Poetry Blog by Leo

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on Winter's Wolf (Tue, 10 Jan 2017 08:49 am)

M.C. Newberry on By the Thames (Wed, 30 Mar 2016 03:35 pm)

Stu Buck on At the gates of Hades (Sun, 20 Mar 2016 10:46 am)

raypool on The retiree (Tue, 15 Mar 2016 07:57 pm)

M.C. Newberry on The retiree (Tue, 15 Mar 2016 03:56 pm)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on I have a letter from you (Sun, 13 Mar 2016 05:09 pm)

M.C. Newberry on Belief and Knowledge (Thu, 10 Mar 2016 10:19 pm)

Stu Buck on Tattoo (Tue, 8 Mar 2016 01:25 pm)

Laura Taylor on Tattoo (Tue, 8 Mar 2016 11:13 am)

Patricio LG on Writing poetry is harder than you think (Fri, 19 Feb 2016 06:04 pm)

Winter's Wolf

The sharp-toothed skirmisher of January past

passes its knives by her cheeks;

the hillside heralds its shredded brown visage,

winter’s wolf howls the bitter conquest of the moors.

 

The season of concealing crowns and faces,

of cautious feet across the maze of wilted souls

to reach the lone tree, grey lightning petrified in time.

Frozen into the bark are age and time.

 

...

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depressionironylosslovenaturewinter

The Pretender

Pretender in my birth-suit;

living and yet not quite alive.

Every other guy

can thrive just fine.

What they are

is obvious to the eye.

Easily categorised,

flowing with the tide.

Body and stature

matches soul and mind.

Jaded and green-eyed,

wishing it were mine.

Every moment ensnared

within the wrong design.

The pretending must end;

I’ve served my time.

...

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gendertransgressive poetry

I'd like you to like me

I'd like you to like me

and I'd like you to know,

Id doesn't like me and Superego doesn't know where to go.

I've planned a trip to where the tulips grow -

find a vein, push a plunger, let the psychotropes flow.

 

I know you don't like me

and we've nowhere to go.

Ego doesn't know what to do and Id has hate to sow.

I'd like you to, I'd like to oblige you to throw

away m...

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depressionDrugsinternal strugglesurrealism

By the Thames

entry picture

It’s the final burial ground –

the place where they go to die;

lapping dirt-brown waves;

tourist couples bidding goodbye.

Ships slicing through soundlessly,

as smog adorns the sky.

A pigeon hobbles by on its stump,

while a gull lets out a mournful cry;

beside benches, an old man holds out his cup;

on the cobblestones stands a solitary bride.

A homeless girl leans agai...

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HomelessnessinequalityLondonmodern lifesuicide

Do you love me now?

Do you love me now?

After I’ve gone to such lengths to straighten out

the kinks and fill in the chinks in my armour.

I try to smile and look respectable,

though it’s my reputation on the line and not yours,

and here the line is curved and squiggly.

It’s not just god, faith and honour anymore,

though I’m willing to try, even if the cost is terrible.

 

Do you love me now?

...

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coming outfamilylove

The first muse

She was always picturesque in the garden

and the bright pop of colour amidst the grey city

In his words he tried to capture her beauty,

with objective distance, where she was ardent

She coaxed out something within him,

reignited the flames where the chandelier had grown dim

She soothed the heaving seas of his fears

and knew how to brush away his tears

With a firm but intell...

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artistslosspoetry museromance

On poetry

As a poet I ought

to devote a bit more care to my craft,

yet my rhymes are a crime

as I try to fit ‘find’ with ‘grime’.

Is it because I have too little time,

or just that I’m too lazy to count out the right syllables

and try to pass by with half-rhymes existing only in accents risible

along with a helpful helping of ‘artistic license’

with the vain hope that everything – so...

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poempoetry

At the gates of Hades

entry picture

I said, my love, I’ve paid my dues,

the ferryman awaits,

though he does not wait for you.

We sat in silence as he guided his ship,

slicing through the slick ink of the Styx.

He helped me onto the dock with one

withered, sympathetic arm.

The dog and its three heads turned

to me, watching pensively.

They gave a yip; and beside the fallen tree,

a lone, bent-backed man pu...

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losslovesacrifice

Is the moon blue?

Is the moon blue?

It turns its pale face to us;

Who knows whom its thoughts turn to.

It cannot cry, but only sigh in dust,

With no light of its own. Gasps thinly,

Too insubstantial for decay or rust.

Does it have unspoken sorrow of its own?

