Daily Archives: December 23, 2015

I wished upon a star by John Alwyine-Mosely

I am not a silent poet

When was that night of Christmas lights
in streets shine-wet, the splash
of footsteps, windows bright for the curious
and you, hand cold and rough
as I tasted wood smoke of fireside happiness
Our conversation was as empty
as the puddles, just a reflection
that vanished as the car swished
by letting you make a joke about snow
I wanted to say ‘fuck’ but you had.

Now even the roses on the bird-cage
are as plastic as the voices
that made me invisible,
like cast off toys in attics,
then dogs barking
said it was time to kiss the cross,
keep eyes cold,
like rows of your brightest books,
but outside leaves rustle in the wind
and distant birds dot across the sky
saying all that matters.


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5.10 a.m. by Dominic Albanese

I am not a silent poet

woke up grumpy n sad
of places I been
people I knew….and know
hungry bears
die off bees
birds n other creatures loosing places
safety….absolute fuckwad dipshit morons
running for office
excess consumption…..material greed
never even mind paper stack assholes who
breed on other people’s “investments”
sick to my soul
every artist…..no matter who
use what is already here
wanna make statues go da junkyard
use ole bumpers n doors
wanna paint….mix your own
writers save paper…be aware of waste
this is indeed our only place
straight up…..sustain
not complain
we are in a process
of destroying our rock in space
smug face
callin em self “rich”
so….I must….for a few days
sort of pull in my own horns
bassoons…baboons…..chitter chatter snarl
moan….decry…..I am scared
not afraid to admit it
between hate n fear n profit
I sit here
peace on earth good will towards men
a puddle…

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Egypt in Two Halves by Karen Jane Cannon

I am not a silent poet

There is something unpleasant lurking here—

we wrinkle noses over gritty cups of Turkish coffee,

the air rich with incense and open sewers.

How can a country


as beautiful as this

be so full of shit? We twist through crowds

of traders selling bright rolls of papyrus

from dark-lit shops, essential oils, Egyptian cotton,

glass perfume bottles, our ears buzzing

with music and the call to prayer.


This country of two halves—

of men rushing to wash our hands

at filthy public toilets in Sharm,


of the beach at Naama Bay, all parasolled deckchairs

and cocktails, the sea full of broken glass,


the grinning boy police officer in khaki fatigues

proudly holding a submachine tight across his chest


and the desert— the empty miles

where Moses once cut laws from rock,

is littered with faeces and coffee cups.


No surprise when we visited a…

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