe – sorry

drip
drop
rhythm -
as the tap
drips pentameter
into the poet’s kitchen sink

Comment by Carl Andrew Ross — January 16, 2009 @ 11:07 pm

Teen
Me
Happy
Don’t frolic
Get on with shit life
smile and forget depressing tasks

Comment by Mike Mc Nicholas — January 12, 2009 @ 3:08 pm

A
bee!
See, see!
What it dee’?
- Oh poor Auntie E’
It got her effectually

Comment by Katie Killick — January 12, 2009 @ 1:55 pm

WEALTH

Eyes
Closed
Smiling
A monk sits
Freedom in his thoughts
Unbound wealth in his poverty

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — January 12, 2009 @ 10:10 am

NOTHING MORE

Dust
Ash
Nothing
Nothing more
We start then return
Wind scattering us in between

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — January 12, 2009 @ 10:08 am

Some Obakemono (Monster) Fibs:

Neko-Mata

Fuse?
Check.
Matches?
Check. Saké?
Check. All prep’d to go.
Half my tail’s the bolt, half the bow.

Shōjō

2..
1..
Chin-chin.
One for luck!
Here’s to the sea’s health.
Hear her roar? One for the whale road!

Me-kurabe

Eye-
jewelled,
them skulls
keep heaping.
In your courtyards, fields,
most of all when you dream at night.

Bake-zōri

Pumps,
brogues,
geta,
espadrilles.
All the wardrobe-lags
now come dancing, free as bare feet.

Comment by Jon Stone — January 8, 2009 @ 4:59 pm

If
I’d
thought it
I’d be spooked.
But knot-marked cot bars
delight my son: “like eyes”, he cries.

Comment by Lloyd — January 8, 2009 @ 1:29 pm

Age
walls
me off.
Packages
my experience
as quaint. Shelves me with the scrapbooks.

Comment by Jennie Helderman — January 8, 2009 @ 1:53 am

I
Used
to be.
Once I was.
No one remembers.
I led the parade. Yesterday.

Comment by Jennie Helderman — January 8, 2009 @ 1:51 am

Jack
Moss
or Kate
Black? Hadron
has the worst fate. Who
will be who after the big bang?

Comment by Jennifer Edgecombe — January 6, 2009 @ 10:56 pm

As
If
As I
Could ever
Try syllable-ise
For the sake of counting up to
Triskaideka without a phobia to see it
Sweetly numerate if it could
Materialise
Forever
As if
As
I

Comment by Ant Smith — January 4, 2009 @ 9:32 pm

New
Year
Just here,
Breaking new
Resolutions,
Has anything changed today ?

Comment by jenny — January 1, 2009 @ 1:18 pm

Three
Two
Counting
Down the clock
One – Happy New Year
Last year now just a memory

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — January 1, 2009 @ 8:12 am

The Fisherman

net
cast
he waits
the bounty
will fill his pockets
will fill his gut with Absolute

fish
know
he waits
they scurry
from the rocking boat
from the peril that lies within

he
hauls
the net
but within
lies a golden shell
lies the promise of a future

bright
gold
heavy
it glistens
in the morning sun
in the reflection of his eye

he
holds
the shell
to his ear
the sound of sirens
the sound, stirring his mind, his soul

here
now
at sea
is a choice
to live life simply
to live a life of luxury

sun
warm
he smiles
with eyes closed
he listens once more
he listens to the shell, the sea

high
far
he casts
the shell to the sea
as he mends his net
as he mends, the fisherman waits

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 31, 2008 @ 11:29 pm

‘Shhh.
SHHH.
Quiet!’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Could be. I can’t see.’
‘Let’s run before they find us. RUN!’

Branch.
Bud.
Flower
opening.
Deserted lovescape
Coming to life within your soul.

Comment by Leon Conrad — December 30, 2008 @ 1:09 pm

One
Last
Wave through
The window
Old tired body
Swallowed up by dusty sunshine.

Comment by Ruth Saxelby — December 29, 2008 @ 9:20 am

A
gasp
when I
find the word.
Hypochondria.
Long Latin name for what I’ve got.

Comment by Holly Thomas — December 28, 2008 @ 8:57 pm

I’m
not
sure how
I got here
wrapped inside brute brown
paper pulled string tight – marked fragile.

Go
on
Take it!
Cut string. RIP
and leave behind shards
of mess – brown paper china flesh.

