All Poems
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When it was autumn in Eden
© Ian Emberson
When it was autumn in Eden
and chestnuts held golden leaves
against dimming light ,
Eve touched her toes on the sodden
Samuel Palmer prepares to etch " The Lonely Tower ".
© Ian Emberson
I must return
to that valley of vision,
gather again to me
flocks, crescent moon and star;
the beekeeper
© Chris Mansell
the population controller
slips into disguise
his charming suit
his veil of words
The unquiet city
© Chris Mansell
we are succulents
our cool jade arms open
over clean tables our fine bone
china minds pull the strings
Where edges are
© Chris Mansell
She is effulgent in the dark halls of town.
She is listening but they are hearing.
Her skin is blistering and sharp with sparks.
Nature
© Chris Mansell
the yellow legged plovers live at the university and stare down
pale students who dare to walk near themwe like themthey are the smartest things around with their brown caps and stiffish know-it-all walk
god, don't they look like the newly arrived so proud to be here, and busy, the plovers should have keys and a whistle on a lanyard each
like brisk brutish phys ed teachers they probably once were
the good soldier
© Chris Mansell
on someone else's place
it seems to him the land
slings distance way out
the dirt is dead and
Naming The Stars
© Joyce Sutphen
This present tragedy will eventually
turn into myth, and in the mist
of that later telling the bell tolling
now will be a symbol, or, at least,
a sign of something long since lost.
Crossroads
© Joyce Sutphen
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.
O Poor People
© Elizabeth Smart
Let us invoke a healthy heart-breaking
Towards the horrible world:
Let us say 0 poor people
How can they help being so absurd,
Misguided, abused, misled?
Blake's Sunflower
© Elizabeth Smart
1Why did Blake say
'Sunflower weary of time'?
Every time I see them
they seem to say
Trying To Write
© Elizabeth Smart
That day i finished
A small piece
For an obscure magazine
I popped it in the box
Hair
© Liam Wilkinson
Now that my hair has grown long
like in those last photographs of John Lennon,sitting on that couch in those jeans, suddenly
assuming the role of middle aged man,bereft of his famous round spectacles,
possibly the coolest forty year old in the world,I will sit and drink tea, perhaps dunk
Earbone
© Liam Wilkinson
She turns to me, her eyes glazed by the wonder
of what she holds in her hand
and asks if we can find the rest.
On Blake Street
© Liam Wilkinson
I dont know if Ill ever see you again,
but if I do, I want you to notice
and nod your head, or even turn away
Going
© Liam Wilkinson
I spent the morning off
like an antiquated fax machine.
You prodded me occasionally,
On The Map
© Liam Wilkinson
When I step off that doorstep,
still in need of the paint
with which I intend to lick it,
and on to that short walk
Djangology
© Liam Wilkinson
Finally alone, I pick up the tennis racquet
and dazzle the walls of our house
with my Django Reinhardt impression.
