Sleeping | Nancy May
winter moon
saying goodbye
to our sleeping child
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
Poetry Website
Slipstream | Marie MacSweeney
One certain facet
of this island hopping
is the slipstreamy tail
of each ferry
while we lick salt
from our lips,
alter our speech
to receive brine
on our tongues,
note that when a boat
fractures water
there’s a place
where sea is not blue.
Only if we hold ourselves
still in the swell
and spray
of each journey
can we know
if language lies to us,
if candour is buried
on the ocean floor,
if the bony skulls
of whales and dolphins
conceal certainties,
if truth is written
and rewritten
on each tide.
More at http://mariemacsweeney.com.
Anonymity | Ananya S. Guha
Winter’s night, the town
is asleep, even the drunk’s
ululation is silenced by the
cold. Sporadically, crackers burst, a signature of euphoria
downed suddenly by an onrushing wind, and night’s
wiliness. In the room, the temperature swings like a mood. I
contemplate the whims and the fluctuating ways of the world.
Quiet. In this hushed mood
what else is left but anonymity, curse of wilderness, the barking of stray dogs?
Living… | Ananya S. Guha
Temperature below zero
novelty for a town not used
to minuses. I contemplate
winter, summer living
in these hills rain-kissed
summer-washed with plums and cherries. But in this cold as the media rants about the cold wave
my blanket of warmth are the peopled roads, mystique of warmth, caps, mufflers and layers of woolens. In rasping tones we admonish cold and winter.
Living has a strange music, a rhythm. In seasonal whirlpools we
stuntedly grow.
I’m Just Going Cranium Scouting up on Ahead of You All | Paul Tristram
My moments of solitude are anything but quiet,
there are far too many distractions,
noisily and colourfully waiting
just around the corner from the normal, grey world.
Nowadays I’m as selective as I can be about
which image footprints I let wander through my mind
…it all becomes part (Like it or not!) of the overall collage.
I can bend an hour into three
like a silversmith with soft moonlight.
Boredom when not impatience
is mostly reserved for teenagers and unhappy people.
The train of thought is an experience as well as a journey
and as wonderful as books and movies are,
they are still only beautiful snapshots
of the unchartered magic forever waiting to be explored
…I’ll see you in there, catch me if you can?
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Poetry Trips | Ananya S. Guha
My greying hair sticking out
like an ugly wart is actually
a make up for my childhood
years, now distorted, but still
growing up on crutches. So the face is the same, though
the body although overgrown is still like remote sensing catching
those early bones and structure. Now I want to further grow and throw out
all the remnants of the past to be an old man, coughing and withering like sick men in hospital beds. The problem is that childhood catches up with mirages and dreams that break, make even and then disappear. So the only option is to be real about age, and the senior citizen certificate. Poetry, however, is a foil to sudden mists and wavelengths
which outmanoeuvre truths or realities. Then take a book and read, eat, sleep. No grandchildren. Do the homework for your daughter and take poetry trips.
Midnight, Christmas Eve | Marie MacSweeney
I step outside at midnight,
air drenched with woodsmoke,
dash of peat, a single cow
complaining, her troubled breath
weaving over the low hedges,
all birds tucked away
but there is movement still,
some shy creature wrapping itself
away in unassailable darkness,
and in the sky above
galaxies have gathered,
stars turns on star,
silver glitter and tinsel streamers
tumble down to the waiting earth,
the entire universe
assembles around my questions,
and I am drunk on raw ice.