Comment by karen sandhu — December 28, 2008 @ 8:09 pm

Hiss.
Click.
Bubble:
Water jumps
out and licks china.
A sigh, a smile: ‘more tea vicar?’

Comment by Fliss Winkley — December 28, 2008 @ 3:27 pm

Christmas Eve

Sleep,
child,
Santa
comes tonight.
Tab A Slot B where?
Long night, late night, child, go to sleep.

Comment by Jennie Helderman — December 27, 2008 @ 6:52 pm

GAY
LOVE?
What would
THE POPE say?
Something about trees.
We like trees, not people like you.

Comment by Ryan Ormonde — December 26, 2008 @ 3:28 pm

Pick
up
pen now.
Start to write:
Any word at all.
That’s the way your great work is born.

One
man
walking
in the park.
Four eyes make contact.
Two men walking out of the park.

Rain
Hail
Thunder.
Stay indoors.
Watch the lightning flash.
In bed you’ll make sparks together.

Bush
Blair
Cheney
Rumsfeld too:
All have got off free.
Their deadly legacy remains.

Comment by Jeff Doorn — December 26, 2008 @ 3:16 pm

Questing the Answer to the Ultimate Question

I
climbed
for days
to the top
of the highest peak,
seeking a rumored great teacher
who would answer, for a meal, the ultimate question:
“What is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything in between and beyond?”

But as I reached the summit, and had a look around, marveling at the top of the world, I realized that I was also quite alone.

I pondered this, taking out the meal I had brought, I ate it, then posed the question to myself.
The answer I gave was not what I had expected.
It made me frown, then made me smile.
What is the answer?
Look inside.
Climb high.
Seek.
Find.

Comment by Mark Arvid White — December 26, 2008 @ 10:14 am

Mice in the Kitchen with Dark Glasses On.

Hick
Or
Reedick
Or Reedock?
One of three blind mice
Has run up the side of a clock,
Which isn’t very nice, but he’s scrambling for his life
From Hessegrendel, the fat farmer’s wife, who shrieks with conviction while swinging her knife.
Hick, or Reedick, or Reedock, which of them climbed so high?
Tail-less mouse, hiding for his life,
But the clock, it strikes…
She sees him…
She swings
her
knife.

Comment by Mark Arvid White — December 26, 2008 @ 10:12 am

No More Tapping

dog
man
they walk
silently
dog offering sight
blindly, the man gives affection

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 26, 2008 @ 8:46 am

Jump Overboard

row
row
they go
round and round
always in motion
the Tweedle Dums and Tweedle Dees

“Yes”
“Yes”
they say
round and round
they always agree
those Tweedle Dums and Tweedle Dees

rock
rock
the boat
round and round
distorting the truth
these Tweedle Dums and Tweedle Dees

jump
swim
escape
from the lies
we’re forced to believe
of Tweedle Dums and Tweedle Dees

drip
dry
from shore
watching them
spinning round and round
the Tweedle Dums and Tweedle Dees

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 26, 2008 @ 8:44 am

Hot

cool
ice
sliding
down my chest
I lower the heat
on my skin, and raise it in yours.

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 26, 2008 @ 8:43 am

Lies
came
fast, slipped
between teeth
like knives: I watched them
nick the soft contours of your face.

Comment by Ann Parry — December 23, 2008 @ 8:25 pm

English Country Pub
Old warm glow
Single
Pint
Stolen from burnt old ship

Comment by Marek Frompast — December 23, 2008 @ 1:46 pm

son
here
still here
planned to leave
then came heavy snows
family anxious for snow plows

Comment by Jfinn — December 22, 2008 @ 9:07 pm

Silent Night

snow
falls
blankets
the tree lights
star at the top glistens
alone at the door he listens
while carolers chant
Silent Night
silent
snow
falls

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 22, 2008 @ 7:28 am

Christmas

snow
falls
gently
the child dreams
as his parents scream
over bicycle assembly

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 22, 2008 @ 7:24 am

At
the
water
hole, the herds
all drink together.
Hunted and hunter share their thirst.

Comment by write track — December 21, 2008 @ 6:02 pm

Mull
with
five a
day to keep
winter’s cold at bay.
One great reason to drink red wine.

