Monday, June 26, 2017

Gone over ~ Tim Youngs

That bare patch
where you stood
playing catch

is still there
brought to mind
by the knock

on our door.
A child for
his ball back.

Soirée ~ Tim Youngs

The plastic coaster:

its pattern obscured

by cigarette burns

and Mother’s anger

Drift ~ Tim Youngs

red spots
on Dad’s white Cortina

in our Bedfordshire driveway

blown from the Sahara

with home counties rain

Tim Youngs’ poems have appeared in several print and online magazines, including The Interpreter’s House, The Journal, Lighthouse, London Grip, Poetry Salzburg Review and Staple

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Minds Under Arrest ~ Paul Waring

they chart choreography
and mechanism of moves             
then thunder down doors
at the dark side of dawn
with barking mouths and feet

it's in their dna
to remove fibres of yours
distilling essence for clues
from every nook and cranny

scour your sink for germs
from scrubbed hard drives
of mind   words and images
lurking deep behind eyes

strip search sheets for signs
of wrong dreams  examine
soiled linen of thought take
some away for questioning

On Nights ~ Paul Waring

Darkness draws curtains
in bible black ink. Bat clouds
suffocate corners of sky

as another canvas dies
moon magnets drag corneas
of shuttered eyes towards sleep

where memory knits
rows of experience
that scarf into morning.

Memory Thief ~ Paul Waring

the past slips in and out from
cubby-holes of consciousness
keeping the known
from the knowing
dropping clues
onto tips of tongues
agonisingly close to recall        
details shredded by thieving
magpies of memory, now
abandoned like party guests
waiting to be introduced.

Paul Waring, a retired clinical psychologist lives in Wirral, UK. He once designed menswear and, in the 1980's, was a singer/songwriter in several Liverpool bands. His work has been published in Reach Poetry and will feature in forthcoming issues of Eunoia Review, Amaryllis and Northampton Poetry.

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Poem ~ Buket Ozgel

I have an imaginary dog.
He is only around in the presence of dark souls.
The moment I hear the woof woof sound,
I produce a bell from my pocket and show that
it is not good to condition oneself
to sheer animosity beforehand.

Save that I do not ring the bell.

 Buket is Turkish who is now writing in English.

None ~ Buket Ozgel

That is your mouth
That is your chin
Your pretty chin
Your kissable chin

Those are your eyes
Diffidently looking around
Then staring into my heart
And those currently blind