So it can only appear at night

And sometimes disappear, all alone,

And find solace in the dark unknown.

The sun burns away its ra...

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blue moonsmoonsadnesstragedy

The retiree

He goes for his morning walk,

with his ambling, enthusiastic gait;

he knows he’s lucky, and sunshine kisses his hair - 

not yet grey, barely greying. He of fortunate fate,

makes his way over the field, calmly,

unharmed, green grass nipping his heels, and late

summer flowers bow to him. The sheep watch curiously,

then defer to the master of the estate.

 

The children whoo...

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luckretirement

I have a letter from you

I have:

a letter from you. It is typed,

in Times New Roman, font 12.

Your way of saying goodbye.

I never got to say anything back.

Face to face,

we only knew how to laugh

at each other. No point in being serious,

it can’t be serious.

I read it once and never again

because I know exactly what you mean

when you say it’s like leaping back into a hedge of thorns.

On...

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lossrelationship breakup

Belief and Knowledge

He believes her to be beautiful beyond compare

She knows him to be as slow as a brain-dead hare

He believes she is a goddess wrought in alabaster

She knows him to be a servile fool under a master

He believes her to be witty, brighter than the sun

She knows him to be one with brains next to none

He believes her to be as precious as the furthest star

She knows him to be as dumb ...

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contrasthumourirony

Tattoo

‘It’s my skin,’ she said,

But he still shook his head.

Did she not understand

The risk entailed? Once the

Fine pale surface was broken,

There was no going back.

The permanency of a foreign body

Worming its way beneath

Her flesh - this he could not 

Permit. For her own good.

 

Though he paid no heed

To the multicoloured rings

And patterns that each faded

Fr...

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domestic abusedomestic violencewomenwomens rights

Do you

Do you have colour in your cheeks?

Do you go to sleep remembering what you seek?

Do you recall what it was like to be corporeal,

or does it not feel like that at all?

Do you wake to find your pillow wet at night?

Do you see the wolves congregating under moonlight,

and howl at your own stupidity for staying inside?

Do you stare at the files on your desk each weekday

listless...

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animalsdogsentrapmentlost dreamsmodern liferepressionwolf

You and I met

You and I met at the most unfortunate time:

Shrieks of bodies being torn apart

Filled my ears as I looked into your eyes - 

Earthy hazel, a grounding, on which I could rely.

Hell was bearing down on us, and yet I

Did not cry; we emerged, intact, but apart,

And for the moment, swallowed the lie.

 

Years of companionship spent in uniform stride

Into wanton ruin where only ...

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deathlosslovelove and romancewar

Dear Sigyn

entry picture

Dear Sigyn,

you fool.

We both know he doesn’t love you.

Catching the venom meant for his eye,

silent even though he should cry

out in fury at your meddling.

 

Dear Sigyn,

you fool.

Even the serpent laughs at you.

I’d think your body was through

even if your heart was still into

an idiot’s errand that no one would rue.

 

Dear Sigyn,

you fool.

The end ...

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dutyloveMythologynorse godsNorse Mythologywomen

Not the killing type (Part I)

I try not to question my humanity

and let me be damned,

but I’m not the killing type.

Only sometimes

I want to put out someone’s eyes

press them in or pluck them out

like the clear plastic baubles from a lifeless doll.

 

Like a force majeure,

rip the bricks from walls

watching architecture crumble and tumble

the relics of a past age fall,

flutter like shredded b...

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abstractdestructionimaginationsurrealviscera

Writing poetry is harder than you think

Roses are red.

Violets are ... not red.

Hibiscus are sneaky little rascals that only bloom during that weekend when you're away visiting your parents because they still pay your bills.

I hate flowers.

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flowershumourparodyroses are red

The Reunion

entry picture

Saw you again

over the wine and canapés,

and it was as though you

were dead to me all over again.

Your shining eyes were locked

with some other bloke’s and I

thought, ‘Shite, not again.’

 

Except there is no again,

and it’s my well-crafted lie

to believe that you were alive

to me. Then you came over and said ‘Hi’;

I echoed the same, lamely,

and you said how g...

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anti-romancebitternessdinner partylove and romancerelationship breakup

Happy Valentine's Day

They can now breed blue roses, and breed blue violets too;

Horticultural references don’t quite fit the array of hues.

Yet they are not concerned with, perhaps never knew

Of the silent ones whose spouses leave them black and blue.

 

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/14/happy-valentines-day/

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domestic abuseirony

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