Comment by Inua Ellams — December 21, 2008 @ 10:18 am

DRINKING DEEP

Thine
Mine
As one
Hearts entwined
Together we grow
Drinking deep of each other’s love

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — December 21, 2008 @ 9:37 am

ETERNAL YOUTH

Who
Hears
Bells toll
Youth’s fountain
Life’s eternal search
Gains momentum in our last hour

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — December 21, 2008 @ 9:36 am

Going Home

to
hear
your name
called aloud
as you stand alone
waiting for the Number Ten bus
makes
you
swivel
searching for
a man’s voice, his eyes
but you find only emptiness

he’s
far
away
you know that
he may be speaking
forming words in his distance but
he’s
not
here now
holding hands
standing beside you
as the number ten bus races
and
slides
splashing
mud on your
new blue cotton dress
making you swear at the driver

your
name –
Sweetness –
means nothing
as you climb aboard
tucking your anger underneath
this
hem
that drips
muddy brown
sadness on the floor
of a crowded Friday night bus

to
hear
your name
called aloud
by someone who’s there
is what’s really driving you home

Comment by Donna Gagnon — December 20, 2008 @ 12:43 am

Blinded by the White

gone
for sugar

returning
from a trip, perhaps

in whiteouts, no one can be sure

Comment by Donna Gagnon — December 20, 2008 @ 12:38 am

“It’s
naff,
don’t want
to join in.”
“Here, let me show you.”
“Cool, can I do it myself now?”

Comment by Write track — December 19, 2008 @ 11:59 pm

Black
Purse
Lost keys
As always,
Mom rummages deep.
Will we ever get out the door?

Comment by Sarah Fogarty — December 19, 2008 @ 3:39 pm

Boys
walk
to school-
but today
big load so drove them.
Selfish drivers, bad parking, grrr!

Comment by Write track — December 18, 2008 @ 4:07 pm

I
Wept.
Then slept.
Then woke up
And washed my pillow.
Because it was sodden with tears.

Comment by Tim Key — December 16, 2008 @ 4:11 pm

I
Love
My cat
Shiny eyes
Fight scarred frayed right ear
And tail that tells me what he wants

Comment by Write track — December 16, 2008 @ 3:30 pm

You.
Me.
Vodka.
…You’re staring.
Okay, it’s low-cut;
But pick your jaw off the carpet.

Comment by Holly Hayman — December 16, 2008 @ 1:14 am

Rain
weeps
with me,
as I cry,
for the lost days of
joyful, youthful vitality.

Comment by Tan Ai Boon — December 15, 2008 @ 6:00 pm

Ron
Doff
Opened
A bee shop.
He calle it “Stingers”.
It was a complete disaster.

Comment by Tim Key — December 15, 2008 @ 10:27 am

When
I’m
filled with
self-loathing,
you remind me that
there is someone who loathes me more.

Comment by Ann Parry — December 15, 2008 @ 4:56 am

Brown
Blair
Kinnock
Portillo -
I hate all that stuff.
I’m not political at all.

Comment by Tim Key — December 13, 2008 @ 11:39 am

Clear
Pane
Of water
A pool sheet
Bending skinny legs
I smash the glass
No shards only drips

Comment by Anna Simmons — December 12, 2008 @ 3:28 pm

Cat
Pounce
Claws out
Holding fast
Mouse squeaks as tail flails
Paws hold fast, whiskers twitch – Gotcha!

Girl
Boy
Silence
Eyes avoid
Body turns away
Words unsaid make space infinite

Babe
Child
Young man
Preach and teach
Show the way to heav’n
Scourged and nailed and dead and risen

Tree
Lights
Crackers
Baubles bright
Tinsel garlands long
Mistletoe, holly and ivy

Comment by Patricia Main — December 12, 2008 @ 2:57 pm

It’s
a
Bug! Help!
It has black
eyes that stare at me.
With green and blue spots on it’s back.

Comment by Jemma, Meg and Grace Weald — December 11, 2008 @ 10:04 pm

It’s
that
time again.
Presents and stockings,
laughter all around the town square.

Comment by Jemma, Meg and Grace Weald — December 11, 2008 @ 10:03 pm

The
small
chicken
sat on her
nest pecking around
searching fro abandoned grain

Comment by Lily & Meg Weald — December 11, 2008 @ 10:02 pm

A
dove
sat on
the window
ledge staring at me
with a piece of twig in its beak

Comment by Lily & Meg Weald — December 11, 2008 @ 10:01 pm

I
Like
Sitting
By the pond
With my grandfather;
Firing our catapult at ducks.

Comment by Tim Key — December 10, 2008 @ 10:44 am

Plum
Juice.
My God.
That’s novel.
Cathy had plum juice.
I fell in love with her that night.

