In the darkest godless hour
expecting sign of neither friend
nor foe, I head for the shower
and, stunned by sudden bright
light, there you stand,
a viaduct crossroads, eight lane
ends. As high as my toenail,
dominating the scene, raised up
and taking all in, as you might
be an emergency services
with struts, bristling with dishes.
I stoop and prod you,
you refuse to budge, I prod again,
you give an inch, affronted
at my upstart ways. Boudicca
of the arachnids, you stand
your ground, and for that
I’m all respect and awe.
never could have hurt you
from the start, so lowering
my fingers like some monstrous
mechanical grab I hoist you up
onto the windowsill. Certain
you’re safe from faltering feet,
high and dry for now, I see
to my own welfare and go.
Tidying, after tea, no memory
of our head to head, I take
out the litter bin, and there,
beneath, your mangled corpse,
more stark than any swastika.
Philip Beverley has been writing poetry these past 15 years with some success in small magazines and e-zines -e.g.Moonstone, The Black Rose, Poet Tree, Bard Hair Do, through to Carillon, Krax, Elbow Room and Brittle Star.
Time is the shape of a cheekbone,
the lie of the nape of your neck.
Space is bending to reach you,
to wrap around your quiet breath;
to learn how slight movements
change it all, as worlds rush by
in a blur of upturned eyes.
Noises at night
Just at the spot where you tripped
the stair-tread creaks in your ear.
The radiator contracts, ticks, clicks
out of time with the kitchen clock.
An airbrick shrills. Window frames sing.
Under the roof gusts clutch and snatch
the slates. Curtains shift.
Damp clothes flap on wire hangers.
A tap groans, strains, and a dam bursts.
The iron key scrapes, rattles
in the lock. A door moans its last drop
of oil. We are unhinged.
A crevice you can only squeeze in
as a six year old: lithe enough
to wriggle free of parents' gaze,
small enough to vanish in the split.
Castle walls you can only scale
at seven: perpendicular, with one way up,
a view to fortify against adults
hurling thoughts at one other.
Bracken you can jungle in
at eight: lost in summer shade,
a stolen penknife sharper than the words
still puncturing your ears.
At eighteen, all the green and bronze
greyed out by traffic: and you,
lessened by school, too big to fit
into the only bit of growing up you'd keep.
I recall him admitting once
that all he recalled of Jane Eyre
was about a picnic basket
And now consuming a book
devoted to Havanna
its history and its culture
all I remember is the mention
of a sunken treasure
the sheer paleness of him looms over all the
notable names and dates
You were the reason
I kept my light late into the night
turning all those pages
Ramesh Dohan is a short fiction writer and poet hailing from the city of Toronto, Canada. have been previously published in the Boston Review, Ascent Aspirations, Sentinel Review, Bywords Journal, to name a few.
Offence should be discouraged
Socially not legally.
A crass cartoon, a fictional film:
In some countries they would
Pay with their lives.
A picture may paint a thousand
Words but words can kill,
War is made with them and
Terror-a new way of seeing
Banal words-fuses it.
This trigger didn’t sit snug
With some. An attack on pens
Is not just cowardly: It
Lacks intelligence. Next time
Hit us with your best rhyming couplet.
In space the sun never sets.
Our closed minds think of things
In night or day, one or zero:
Poles apart depending where you are.
Tomorrow I graduate:
MA Honours English and Scottish Literature.
The certificate will say
Little on what I’ve learnt
And what is still to come.
I’ll keep my ear to Earth’s surface:
Wary of any tremors
To my compass, cautious
If you like. But in my universe
I’ve already moved planets
To get to the bottom of me.
of paper shuffled by the puppy,
those old files – xeroxed forms we filled out
at the end of searches – hundreds
of sheets in piles of loss.
An old man’s gone with sails to mend
or sink a body miles from where
he disappeared; a pier; to send him weighted
beyond finding by dogs.
Fabricated report by his friend
had us trudging through windfalls of logs –
that man still missing on mythic isles
of the not-found.
Siren-songs of frogs as we called
the lost names. Meadow frost dissolving
footprints like sheets of fog.
Whoever could add up all the cost?
My puppy scatters what she can’t spend,
a jumble of tales and places
jackstraw-tossed, these randomly
shuffled sheets of lost.
Just a common Saturday morning,
my dog’s glory-time to chase the wind.
