Monthly Archives: September 2017

Picaroon Poetry – Issue #10 – September 2017

Picaroon Poetry

This month our issues hit double figures, and we have a strange and wonderful line up for it, too – including (but not limited to) smugglers, dinners, literary icons, an octopus, a tapir, pop stars, and the passage of time. Enjoy*!

*(Or whatever it is people do with Picaroon…)

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If walls had ears by Sheila Jacob

I am not a silent poet

We witness in silent ways, swallow voices

into our fabric of stone and mud and dust,

where else do you think the day’s sound

lives once airborne, does it fade like silks,

grow colourless on tapestry for the altar’s

frontal, pure linen for chasubles and copes?

(Fine threads on a chasuble where a needle

stabbed; over, around, tracings of smothered

light, lost resurrections, the chalice brimful.)

We bear the weight of cries from a child’s

sickbed, a woman’s rage;spiders hear it, too,

snag a thread of pain, weave it into corners.

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The Day you fall in Love with a Woman by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

Sun uploads day and for the millionth and first time

you awake out of one dream into one shape written into linen.

When I was a young man I held a flower by the head

little did I realise the rip from its soil was the beauty of it all.

Now as a man I am ancient of loving you in the moment

all we have become is all that we will be in the sepia of old age.

When I was a baby my Father never knew how to hold me

it was always the crib inside mothers and lullabies of blood that held us.

The day you fall in love with a woman the stem of a star explodes

this light holds yesterday like a flower so delicate it will cut sky into red.

Night uploads moon, and stars burst like zinnias in a night garden

your head…

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National Poetry Day Freedom poems part 2: Freedom, the great illusion by Ryan Woods

I am not a silent poet

Freedom, that tangible sense of liberty
The essence of democracy
Free love. Free thought. Free speech
But, are any of us ever really free?
We extol our freedom of choice
But, how many times
has that voice
inside our head said, “No!” “You can’t do that”
And whilst the fat cats, get fatter
and the rich, get richer;
we never see the whole picture
The puzzle is always missing that one piece…
Peace, like freedom
is little more than a fairy tale
It is something
that we reassure our children about,
so that they can sleep at night.
Because, in our dreams, we can be anything we want.
In reality, we are all slaves; to the system.


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National Poetry Day Freedom poems part 2: Freedom, what it means to me… by Gaz the Trailblazer

I am not a silent poet

Obviously I could say it’s being out on my bike, not staying indoors watching tv.
But with everything going on in the world there’s a bigger picture I’m sure more people will see, so I wrote this poem as my understanding, not as my belief.

There’s something more to the structure and I’ll try to keep this brief, it’s an illusion and there are solutions that could ultimately give us relief. 
I know things are bad, very bad indeed.

But we are missing the simplicity while talking about money corruption and greed.

Apparently most people hear the word sovereignty and misunderstand what it means. It’s not about nation states, royalty and the queen. 

Individually It is our ability to disengage from the system by peaceful means.

But you must know the language being used and how it can easily mislead. 

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National Poetry Day Freedom poems part 2: Caged by Liz Magee

I am not a silent poet

She crouched with her head in the corner, not leaving the crate.

Pimpled and raw patches of skin a pathetic reminder of the packs in the freezer.

Growing impatient, they lifted her out.

Wasted muscles would not support her.

They offered her food but it was not the food she knew.

They offered her water but she only understood water that came from a tube.

They offered her the company of her kind but she only knew how to bite.

They were disappointed that their benevolence was wasted and moved on to more rewarding tasks.

On the third day, she scratched at the thatched earth.

Dust rose as she shook her spiny feathers and held her head up.

Looked freedom in the eye.


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