Comment by Tim Key — December 9, 2008 @ 10:55 am

yes
it
can be
a very
optimistic laugh
but not when he is watching me

Comment by Janey Mae — December 8, 2008 @ 3:20 pm

Nic
Licked
Her lips.
And she smiled.
Then she licked my lips.
And then we both smiled, and dozed off.

Comment by Tim Key — December 8, 2008 @ 11:37 am

One
by
one and
tow by two
the animals
came into and out of my view

Comment by Rod Griffiths — December 8, 2008 @ 11:37 am

Eat
It.
She said.
I grimaced.
I didn’t want to.
I wanted to throw it at her.

Comment by Tim Key — December 8, 2008 @ 11:03 am

Now
Late
Party
Dancing hard
Music beating us
In the attempt to be social.

Comment by Rosemary Pharo — December 7, 2008 @ 11:14 pm

“EFF
OFF!”
Said I.
“YOU EFF OFF!”
This was the missus.
She had some honey on her chin.

Comment by Tim Key — December 5, 2008 @ 12:52 pm

No,
I’m
the sole
heritor…
Darling, are you sure
Parachutes are meant to have holes?

Comment by Ann Parry — December 5, 2008 @ 12:41 pm

On
The
Ground
I sleep like
A baby at peace
And wake without an ache, and laugh.

Right
On
Like a
Hippy I
Don’t hate anyone,
Honest. I love you all, always.

Sound
As
A pound
My goodness
Is past reproach, so
The Pope can beatify me.

Comment by Mark Lewis — December 5, 2008 @ 12:13 pm

Have
you
any
other cards
for New Arrivals?
These ones either say ‘boy’ or ‘girl’.

Comment by Ann Parry — December 5, 2008 @ 11:59 am

DEATH
BY
HOOVER,
papers said.
CLEANING ACCIDENT.
I knew better; he should have too.

Comment by Ann Parry — December 5, 2008 @ 11:51 am

Dreamer

cracks
glass
tearful
child afraid
of repercussions
hides under unexpected sun

picks
his
bug bites
licks his wounds
waits for someone to
find him, tell him that it’s okay

night
falls
boy sleeps
dreams of stars
listens to music
forgets the melody and hums

la
di
dum dum
tomorrow
no one will recall
all the bad things he’s ever done

Comment by Donna Gagnon — December 5, 2008 @ 4:15 am

A Joke

we
are
all made
of clay, soft
pliable soil that
doesn’t bake well under noon sun

we
are
items
shelved by
unseen hands
nestled one next to another

each morning, the lights come on
we awake in heat
our glaze cracks
slightly
we
are
nothing but pottery, pretty
knick knacks spun by God
when he was
once
bored

Comment by Donna Gagnon — December 5, 2008 @ 4:13 am

On the Front Lines

friend
foe
afraid
embarrassed
to yield or assert
time stops, we stare each other down

Comment by Donna Gagnon — December 5, 2008 @ 4:11 am

Five Silences

one
dream
quiet

one
page
reading
quietly

one
word
follows
another
quietly writing

one
hope
after
another
praying quietly
that she may live another day

one
leaf
petals
opening
the quiet garden
I lay staring up at the clouds
will she hear the words I have prayed, written, read, and dreamed

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 5, 2008 @ 1:28 am

Adrienne

Gold
soft
metal
bends and gives
as she did in life.
Pleasing everyone first, humbly,
giving more than she had to give
quiet suffering
arthritis
twisting
all but
her
heart

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 5, 2008 @ 1:20 am

Parallel Thoughts

Far
lone
distant
universe.
My mirror image
sits deep in thought pondering me.

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — December 5, 2008 @ 1:19 am

New
School
Gleaming
Tell me why
There is chewing gum
Like mushrooms sprouting under desks?

Comment by Mel Kerr — December 4, 2008 @ 6:29 pm

MILKING MAN

Glass
Clad
Ant hills
Tower high
Cloned mutant workers
Bow to the cash cow’s milking man

Our
Lives
Worthless
They pile high
Discards and rejects
Cares not the cash cow’s milking man

Sky
Dark
No life
Blue to brown
Industrialised clouds
Creates the cash cow’s milking man

Smog
Blown
Man flies
On dung heaps
Of life’s despair
Sees not the cash cow’s milking man

Want
Take
Their greed
Desiring
Corporate conquered
Owned by the cash cow’s milking man

Race
Lost
All hope
Moral thought
Trampled underfoot
God help the cash cow’s milking man

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — December 4, 2008 @ 5:40 pm

REFLECTION

Look
See
My face
Reflected
In the train window
Passing through people’s living-rooms

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — December 4, 2008 @ 5:38 pm

They
lied
to us:
it didn’t
live forever and turns
out we need a bit more than love.