No jazz-him-up, he’s at max-stimulation,
“Let’s go!” past homeowners
mowing lawns and tending roses.
Up the high hilltop, winds are squirrelly,
my dog pursuing fleeting scent.
Such a grand view.
Cloud-anvils over the east mountains
moving our way, fast,
harboring thunder in their bellies.
Weatherman didn’t predict.
We’re in escape mode now.
Snicker of lightning a block
away, simultaneous boom! it hits
right across the road, sizzling a palm tree
that explodes in flame.
Sirens. The storm moves on.
My dog’s got that look in his eye:
Let’s go find some more!
Having mapped his route – a trek into canyon and back for work on Monday – he left his car at trailhead and vanished into river, rock, or sky. No clues between Point A, his car parked at the rim, and Point B, where trail meets water. No cold camp-fire doused at current’s edge. The points connected by a line not straight but curving with contours of cliff and switchback into gorge, down geologic ages to the river that made this place. What invisible pen marked an unknown Point X to make an unsolved triangle? A glitch in logic? a change of purpose?
We awake to stars
dissolving rock in water
and forever wind.
I went to a pub where he drank once,
Without knowing it.
Wiped a moustache of beer from
My upper lip,
Walked the streets where he murdered,
Stepping carefully around piles of dog shit,
Wore the same flares,
Had the same haircut,
Listened to the same crap music,
Held a woman in my arms as he did
In a slow dance,
Went out on the pull...
I hate the bastard of course
Though we both had
Time to kill.
when the bad guy pushes a button and some
Poor fuck slides through a trapdoor into a pool of sharks,
Or the bloke at the bar built like a brick shithouse says
What if I rearrange your fucking face
That moment when Mandy offers to feel your twelve year old's cock
For a drag on your silk cut
And go considerably further if you'll split the pack,
When your eyes dart
To the patch of shrubbery on the council estate
And you weigh up the risk of getting caught,
The even bigger risk she'll talk,
And compare your dick unfavourably,
To the Whelks you shared on a school trip to Whitby
That moment when you slide
Screaming into a pool
This organisation cannot tolerate failure
That moment when you decline politely to go outside
And your teeth splinter on a bar stool,
That moment when you cough,
No! and cigarette smoke
I always knew you were a puff.
My Cat and Crazy Rainbows
Your 1972 Lada farts through the park in Lutsk
As you wove around a gumbooted Babusya, two kids
Licking either side of a vanilla cornet in the dusk,
Let the light of Christ enter your heart
The CD you have chosen for me (Po Anhliyske!
Vam spodobayetsya? )1 rasps as we float
Over the grass a respiring sea,
Your Lada magicked into a boat
Your mirrored glasses, a pool of mercury,
Reflect my face reflected in the rear view mirror
A million Steves soundlessly mouthing fuck
As you slalom past a teenage footballer,
Swerve back onto the road and brake
Outside the tax office leaving
A spectral sea of exhaust in your wake.
I could not find anything smaller,
You pressed a dollar into my hand,
A bigger man than me, though I was taller,
And gave me the CD I never listen to,
Though sometimes I flash it in the sunlight
For my cat and crazy rainbows grin like you.
Steve Komarnyckyj's literary translations and poems have appeared in Poetry Salzburg Review, The North, and Modern Poetry in Translation. His book of translations from the Ukrainian poet Pavlo Tychyna was published by Poetry Salzburg in 2011. His translation of Vasyl Shkliar's Ukrainian novel Raven was published in April 2013. His last book of translated poetry, A Flight Over the Black Sea was the recipent of an English PEN award in 2014. He has recently appeared in the Transatlantic Poetry Series of on air readings in an event hosted by Fjords Review.
He runs Kalyna Language Press with his partner Susie and three domestic cats.
When Memories Awaken a Fire
As you entered our bungalow a right turn
took you past two bedroom doors
to my favourite room, the green one
at the end of the hallway,
a fifty pence meter hung above its alcove.
I remember my father lifting me
up past his shoulders to insert the coin,
turn the knob a whole half way.
My only brush with magic,
making the light bulbs reappear.
