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Cry Petey, I See Bards Rounding the Bend

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Cry we all toward places unnamed

Rise above the crested hills

Yell we will - shattering door frames

Plundering thoughts of plovered wills

Tear at the wallpaper - reveal the grain

Ink the slate - etched by wound-dipped quills

Crouch, prowl - ready to pounce on game

Brandishing swords, blaring trumpets shrill

Arching backs, phosphorescent wicks ...

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poempoetpoeticspoetrylifeshoutruncryshriekraucousblether

Hero

Once-upon-a-time, a barman worshipped the Sun.

Worked nights so didn’t see much of it

but in his head he’d got stories of

the Fire God supreme,

Blaze Lord,

vanquishing monsters who'd eat out your dreams.

 

He called the Sun ‘Hero’,

believed it had six pairs of arms,

giant wings of flame

and the handsomest nose in the galaxy.

Made moons blush

and g...

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Q&A With New York Based Poet/ Spoken Word artist- Jon Sands

This is a series of Q&A with some poets I've met across the world.

http://raymondantrobus.blogspot.com/

Enjoy! :-)

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Raymond Antrobuspoetpoetryspoken wordJon SandsPaula Varjackthe art and craft

my superstitions are eating me whole

A  Black cat is just deciding whether to cross my path

A fairy just sprayed me with fairy dust just for a laugh

Stupid cupid just shot me in the bum and I have fallen in love with a tree!

And a dog just peed on me and the tree as well.

 

I went to my friend’s house and their kids put my new shoes on the table

I touched wood to break the curse but I wasn’t able

I thou...

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superstionseatingwholedan hookspoetpoetryalienpoet

Reviewing Poetry

It is something that I have been doing now for the best part of 2 years.

 

At least twice a month an envelope arrives on my doormat addressed to my pseudonym. Right at the moment I see the envelope I find more and more I am breathing a huge sigh (although not of relief). Contained within the unassuming brown packaging could be anything. Of late the contents of these envelopes has tended...

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ReviewingPoetryBooksPoemPoet

About Jamaica

He lights his cigarette, I prepare to share it,

just so his lungs could see less tar. 


He’s in a reflective mood; I can tell by the way
the flame emerged from his lighter
red and tenderly squirmed like a worm in a furnace.

He holds my gaze as the flame faints back in its tank
drags on the cigarette, slowly tilts his head back. 

I ever tell you the story about the mang...

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Poe JazziPiPJamaicaAboutpoetrypoetRaymond Antrobuspoem

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