3 Viva Pathways
By poetjude
General collection
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- 3764 reads
A Friday Morning Rally Poem for the Dream I Never Had
When the heart has been readied, I know they will come Jung opened the window, a scarbaeid flew in. Since I boxed away the things you left behind,...
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- 1014 reads
Anonymous Artists
And here on Oostende’s pallid beach They drew a circle in the sand With one word all could understand A sign within a doubter’s reach They came from Lille and Rome and all
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- 1627 reads
Art Class in Brookwood Cemetery
Leaving the Cemetery Pale road to sketch the headstones strewn like irregular verbs across this mirror of opposites. We have cautious connections; the boy Baron who died in his car-seat
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- 1971 reads
At the fission reactor
Like a child you have learned to read these moments the footnotes of life’s thesis. You have stumbled upon who we are (and may become) in the uncertainty of atoms and the unchanging now.
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- 1117 reads
Borrowing Children
I am still undecided whether I want kids myself!
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- 1826 reads
Brahma Tea Museum (Draught Free)
tea poem original
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- 3267 reads
Bridge Street
It’s not like the movies, more like the gospel. Malnourished hearts fed a strange kind of food. Words are a scalpel, a scar from the past. I watch...
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- 1483 reads
Burning the Plough
A good life we had through hard work
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- 1484 reads
Camellia Sinensis Love Song
first draught...another tea poem I regret
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- 1568 reads
Cathedral Crib
Thee plaster figures, minimal, modern on thy knees before the crib and after midnight mass, an exodus trails remnant candlewax.
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- 1538 reads
Cold in Summer
I am cold in summer this room gets little sun
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- 1725 reads
Dans nos obscurités
Blue night party, sloped into gardens small groups gathered under flares; glasses clinked, voices hushed down. I moved along paths shiny with stones - pocked stars, barn owl white.
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- 1763 reads
Desire Still for One Soft Moment
Sometimes, desire is inadmissible attraction anonymous and hidden from view; in the flowerbed of the furthest corner of a garden gentle delivery...
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- 631 reads
Forgiveness
Those whited sepulchres would never let me through the ruck
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- 1234 reads
I Can't Feel The Guns
Shooting that occurred on boxing day 2007 next to my block on the Aylesbury Estate. The body lay unnoticed for more than 24 hours. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7164679.stm
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- 1471 reads
Incurable
Your pain is incurable. Abandoned by every lover who felt the intemperate shadow cast by eyes that know there is no medicine. At night you fetch juice from the refrigerator,
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- 2609 reads
Keble College
Dare I admit that I am still lonely and vagrant fingers tap the inside of my skull? Restlessly tango from foot to foot. tightened tendons leave no...
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- 1815 reads
Lamentations
This city, once filled with people became a widow, now finally a corpse. This road, a string of asphalt, dangles like a stray limb from an autopsy table.
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- 2699 reads
Last One to Leave on the Last Day of Term
Things will happen when we are away a new coat of floor polish, the piano will be tuned.
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- 1272 reads
London Snow
I went to sleep alone yet woke to find you next to me. The white room was filled with an unnatural brilliant light as you broke the morning news, framed at the bedroom window like an arctic fox.
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- 1503 reads
My boyfriend is converting me to free-range eggs
I am becoming an emancipator of Duracell chickens
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- 1399 reads
Never forget smoking
The art of failing is easy to master, and after the first time I rolled a cigarette, the skill remained, honed to a production line perfection of...
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- 3375 reads
Ockham Mill
It took me too long to understand the sharp angst of winter; the frozen canals, the loss of life to a deep
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- 1421 reads
On Paddington
She stops by the bronze, an instant brief and bitter as espresso, makes her sign ...
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- 1248 reads
Professor Jones Lectures on Death and Dying
There are many kinds of death and each one a child's. He quotes from Lucretius When death is, we are not at his right hand I drift through the last taboo unafraid of expiation.
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- 1299 reads
Prospecting
By this river, where you were born, I saw you panning the silt of your sadness for something tangible. Perhaps, you thought the dead left nothing the...
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- 604 reads
Running from Shame
This is what you have feared too long opening old maps to see a pawn shop for freedom selling bottles at eight a.m. You can run from the secret desecration with shame’s sad flotsam
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- 1445 reads
Schadenfreude
The paper seller’s ragged call like John the Baptist prophesying price of oil lost homes, job woes lopsided spreadsheets Your bad news is gleeful good those with immune plans survive
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- 2181 reads
Solar Days of Fruit
Solar days have come and everywhere there is fruit little round suicides of morello cherries and damsons spattered on the pavements.
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- 1822 reads
Stargazey
I'm stargazey and you have now gone nebula, a cloud of waste freshens my forgotten depths with a wild-cat cry.
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- 1529 reads
Sunday on the beautiful doomed Aylesbury Estate
The rain pools on the roof before dripping twelve storeys down the stairwell; slowly like Sunday’s sorrow on the heart.
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- 1674 reads
The Hermit of Subiaco
reposted
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- 3 comments
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- 1384 reads
The Last Grandparent
I thought my faith superior to that funereal talk of being together and the dead dog snapping at your heels. I am not laughing at your simple faiths today. O God
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- 1706 reads
The Silence of the Bees
Last night I had a dream in which we were scientists. The world was falling apart and people were looking to us for answers. The disintegration started with the honey bees.
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- 2047 reads
The silence of the bees revisited
One night I had a dream in which we were scientists. The world was falling apart and people were looking to us for answers. The disintegration...
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- 685 reads
This Coma
My world behind eyelids is shapeless now there’s a dark wall no thing can breach. Empty, bloodless spheres ascend interminable sleep. You whisper...
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- 878 reads
Wadi Cherith
Ravens came at dawn with bread and meat
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- 1762 reads
Winter of Discontent
How I covet the stucco fronted lives; soft lighting, desirable postcode of those who had chances and better parents. The acerbic brew spilled from my cups filled pages with resentments.
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- 1676 reads
Blackberry Jam (revisited)
You said the perfume's to die for; I'd die for less, but remember holding tired onto my father's back in late September. It was a strange brand of...
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- 1111 reads
A pilgrimage of sorts
Just as you round the corner on the ascent of Mount Pleasant, the huge, concrete circle comes into view. She is crowned with barbs, crouched and...
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- 573 reads