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Dust Digger
whatever culture loss is the same
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- 861 reads
Love is
This is a poem written by my son when he was ten. It has been published.
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- 420 reads
The Death of Love
He took a sword to love Smiled as he carved her like a Sunday roast Thin slices that were fed to the dogs of lust And then afterwards he felt hungry...
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- 1014 reads
Stop
Arrest this love! I demand the immediate Cessation of feeling Wanting, needing Lock it up Throw the key Into the deepest drain I'm disinclined To...
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- 853 reads
MOODS OVER A SEPTEMBER MOON III
A MEMOIR
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- 238 reads
It's so cold...
The freezing weather creates problems
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- 655 reads
Kaph
A colleague remarked humorously of an earlier memory in which the termagant Xanthippe -the wife of Socrates is making the oracle known to him through the oval murmurings, the art of the gentle coaxing in vexation, of bringing out midwifery. Immediately Anthus made it known that the oracle of the Pythian Priestess was insincere to the art of the dialectic as it diabolically reduced Socrates to an assumed vindication: ?Know thy self?.
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- 486 reads
the Golden years
In memory of May, who died christmas 2003
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- 401 reads
Howard Dean
The mysterious wife of Howard Dean, is this another ploy?
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- 661 reads
Dear Patience
if you could... you wood, if you know, blow...
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- 644 reads
Around the world
getting away from it all
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- 461 reads
What am I?
What am I? I am an old woman, reminiscing on my departed youth. I'm a tired housewife worrying where my husband is tonight. I'm a Rabbi, pondering...
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- 833 reads
Gheist
Perhaps an entry for this 'Ghosts' contest?
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- 1084 reads
A bit of fun
Ghosts Competition Entry (1022 words)
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- 432 reads
Winter Zhounds
The coldness of New England, the hard-workers and their realism, their faces lined with deep thoughts.
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- 696 reads
Colour poems
I hate this poem, but I almost feel an obligation to it, because it was the lucky one that got published. I still hate it.
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- 755 reads
Carol
Whale, beached out of the soothing rough of the waves, do you weep? For I grow under your thick skin, like a lily-pod. There is no time for you to be...
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- 967 reads
Our
Without rain, our garden seems to sag, the middle of an older bed. Innocence, a child with a purple ball thrown over the hedge, knocks at the back...
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- 945 reads
Boxed
My summer would fit Crushed up small in a box, Insignificant in its coffin, If it had blisters and chlorine, From swimming in my shoes One day, after...
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- 715 reads
Scents of Summer
I asked, quite simply, That I should have that chance. You were unexpected. Betrayal, almost, in your smile, And I remembered Those tangerine...
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- 645 reads