Comment by Ann Parry — December 4, 2008 @ 4:12 pm

The
maths
lot tried
to unzip
it; the poets just
wanted to make the thing look nice.

Comment by Ann Parry — December 4, 2008 @ 4:02 pm

Old
Pond,
Frog dives
Kerplop splash
More words than Haiku
May mean my splash sounds beat Basho’s?

Comment by Layers — December 4, 2008 @ 3:40 pm

No
one
ever
told me that
you can even get
tired of rock and roll. Life’s too long.

Comment by Ann Parry — December 4, 2008 @ 3:38 pm

The
Bad
Poet
Always hopes
That clever structures
Mask his lack of ability

Comment by Layers — December 4, 2008 @ 3:33 pm

There
Is
Nothing
Clever that
Can be expressed in
Twenty syllables, or is there?

Comment by Layers — December 4, 2008 @ 3:31 pm

You
are
a pain
in the neck
go find your own life.
I refuse to talk to you now.

Comment by Jemma, Lily and Meg Weald — December 4, 2008 @ 2:12 pm

A
crumb
sat by
the white plate
waiting nervously
for that someone who would eat it.

Comment by Jemma and Meg Weald — December 4, 2008 @ 2:11 pm

Mam
died
Autumn.
Stroke, they said,
as if an angel
misjudged the strength of their caress.

Comment by Corrinne Frazzoni — December 4, 2008 @ 2:58 am

I
drove
all day
and all night
a long trip to see
the dinosaurs @ Wookey Hole

Comment by Carol Leach — December 3, 2008 @ 3:39 pm

I
want
baked beans
with my breakfast toast
but I get a windy problem!

Comment by Carol Leach — December 3, 2008 @ 3:38 pm

I
love
to drink
some lovely
hot cappuccino
with a dash of milk and sugar.

Comment by Carol Leach — December 3, 2008 @ 3:38 pm

there
must
be a
book in this;
one thousand five hun
dred and ninety seven at least

Comment by Richard Tyrone Jones — December 2, 2008 @ 2:11 pm

Man
and
woman,
these two love
to get tangled up
in Fibonacci sequences.

Comment by H. Rystadius — December 2, 2008 @ 1:29 pm

Fe
Fi
Fo fum
I smell the blood
Of an Englishman:
Smells like a team dispirited.

Comment by Alex Williamson — December 1, 2008 @ 11:42 pm

Lie.
Lie
Again.
To tell the truth
You are incapable
Of writing poetry, but you fib well…

Stop
Look
And listen.
Remember
Your green cross code kids
And you’ll grow up to be Darth Vader.

Comment by Alex Williamson — December 1, 2008 @ 11:26 pm

Dancing
devils
and angels
revel in the
snow, without a care
wandering wonders in the sky.

Comment by Tom Woods — December 1, 2008 @ 7:32 pm

Chris?!
Dead?!!
Please, no!!
Please not Chris!!!!
Oh, right. It’s not Chris.
Good – I couldn’t cope without Chris.

Comment by Tim Key — December 1, 2008 @ 3:04 pm

That’s
it.
Weekend
is over.
It’s Monday morning
and I have to go back to work!

Comment by Kasey — December 1, 2008 @ 7:57 am

I
see
a man
in the moonlight glare
with an oyster half shell of hair.

Comment by phibby — December 1, 2008 @ 3:20 am

Babe
sure
the door
ain’t no more
than an inch from you
Is love a door stop or push through?

Comment by phibby — December 1, 2008 @ 3:18 am

“CHRIS!”
I’m
Looking
For Chris White.
He screwed my missus.
A bit like when she did Danny West.

