Time and permission granted, I will showcase some of my personal favourites from the wealth of writers out there. I hope you enjoy them too!
Romany.
Page updated 17.08.06
Sunken is a poet with a unique style, and a quirky humour. His poems can be found at www.ukauthors.com or on his own website, www.apocalypsehotel.co.uk. Look out especially for 'Munky Nutz!'
This is one of his more 'serious' poems, and one of my personal favourites, published here with his kind permission. Enjoy.
TOO COOL FOR ANGELS.
(We end in ‘I love you’)
She is far too cool for angels
and flamboyant fairy lights
that utilise impending darkness
to reach illuminating heights.
Frosted images on windows
compliment black fingernails,
she is far too cool for Christmas
and all the pain that it entails.
Her broken mother fights a season
that is lost on the depressed,
his gift from her remains unopened
beneath a tree that is not dressed.
Blue eyes implicate an ocean
where memories would sink alone
as she replays a fleeting message
salvaged from an answer-phone
on the night that he went missing
back in two thousand and two,
a message just like any other…
in that it ended, ‘I love you’
She is far too cool for angels,
but tonight she’ll compromise
and spend an hour with her mother
decking halls through teary eyes.
sunken
The dawn unwrapped a new horizon
to reveal a flawless day,
the kind of day that made you flourish
like the sweetest of bouquets,
flowers that would bloom in silence
as I cried without a sound.
The dawn unwrapped a new horizon…
as my eyes surveyed the ground.
Memories are stirred like pollen
as summer saturates the air,
‘…Life is ultimately relished
by those who live without a care..,’
but I care enough to tell you
that mid July is not the same
and that I shoulder criticisms
and completely take the blame
for exchanging your tomorrows
for nothing more than one joyride
on a dawn I wrapped entirely
in a blue metallic hide.
For more of Kat's quality work visit: http://www.freewebs.com/katseyeview/index.htm
You Mean A Woman Wrote It?
I don’t know what it is
about hanging out the washing.
Allowing the breeze to ruffle
through sheets and towels –
so indecisive.
And I’m perhaps a fifties' housewife,
with an ear to the sleeping child,
mentally listing the supper ingredients.
My frilly-edged apron catches a gust
and is glued to my chest like a Playtex.
As I bend to pick up and peg
the last pair of socks, I admire
the non-biological clothes blowing in
the clean air. The sun will staple them
and I’ll feel fixed by this constancy -
cross my heart!
Very clever piece by Dazza (http://www.ukauthors.com/userinfo-Dazza.html)- another one originally posted on UKA! Enjoy;
There's this bloke, hates everyone, nasty bit of work...
Misanthropology.
It’s the rye in your eye that
catches mine, it’s the wry in
your smile that gives you tight lips,
disguises the vitrihole,
that foul mouth that spews a spate
of spite and hate out in swathe
after swathe, ill willing people
everywhere, hurling your
astringent grenades, yelling
“ire in the soul, ire in the soul!”