Geraldine O’Kane is originally from County Tyrone, Northern Ireland, has had numerous poems published in magazines, anthologies and on-line e-zines such as BareBack Lit, FourXFour Poetry Journal, Illuminated Poetry Ireland, Allo Trope, Short, Fast and Deadly, Poetry Super Highway, The Lake and more. Her first pamphlet "Quick Succession" is available to purchase via Pen Points Press http://www.poetryni.com/geraldine-okane.html
Geraldine is a spoken word poet, with the emphasis of writing a skilfully crafted poem and reciting it well. She is co-host and regular reader at the Purely Poetry open mic nights in Belfast. She has read her work in local theatres and in numerous literary festivals in the North and South. She has curated two multi-platform exhibitions for The Belfast Book Festival and facilitated creative writing workshops. She has just launched a new print and on-line micro poetry press Panning for Poems.
I sing you a song of swarming city rats
that presage the earliest call of spring
for I am a poet of beautiful women
blooming in shopping queues
and I sing you a song of the poisoned apple
(the queue is long but the price is wrong)
and I sing of our loss beneath the film
of oil across the oceans
and I sing of the nectar of fluttering butterflies
of our doubtful obsolete balance of terror
of the omen of routed dying birds
limping across the sky
and I sing you a love song about the land
and I sing you a swan song about the clouds
because I am the poet of our time
and time is running out.
Thomas Orszag-Land is a poet and award-winning foreign correspondent. His poetry appears here and in Ambit, The Great American Poetry Show and London Magazine.
Too Late You Missed It
A scatter of sequins, a splutter
of applause. The box is locked
like a prophesy half
-unveiled; your toes wink
like fresh young stars
on a wintry morning, fingers wave
and beads, scattering seeds
to the black field
where white crows peck
while I disappear.
Another Dorian Gray
‘Here you are in fifty years,’
laughed the artist, turning the canvas
to face the face. And beautiful
young Dorian was so entrenched
in his hatred of the years
that he sought forgiveness
everywhere he went; apologised to strangers
he had never met for the many sins
he would not commit
upon their fair young bodies
and souls. And while the painting
lived ageless and graceless,
trans-am’ed the wide world
to display its wild face
to swooning galleries and
first class stamps
young Dorian grew old in an attic
he dared not leave, for fear
of the years and how they might
haunt him. But when his last breaths
limped closer he called for his portrait
to visit him in his garret, to delay
its foul triumph with black smoke
and thin blade. But face to face
with canvas and colour
its cold beauty overcame him
and he stabbed the lesser heart,
his own. When they came
to his pleading they found
a beautiful young boy twisted
on the floor. And on the canvas
a vile old man, no uglier than before.
No Lights On The Runway
and in water
in firework shapes
burning smoke from the sky
in pigeon shit
on your window ledge
or pools of piss
in black alley streets
this is the new poet
how the news gets through.
Dreams are not free, but freedom is.
All you need is balls, a pair like a bull’s,
round and smug and full up of the stuff of heroines,
brewed in a cauldron till
the steely strength of these two hanging improprieties of
a metaphor are forged. And when they’re yours,
oh my what dreams will come—potent like
gooseberries, dripping like blasphemy, and all yours to
blow off into the wind in springtime, season
of migrations, hunting time for the dandelions
whose halos indifferent children whisper into
with unspoken lips until their wisps
into long oft unkissed
the space between
is written on the body
where our entering
gets taken for
and our exiting
for a conclusion
and what is there to decipher
I translated you
out of an original
whose language I learned
All adjectives are metaphors.
Strike them from our records.
Grant them no place in repentance.
Only then may we be reached
from the other side of sound
where the clanging is no longer of
the opaque of the
grappling, of the
grappling with its hooks, of
the grasping at
enough of the
no more of these
devils hooking into
clawing at laughing
the so much of things life
(for the beamish, mazy B.M.P.)
James Nikopoulos' poetry and essays have appeared most recently in here/there poetry, Arion, and PlayShakespeare. He teaches world literature in Astana, Kazakhstan.
The Elephant in the Room
From a baby, she’d slept in the corner.
We ignored her hide getting scabbier.
Waking one day with a fat head,
her hammock of a belly brushed
the table knocking the wilted lilies
into flat shapes as her trunk
snuffled up the bills you were ticking
off in your little bills book.
If we’d had any emergency zoo numbers,
we’d surely have dialled them
but she was already on the phone
to The Queen-Sized Pizza Emporium.
Though her trumpet progressed from a low
flatulence to a little above Grade 8,
its muscle put out both windows
I was just about to chamois.