Comment by Tim Key — December 1, 2008 @ 1:44 am

In
the
Middle
of the night
I heard a whisper
From a shooting star; it said yes

Comment by Katie Graham — November 30, 2008 @ 11:35 pm

In
the
middle
of the night I heard
A whisper from a shooting star

Comment by Katie Graham — November 30, 2008 @ 11:31 pm

I
have
many
words to say
but cannot say them
because I can’t fit them in here

Comment by Katie Graham — November 30, 2008 @ 11:25 pm

and a couple with non-zero syllable titles ;->

**************************

*blackberry*

thumb
fixed,
ready
to punch out
winter fruited gasps –
lullabies for fermented hearts

**************************

*after the disaster*

dust
blooms
into
vague headstones,
bobbing like balloons
pinched twixt censorious fingers

**************************

*unproved theorem*

heart
of
numbers
beating fast
in the hummingbird
chest of the lost mathematician

Comment by Louise — November 30, 2008 @ 7:51 pm

**************************

key
turns,
bones click
into place –
your grave gnostic touch
reorders me; recognition

**************************

light
box
lifts me
into cool
legitimacy
of neat circadian rhythm

**************************

rain,
tongue;
conjunct.
my wonder
is wild, quixotic;
fevered wish for pure sensation.

**************************

your
blue
pastiche
of soused lash
is true crocodile –
cockroach shell cresting through the waves

**************************

“car!”
“car!”
count me
one more rough
Linnaean engine
to salve the unclassified mess

**************************

Comment by Louise — November 30, 2008 @ 7:48 pm

I
see
a little
silhouette
Oh of a mans car
a mouche, car a mouche, car a mouche
now my words seem so fandangled
spare me my life for
this monstrous
idea, let
me
go

Comment by Flirtybee — November 30, 2008 @ 5:43 pm

I
just
wanted
to say that
I took part but I
can’t remember where I put it

Comment by Flirtybee — November 30, 2008 @ 5:36 pm

men
of
iron
wooden ships
made the British
rule the waves in the past

Comment by Gerard Scharn — November 30, 2008 @ 1:09 pm

men
of
iron
wooden ships
made the Brittish
rule the waves in the past

Comment by Gerard Scharn — November 30, 2008 @ 9:33 am

You.
Me.
Two times I.
We’re all double you
double you double you dot com.

Comment by Maria van Daalen — November 30, 2008 @ 2:21 am

Oh,
my.
Did you now.
Did you really. Here?
I loved him once. You knew that, right.

Comment by Maria van Daalen — November 30, 2008 @ 2:17 am

I.
Me.
Double.
You come in
and ask the question.
No one knows which one we can be.

Comment by Maria van Daalen — November 30, 2008 @ 2:13 am

Things
can
only
get better.
Who would have thunk it?
Blair, Brown, Mandelson and Blunkett.

Comment by SAB — November 29, 2008 @ 5:42 pm

Bus
Stop!
Waiting…
3,3,3
Into the smog one
Drives me to mass insanity

Comment by Maria England — November 29, 2008 @ 12:06 pm

Meetings

You
sit
across
the table,
while the boss drones on.
Your eyes meet mine, and we both know,

That with all the spread sheets, and graphs,
the only meeting
that makes sense
is yours
and
mine.

Comment by Mark Arvid White — November 29, 2008 @ 7:38 am

There’s gotta be a book in this. 1597 Fibs against the War, or something.

Comment by Richard Tyrone Jones — November 29, 2008 @ 2:15 am

Female orgasm

as
she
unfurls,
a snail whorl,
ferns, petals, waves, I
see rats breed exponentially

This
is
how you
made me feel;
you made me feel like
I never want to feel again.

I am

‘I
am
Neptune!’
Ten toy boats
launch a fusillade
homage to my bubbly hubris.

All
Night
vampire
slaughtering,
marking breed loci
on the OS. Note the legend.

Misc.

South
Bank
Centre
Point Balfron
Tower Canary
Wharf Wembley where is Albert Speer

The
Old
Ones were
men like us
but their slave-machines
bit their Mountains off (not like us!)

Gi-
mme
no answas,
Ah make ups
soem liez. Send me a
broadsheet, A’ll kook up Naked’s Lunch.

Comment by Richard Tyrone Jones — November 28, 2008 @ 10:04 pm

Dawn
Breaks
Silent
Old soldiers
Can never forget
When night swallowed the sparrows’ song

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — November 28, 2008 @ 9:52 pm

Kings
Queens
And me
Who am I?
Meat in the sandwich?
Or merely a crumb on the floor?

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — November 28, 2008 @ 9:50 pm

Drunk
Sloshed
Tippsy
Yet again
Beer to fill my stein
I drink a toast to loneliness

Damn you, damn me, damn everyone
Leaving me alone
Wallowing
In ale
Dead
Drunk

Comment by Lonnard Dean Watkins — November 28, 2008 @ 9:47 pm

Nautilus

the further you travel within
the smaller the space
spiraling
water
deep
dark

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — November 28, 2008 @ 9:47 pm

The Waiting Room

Black
mass
shadows
the x-ray.
more radiation…
the child bows his balding head.

