Daily Archives: March 3, 2019

An Orange for Christmas, by Mandy Pannett

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

As tenant of a land whose lease is shifting,
full of small print, I’ll opt for a simple hamlet
and live the life of a pebble instead of a rock.
Such simplicity, I hope, will bring in a puff
of clean, new air; no longer will dilemmas
multiply like spinach or split a shade of green

into a thousand hues. Mine will be a simple green,
not jungle-green or artichoke, not a bloom shifting
with swathes of algae on pools. No loaded dilemma
will find a spare room anywhere in my hamlet –
spiders and cobwebs will be gone in a puff.
My green will be seaweed, salty, crusted on a rock.

And consider Peter the Fisherman’s rock.
Will it prevail against hell’s gates? How green
he must have felt at cock-crow, self-image a puff,
a spit in the wind. A house of stone on shifting
sand must always sink…

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The Stabbing, by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

“He was a difficult birth but his death, the nature of it kills me each day, over and over”
Anon

Over possessed houses where chairs lay in ghost sheets
a platoon of geese flew in a broken V
there is beauty in the Badlands,
there is an outline of John
stab-red and rain pink.

Over council-grey favelas a helicopter looks for three boys
they are found in the glue woods hiding in infra-reds.
There is an outline of John’s murderers
all of them are zombies and zombies
do not run they are dead and alive.

Back to John, last night he watched night make the reservoir grey –
a man made this he thought, but not the sun, not the bloody sky.

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The Stabbing

Peace Poet Antony Owen

woman in black long sleeved cardigan Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

“He was a difficult birth but his death, the nature of it kills me each day, over and over”

Anon

Over possessed houses where chairs lay in ghost sheets

a platoon of geese flew in a broken V

there is beauty in the Badlands,

there is an outline of John

stab-red and rain pink.

Over council-grey favela’s a helicopter looks for three boys

they are found in the glue woods hiding in infa-reds.

There is an outline of John’s murderers

all of them are zombies and zombies

do not run they are dead and alive.

Back to John, last night he watched night make the reservoir grey –

a man made this he thought, but not the sun, not the bloody sky.

View original post