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the Golden years
In memory of May, who died christmas 2003
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- 398 reads
Howard Dean
The mysterious wife of Howard Dean, is this another ploy?
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- 658 reads
Dear Patience
if you could... you wood, if you know, blow...
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- 643 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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- 830 reads
Gheist
Perhaps an entry for this 'Ghosts' contest?
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- 1081 reads
A bit of fun
Ghosts Competition Entry (1022 words)
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- 428 reads
Winter Zhounds
The coldness of New England, the hard-workers and their realism, their faces lined with deep thoughts.
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- 693 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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- 963 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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- 942 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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- 642 reads
S
i write my 's's backwards sometimes, just to feel the irregularity funny: maybe laughing at myself in silence.
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- 1007 reads
Phone Home
I will call you today From a phonebox somewhere Revelling in the anonymity. I have a quarter in my pocket But it will work Despite being foreign...
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- 595 reads
Politically Scandalous
This story contains Drugs, sexual content, or strong language. It is not for minors. Protect yourself From my flagrant badness- It may be infectious...
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- 594 reads
Backstage, Theatre Royal, York
sometimes i feel i sink underneath the swell of theatre - moments in the dark, and on yellow-lit stairs, glass doors.
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- 894 reads
A measure of love
You measure love, Dripping, like time, in crystal droplets By messages left, pin marks in the door. 'I'm so popular,' you told me, Not believing it...
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- 649 reads
Yellow Buddlea
It's an exercise we did in English. You get given a flower and then you have to Put Your Flower Down On Paper.
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- 632 reads
For the train
I am waiting At the station For a train which Hasn't come. It is late (Too late, can't turn Back, forwards, for me) And my mother has Strict words...
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- 626 reads