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — November 28, 2008 @ 9:42 pm

Chocolate Sauce

deep
dark
melted
chocolate
oozing through fingers
the sauce cascades from the fountain
flowing over voluptuous curves
a treat to lips
open mouthed
licking
me
dry

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — November 28, 2008 @ 9:38 pm

Where Lilacs Bloom

Once,
Twice,
our lives
intertwined
but drifted apart
and yet you linger in my thoughts

Sun
Moon
Are we
opposites?
Or can we explore
similarities between us?

Come
Now.
Meet me
at the place
where lilacs blossom.
Not even their scent can mask yours.

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — November 28, 2008 @ 9:37 pm

La France

pain
vin
fromage
la vie simple
mon cœur est toujours
dans les champs de tes tournesols

La France

bread
wine
goat cheese
simple life
my heart forever
buried in your sunflower fields

Comment by Mary-Jane Grandinetti — November 28, 2008 @ 9:35 pm

may fibs have titles, or does the absence of a title constitute the ‘0′ in the sequence?!

Comment by Louise — November 28, 2008 @ 5:06 pm

Lack
of
moral
sentience
does not excuse the
acts of psychopaths or squirrels

Comment by Bryn — November 28, 2008 @ 4:41 pm

Fig
tree
ravished
by squirrels:
anthropomorphism
or not, I think they are wicked.

Comment by Bryn — November 28, 2008 @ 4:27 pm

not
scon,
but scone
it never is known
but its the fastest cake, it’s s’gone

Comment by Jen — November 28, 2008 @ 3:19 am

Choose Life

born,
die,
living.
Is there more?
Circular living.
These four walls provoke my thinking
What if it is true?
there is more?
challenged.
scared.
Choice.

Comment by Jen — November 28, 2008 @ 3:01 am

blind.
lost.
destroyed.
light of life
persues forever
those stolen from His sweet embrace

Comment by Jen — November 28, 2008 @ 2:40 am

new
life.
perfect,
overturned.
i listened to you
and we fed on your fruitless lies

Comment by Jen — November 28, 2008 @ 2:35 am

‘when
I
listen,
I can see’
said the synaesthete.
‘but can you smell me smile’, said she.

Comment by Leila — November 27, 2008 @ 3:59 pm

as
bad
habits
repeating
the snake bites its tail
I am the error of my ways

Comment by Leila — November 27, 2008 @ 3:57 pm

I
spy,
with my
little eye,
something beginning,
something terrible drawing nigh.

Comment by SAB — November 27, 2008 @ 12:05 pm

What
is
a Fib?
Not, perhaps,
a complete untruth,
nor yet a full-blown, blood-red lie.

Comment by Kasey — November 26, 2008 @ 9:58 pm

The Perfect Drink

Milk
and
sugar
in the cups;
teabags in the pot;
boiling water in the kettle.

Comment by Kasey — November 26, 2008 @ 9:52 pm

Comb
and
scissors
giving you
a funky new style.
Making other heads turn your way.

Comment by Kasey — November 26, 2008 @ 9:50 pm

Dear
God,
many
of my friends
don’t believe in you.
How can I help them see the truth?

Comment by Kasey — November 26, 2008 @ 9:45 pm

In
the
early
morning light
I watch a bluetit
peck peanuts from a ball of fat

Comment by Kasey — November 26, 2008 @ 9:42 pm

words
in
black ink
licked clean but
the cat’s pyjamas
were covered with prepositions.

Comment by Rachel Green — November 26, 2008 @ 3:49 pm

I
get
it now.
It wasn’t
the size of a peach,
it just really tasted like one.

Comment by Joe Hakim — November 26, 2008 @ 2:40 pm

I
don’t
recall
much beyond
heat, smells, temples, parks
dripping blood on The Bund one night
John’s
eyes
went dark
he dragged me
across a bridge, threw
me into the Huangpu River
gone
just
like that
disappeared
because now I was
not-child, not-loved, not Sally Scott
John-
o-
boy please
not my fault
come back, I cannot
swim, I have lost my coolie hat

Comment by Donna Gagnon — November 26, 2008 @ 1:33 am

cards
on
the table
Friday night
Dad & I partners
now that he’s gone, I never win

Comment by Donna Gagnon — November 26, 2008 @ 1:30 am

“Ring-
Ring”
“Who’s there?”
“Only me!”
“Not now. I’m busy”
I hang up on myself again.

