Daily Archives: February 9, 2018

Post-Truth by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

I am not a silent poet

found poem from https://blog.oxforddictionaries.com/2016/11/16/word-of-the-year-2016-shortlist/

Adulting the hours away,
getting the show on the road,
trying to recreate hygge
in my own home. I avert my eyes
from the talking heads on TV;
coulrophobia was always my weakness.
Now I’m justified, clowns juggle
alt-right balls, for the cruel
amusement of the deluded masses.

I thought I was doing well, scaling
the glass cliff, not looking down.
Latinx-looking and female,
the Brexiteers are gunning for me.
I’d expected vertigo but not
bullets. Maybe a chatbot, programed
insurgent, could realign our forces and
being woke shake out our damned
trances, to fight for a new day, post haste.

View original post


Impact by Bernadette Howley

I am not a silent poet

Minutes after impact
they are lifting broken bodies
from the rubble.

Dead or alive
they will be accounted for,
cared for, wept for,
prayed for.

Grey air chokes and coats
the throats of the rescued,
the rescuers
and those who mourn.

Helicopters return,
chop the air
and chuck their barrel bombs
at new targets.

And the helmets
track the action,

start over.

In Westminster,
in council chambers up and down the land,
and in the Mairie , Calais,
the corridors are choked, too.

Crowbars won’t shift this dross.
They get jammed and bent,
then abandoned
and abandonment becomes
the solution…

… and children stay lost
in the ruins
of kafka-esque rhetoric.

View original post

No-One Knew His Last Name by Natalia Spencer

I am not a silent poet

i.m. Sam Lowe

The first time I saw you by the bins I was a visitor
That stance was like a young girl luring quick silver
from a mine with her beauty even though
your dog squat on the lawn as we talked.

Based on the soft baritone answering
bird soprano
I moved in hoping for peace
an end to bedsores & grief

The second time was through Georgian wired glass
you came in a Santa hat
late at night in party mode my door stayed closed
I knew my worth was more than this

The third time you offered greased sausage in a bag
your face a drooling cider pool would-be-kiss
The fourth time I gave you shade under a black garden umbrella
sunlight made your skin crawl

The last we met in a lane
one well-travelled by both of us
your jaw steroid plump held up
the Pierrot…

View original post 59 more words