Daily Archives: October 4, 2017

The Examination of Time by Rob Cullen

I am not a silent poet

We are the explorers
Of time.
In which
Our watchfulness
A revelation
An awareness
Of life’s turning wheel.
We the silent sentinels
Examine time
The glue that alloys
That anneals and binds
The eternal tick
Hum and thrum
Of the Atomic.
Oblivious to the inhalation
And exhalation of breath
We breathe
A measurement of time.
And dream itself
Three thirty
In the darkness
A stop time
In slow time
When nightmares wake
And temperatures drop
A degree or two
And old people’s
Grip on time
Is loosed,
They leave
And are left.
Slow time.
Stop time.
Time to wake
Time to go
Slow time
Stop time.
One day I found
Myself wearing
Two watches
I am unaware when
I strapped them on
There is a third
Too delicate to be worn
The Gold watch
Given to an old man
On finishing
Stop time.

The first watch

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The Patient Has An Undiagnosed Placenta Praevia by Natalia Spencer

I am not a silent poet

I have revived an old man who pressed the bell & was looking
through frosted glass of Death’s hallway
& I walked home smaller past a stone ingress
of a pauper’s graveyard

It’s not much to look at ground unkempt
nettles for bees, a choking lilac set
on a jumbled mound of dog rose
wrapping bodies who had no name

On the next round I see a woman swollen like a rose hip
she has come far although there’s nothing
to pin point why her child is born blue no breath no chance
as we slice & stitch more grief in

And I sleepwalk home her cool limp shape follows
she wears my stethoscope a red ribbon for a Welsh man
who swore labour should not end
in a small box & black footprints


Author’s note:

Adam Kay spent six years training and another six years on ward rotation…

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Estate by Neil Fulwood

I am not a silent poet

This pushchair, lying on its side
in the empty 7am street, wheels
broken, fabric ripped, is not a symbol.

This TV aerial, detached from the chimney,
bracket eaten through by rust,
is not a symbol. It scrapes
against the roof tiles in the wind.

This car, SORNed for months,
one side panel a different colour,
is not a symbol. Nor is the one on blocks,
wheels gone and the windscreen shattered.

This ruined front yard is not a symbol.
This unpainted door is not a symbol.
This pile of mail is not a symbol.

It has rained incessantly, meaningfully,
for two nights. The estate is indifferent.


Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, where he still lives and works. His debut collection, ‘No Avoiding It’, is published by Shoestring Press.

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Hugh by Li

I am not a silent poet

“Life is too short to be living somebody else’s dream,”
–Hugh Hefner

A titanic red velveteen heart

Is strewn with pumped smackers

and laced cheeks.

Cleaving the rouged organ

lies a shriveled john

sporting a Viagran Pole.

Boy whose daddy

said boys will be boys.

Boy who was told that

girls were his toys.

Boy who was trained

to pay is to get.

Boy who believes

bunnies are pets.

Girls whose mommies

and daddies call pretty,

say when you have looks

you don’t have to be witty.

Girls who have boyfriends

for the 5th grade dance.

Girls who got boob jobs

as graduation presents.

Girls whose first blow jobs

Were their fingers down their throats

Snagging gram’s ex-lax

And wearing baggy coats.

Girls who believe it won’t hurt that much

Just pop a Xanax, it’s your best crutch

So what if he’s ugly and smells like old man


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