I
Have
Never
Seen myself
Without my glasses
Even in my most vivid dreams

This
Fib
Maintains
Perversely
That it speaks the truth
And thus it is a paradox

Blue
And
Yellow
Are Ukraine’s
National colours
But orange is revolution’s

Comment by Ben Borek — November 26, 2008 @ 12:07 am

Green
shoots,
petals
splashed with blood.
In Afghanistan
they’re still the most popular crop.

Comment by SAB — November 24, 2008 @ 3:00 pm

Known
knowns,
unknown
knowns. It’s fun
counting syllables;
so much easier than the dead.

Comment by SAB — November 24, 2008 @ 2:59 pm

Take
the
money
or open
the box containing
Schrödinger’s dead and not dead cat.

Comment by Susan Grindley — November 24, 2008 @ 1:52 pm

Word,
Earth,
Adam
And then Eve,
A curious tree
With roots in our foul history.

Comment by SAB — November 24, 2008 @ 1:36 pm

snow
white
sweetly
sprinkles dawn
ice drops awake face
warm steps print patterns across paths

Comment by Dr M — November 24, 2008 @ 11:16 am

load
up
the film
switch it on
And let’s dazzle them
with pictures from my twisted head.

Comment by Ben Barton — November 24, 2008 @ 1:55 am

Heads
down
Cold rain
slips about
Wet clothes cling to breasts
and make up melts like driven snow.

Comment by Ben Barton — November 24, 2008 @ 1:49 am

“Hef?”
“Mmm?”
“Are you…?”
“Awake? Yes.”
“Ah, so you noticed…”
“You stabbing me? Yes. Yes I did.”

Comment by Kirsty Irving — November 23, 2008 @ 8:52 pm

Out
Here
Comets
Plume through dead
Air, rake up shifting
Memories: how the sun once blinked.

Comment by David Corbin — November 23, 2008 @ 4:53 pm

naught
add
one is
me and you
and everything
but is one on a thousand naught?

Comment by emile sercombe — November 23, 2008 @ 3:12 pm

Five
toes
make half
a leg to
stand, hop and run on
save the rest for another day

Comment by CT Ringel — November 23, 2008 @ 9:55 am

Swing
sweet
rhythm – sound
Calm me down
You shall save me from
sticking my nose into the wrong

Comment by CT Ringel — November 23, 2008 @ 9:55 am

I
can
swallow
fearsome lust
pain of rejection
and anything else that I lack

Comment by CT Ringel — November 23, 2008 @ 9:54 am

some
help
noone
but themselves
secretly hoping
to improve in helping others

Comment by CT Ringel — November 23, 2008 @ 9:53 am

Give
and
it will
be added
to create order
from the space of the chaotic

Comment by Renato Ferreira — November 22, 2008 @ 6:48 pm

Thee,
me,
your dog,
a bottle
of Sauvignon blanc
and a divorce. What do you say?

Comment by Jon Stone — November 22, 2008 @ 2:51 pm

Some
help
none
other
than themselves
secretly hoping
to improve in helping others

Comment by CT Ringel — November 22, 2008 @ 2:12 pm

Look.
Look!
The sky
is alight
with white wailing moon.
Tell me your heart isn’t pounding.

Comment by polly barton — November 22, 2008 @ 9:08 am

“Mask and Mirror”

I
Am
But you
First see me
Faces you perceive
To be the truth of who I am
But truely am not
You’re deceived
By masks
of
Me

Comment by Paul Matias — November 21, 2008 @ 11:54 pm

Gray’s
Inn
Road is
grey in the
morning and greyer
at night, an elegy to blue.

Comment by Jude Cowan — November 21, 2008 @ 7:10 pm

16mm Mishap

Sal,
save
this film
from certain
death and film it now.
Perfect for your retrospective.

Comment by Kaethe Fine — November 21, 2008 @ 5:36 pm

Stuck
there,
over
the rainbow…
Why-oh-why, XL,
can’t Bruce Dickinson fly ME home?

Comment by Husky Pete — November 21, 2008 @ 12:39 pm

“Penge!”
“Wrong.
Wapping’s
further East”
Pub savants lock horns.
“Either way, Man in the Box, please”

Comment by Sam Hawkins — November 20, 2008 @ 5:51 pm

Vile
veal
livers
valets leave
behind the villa:
evil lives in livid villi.

Comment by Tom Chivers — November 20, 2008 @ 5:39 pm