Poetry Blog by Trevor Alexander

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Big Sal on Puppetmasters (Tue, 29 Jan 2019 01:25 pm)

M.C. Newberry on Self-Doubt (Mon, 21 Jan 2019 04:29 pm)

Don Matthews on Self-Doubt (Mon, 21 Jan 2019 10:46 am)

lisa donohoe on Self-Doubt (Sun, 20 Jan 2019 05:55 pm)

lisa donohoe on Time To Diet (Wed, 16 Jan 2019 05:52 pm)

lisa donohoe on Ice Cream (Wed, 16 Jan 2019 05:40 pm)

Big Sal on Ice Cream (Wed, 16 Jan 2019 04:21 pm)

Don Matthews on Time To Diet (Tue, 8 Jan 2019 07:03 am)

Brian Maryon on Winter’s The Pits (Mon, 7 Jan 2019 07:47 am)

M.C. Newberry on Cold (Sun, 6 Jan 2019 04:50 pm)

Sunday Morning

Bone china floral pattern cups with curlicue handles on deep saucers, with matching side-plates on white lacy doilies, laid out on a blindingly immaculate linen tablecloth. In the middle, a long-spouted teapot wearing a knobbly, knitted woollen coat sits on a gleaming chrome-plated stand. But all the attention is drawn to the three-tier, silver-framed cake-stand, with its abundance of fondant fanc...

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Seashore Summer

Faint call of soaring seabird shadowed against burning midday sun. Hazy white wisps suspended low on horizon. Gentle waves barely disturb cerulean surface as they erase footprints oozing across wet sand. Knotted clumps of drying kelp clutter high water line, its salty tang drifting through shimmering heat. Lolloping labrador leaps in pursuit of slowly fluttering flies. Staccato sounds of spade bea...

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We see them on the news most every night,

pontificating, make believe they’re wise.

Myself, I think they talk a load of shite!

Does anybody understand these guys?


They tell us what to do and how to feel,

persuading us they know what’s best for us;

that we should acquiesce and let them deal

with everything, and not create a fuss.


They stroke us like a pet they woul...

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A poet will pick up his pen

At the whim of his muse now and then

So he writes it all out

Then in tortured self-doubt

Rips it up and starts over again

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Ice Cream

Ice cream,

velvety smooth,

melting over taste buds,

evoking seaside memories;


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cinquain form

Time To Diet

We’ve got through the seasonal cheer

Well stuffed with roast turkey and beer

But the poor bathroom scales

Now just greet us with wails

And hide when we try to come near

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Winter’s The Pits

The weather in winter’s the pits

‘Cause the falling of snow never quits

Which daily delivers

A case of the shivers

And shakes all your wobbly bits

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My fingers and toes are all froze

And icicles hang from my nose

This winter’s a curse

Please send for a nurse

To warm me beneath the bedclothes

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