Don't be.

Your prickliness is amusing. Grow a pair.


Calm your tits. Thrilled to bits,

I smile a smile.

Then I smile some more.

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been away too long


been away too long

missing the sound

of breaking waves

and seagull songs

the curving coast

high tide smiling

undying gifts of love

touch of skin on stone

winter sand in shoes

over new footbridge

under old clouds

following in footsteps

taken as a child

knowing every inch

from hill to shiny sea

park and playground

eyeing blue horizons

empty yea...

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Also by Colsibabes:

I'm here | Old Mother Hubbard | Lowku Supper | therapy | The Lowku Arena | boxes | headshot | paperlust |

a new love

A New Love Story

I had stopped at the rural cafe for a coffee it was a day when I was

not feeling a day over seventy she was around fifty and incredible

young her waste was that of a waif at the beginning of life.

She was so beautiful and she smiled inviting me to sit by her table

 and I was only drinking coffee. I told her amusing stories of my life,

mostly lies- and she laughed...

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Also by jan oskar hansen :

the bus trip | a reflective moment | not a writing day | not a writing day | end of democracy | forgotten lives |

Two short poems about Incarceration (or not)

entry picture

Doing time


In a cell far from the gate

And outer worlds beyond

He’d spend his time instead of wait

Thinking of those he’d wronged


And for it all had no regret

So sought no conscience clear

Far better to recoup their debt

Than be enslaved to fear 



Not doing time


When vengeance done

And tormented rested

What might be the prize?

To lay a...

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Tags: Incarceration

Also by David Moore:

Who only England know | Mill House Cottage | Moon washed | Temper tongue | Slabs |

Do you need me?

~~Do you need me?

My head is getting heavier
With every second you’re gone
Still feel your goodbye kiss
It’s printed on my lips

How can I be sure?
You haven’t left me for her
Losing sight of you
Starting to feel a little blue

You say you’re too busy
Yet for them you seem free
 All I want is to know you
Tell me how you feel

They’re telling me to give up
That you don’t deserve ...

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Also by The Dumb Genius:

She doesn't see | All she wanted | Ready to fight | I have found a place |


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She’s the one we could rely on

when things were sorely scarce,

to always find a way to get by

when it went from bad to worse.


She’s the one true matriarch,

the gel at the center of all,

never too far away from us;

never more than a call.


Sacrificing all she had,

for us, her flesh and blood,

always standing second place

to the family’s common good.



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10,000 lux

Broken S.A.D light

Put to use

Feel OK



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Also by Stu Buck:

£1 | pang | Arlo #1 + #2 |

Written In The Sky

An early summer sky
peppered with clouds,
like the art of calligraphy
revealing an opening chapter.
And me, transformed
by the warmth on my face
illuminating my skin,
breathing fire into my bones.
Transporting me far from winter
gone, into a season sent to
recover me from darkness,
and guide me to the light
that I once knew.

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Also by Helen:

A Lover's Touch |


he eats an orange
every night
before going
to bed

early morning
fades into
the stagnant
ache of summer
he waits

the pitted reflection
of the kitchen window
parts like skin
along the edge
of his knife

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Tags: oranges


Home from home  motorhome

Eric has cashed in his assets

greedy for tea rooms    vistas

dawns and sunsets in shorts

(we're bloody good sports)


stick like glue in our pod on the move

in the groove

going north west south east

as we please it's like a disease!

no sooner a sneeze than we make the decision.


Home from home        motorhome

motorway strip searche...

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Tags: travel

Also by ray pool:


No Answer

Should I knock

On the door

With my fist



Should I Rat

A tat tat

With my list

Of questions



Should I pause

Do I want

An Answer

I’m not sure


I should go now

I’m quite sure

Unclench my fist

And let this door



On questions

That will not

Be answered


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entry picture

Coming apart like stitches
Memories break off
As you grow older
Dissolving into skeletons
Drained of fact.

Stripping emotions
Into stark instrumentals
Confusing Sian
The first girl you kissed
With Helen, the second.

Diminishing the 8 years
Working at Great Universal
Your first job
When then you wondered
If it would ever end.

Padlocked in broken gasps
All the way out

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(Fed up with the barrage of bad news, disruption and violence)


A grassy knoll,

favourite book,

a trout stream close

should I care to look,

buttercups, daisies

carpet my feet,

new born lambs

squabble at the teat,

ewes stare blankly

and amble by

like fallen clouds

from the azure sky,

the gold of rape

dark green oak

ash in bloom

time for a soak,


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When I of solitude's measure drink

And of your precious person think,

I wish my lonely loving cup

Was with your own sweet self filled up.


But hearts' desires with passion sought

Are always better won than bought

So I consent to be content

With consolations I am sent.


I live this life with you in mind

And from your treasured image find

Sweet solace for an emp...

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entry picture


Not the TV host with a brazen giggle
Winding up the gormless on ‘Blind Date’
Or tugging tears on ‘Surprise Surprise’
Nor the glittering star, clutching champagne
In morose interviews after Bobby’s death
Her grief bubbling up
Pressing behind aching eyes

But the fragile, stick thin girl
Trembling on stage
Warmed only by a single
And cruel spotlight
Picking out every contour

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Tags: Cilla Black.,David Subacchi.Welsh Poetry,Liverpool poetry

QUI ES IN CAELIS (...who art in Heaven...)

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I'm amused by a number of friends who delight in ridiculing Christianity.  Certainly they question the veracity of other religions but ridicule is reserved for Christianilty.

And when I ask myself, “Why?” I reach the conclusion that it's because it's easy; it’s a cheap shot.

Christianity has its zealots, of course, and its wisdom is often questionable but it doesn’t indulge in the types...

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"Oh you are a mucky kid"

entry picture

Our Cilla (your Cilla) is dead!

For Gods sake what is

this world coming to?

A dead Cilla is no Cilla at all.

Jesus Christ Almighty. Amen.

words and foto Tommy Carroll

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Performance (notes to my self)


Engage in preamble,

And ramble a bit until you see fit to begin.

Draw deep, close your eyes to speak.


Begin with thin withered lines,

Telling tales of times when life was worth living.

Don’t shuffle into nostalgia.

Still, throw in that line that tells how you used to be a free spirt,

Not a bogged down middle aged git

Unfit to wield a mic and talk like this,


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Also by dazzer:

Late Meetings |

Elijah The Prophet

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Elijah - the Lord of storms, 
Dew, hail, rain and thunder,
Today rides a chariot.
The Prophet with an effort
Breathe the autumn.

The days are shorter
The nights are longer
Warm days linger.
Two hours Elijah has taken.
By August He was awaken.

Water becomes overgrown
In the lakes and local ponds.
Our Lord agrees and nods, 
Summer has no more odds, 
It can't argue with Gods


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Tags: Ilijah,Lord,Sunday

Also by Larisa Rzhepishevska:

Elijah The Prophet |


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I slipped out of


When Thatcher

Digged in her heels


Ripped the heart out of my life

“Can you spare a cigarette please?”


I slipped onto this park bench

When Cameron rode into town

Guns a blazing

“I’m taking the poor down “

“Spare 50p for a can”


Spare a thought

 For those ...

Born, growing, hoping

This is a fair world


And then,


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Form and function

Speaking of form and function. Helen, on here,
recently made a very respectable attempt at a
`modern` version of the Sestina. 

It caused me to look at Ezra Pound`s version of
the form for comparison. (this is it below).

A sestina is basically six stanzas of six lines each
normally followed...

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Two Formal Poems (re-posts)


                                        Upon the Winds of Change


Upon the winds of change our courses flew

And us across the heaving seas did send.

It mattered not what dreams each would pursue

For Fate decreed what we could not portend:

That once again our raging hearts should blend

In Youth’s enduring spirit which does flow

Between us still, steel bond of lustful f...

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echolocate (08/01/2015)

a magazine filled with glasnost bullets;
a body drawn in dots.
a truth cut deeper and harder
stillness painted in red and black.
placidity before pain
lucidity in the rain
washing away ten thousand drops of me
all bearing my name
none bearing my face.

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Tags: wash away noir dames black and red jack and queen


entry picture
Poem 86 of 230:  ROBOTS 

In factories,
    I've spent sometime
Working machines
    Whose goods should rhyme -
Moulding machines,
    Whose plastic shots
Are sorted by

Well, now robots -
    Before ‘twas folks:
Process workers...
    Employment hoax?

(C) David Franks 2003; from - 

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Extreme Northern Pastimes

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Two aging northern fellows met one Tuesday afternoon

At a quiet coffee house in Pontefract,

And while dunking their biscotti in their macchiato froth,

Both decided that they’d make a sporting pact.

For they wanted to revive “pig-hopping” as a local game,

One of many Yorkshire pastimes full of charm,

Where competitors retracted either foot in headlong race

With a pig tucked fir...

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I still remember the meagre collection
- shirley bassey tihuana brass neil diamond's greatest hits -
and a couple of 45s
- one of which - tommy steele's confession - we never played -

but we would stack the rest
and dance until they dropped
- then dance some more

flared trousers swinging
- the green patterned pile carpet -
and my sisters osmond lp

later I asked my mother
what she did in the sixties
and where ...

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I am Cassandra

I found out yesterday that all this time

I've wasted my focus on things I am not

For I am a poet however unorthodox and unsound

I am a poet, whether I want it or not


So yesterday I began to write

My words in short phrases and lines

I ignored punctuation and laughed at rhymes

I made a point to trust my mind


Now I know, bad poet or not, 

A poet I am for better or...

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