By now we were getting the hang of it:
your fleet of hairdryers crushed
as I slipped them under a back foot,
you clutching a litter bin of Stella
for her to spray up the wall.
We thought twice about shoving her
upstairs to drive our son
out of his bed with her wet trunk
snorkelling under his duvet before
trashing the hovel of his room
while he boarded down the slates
but she didn’t do reverse.
Two things to mention: I snapped
your Damien Rice c.d. and she never
ripped up all my poems
with those stumpy front legs.
Later the tabloids would say
we were driven crazy with fear.
Posters outside newsagents.
Truth is, she smashed down the walls,
pulped the lawn mown in lines
and with her saggy arse wobbling,
took off after a scent on the wind,
us hanging on her tail
as she crossed the swollen Nidd.
Clearing out Dad’s Clothes
All those folded layers of blue
stacked on the side in the kitchen,
bagged, ready to go next morning.
I took one look, bundled them
into the boot of the hire car.
Next day, you said you’d prefer
not to go, so I drove the bags
to the clothes bank at Asda
as the Salvation Army van
pulled up to collect the offerings.
I handed over the one bag,
thought for a minute in the car
before offering the white van man
all the remaining bags
bound for the charity shop.
He cranked open the door
and chucked them into the dark
with the others: Cheers, mate.
While I sat holding the wheel,
stationary, he drove them away.
Had I imagined other men,
setting off to somewhere,
pleased with cost and cut,
in the blue jackets and shirts
of the dead, shades of my dad?
Before Ashley goes to Australia,
it puts six inches on everything.
The greengrocer throws sacking
over his fruit. A few old men
teeter home with newspapers.
Cars slur into odd angles
with the road. Sounds sink
back to the earth. In the park,
angels flap their wings
under pines holding cloud.
Wading our way home, our street
is not ours. Roofs curve over
like pastry. We pile up whiteness,
strip the walls of the yard.
He grows lean and strong.
We roll his fat head
and pull it home on a sledge.
Standing on patio chairs,
neighbours help to lift it;
a circle of raised arms.
Such weight is a miracle.
We scatter indoors. Shells
for kaleidoscope eyes, mittens
nailed on with pegs. His head
looks out above the wall.
A woman stops in her tracks.
We shout clear off to kids
in a scrum with snowballs.
We pause at every window.
He draws a smile on our faces.
That night, Ashley and I
fetch the hose to spray him
so he’ll set and last forever,
which he does when the moon
rises, fixing him with light.
Stuart Pickford lives in Harrogate and teaches in a local school. He is married with three children. He has received a major Eric Gregory Award from the Society of Authors. His first full and only collection was The Basics that was shortlisted for the Forward Best First Collection prize. Stuart has had work published in many magazines and journals including Acumen, Agenda, Ambit, Envoi, Fire, Iota, Oasis, Orbis, Poetry Review, Rialto, Smiths Knoll, Staple, The North, The SHOp and New Writing.
An Argument for Strolling Players
Out in the lonely ritual of rain daubed
streets the black paving stones lie dormant,
distilled with the ambient Mecca of hustle.
Inside a house you might have walked past is me,
a glum, pampered milksop feeling the heartbeat of the world.
I discovered you beneath the marble of billowing white bed sheets,
an intoxicating brew of question marks.
A humbug of winged creatures clasp the architecture of your brass bed,
in this suspended light like the translucent wings of a moth.
We don’t need the incorporeal to sustain us,
we are two bodies in a memory of loss of mother
where God is a matter for the dignity of butchers.
Within the Knot-Hole of Boo Radley's Oak Tree
This necklace is made of night's rumour
Painted with whispers of the sea,
Within the knot-hole of Boo Radley's oak tree.
The fish from his bowl is paroled
And rides on the back of a flea
Within the knot-hole of Boo Radley's oak tree.
Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Lilith,
Velvet cats with eyes sunk in find sanctuary
Within the knot-hole of Boo Radley's oak tree.
Wild flower garlands wrap around the secret staircase,
Everybody listen to the wind wail like a banshee
Within the knot-hole of Boo Radley's oak tree.
Strange gifts lurk as starlings on your shoulder,
Phantoms lie where you were once lying, you are them to a degree
Within the knot-hole of Boo Radley's oak tree.
Chewed gum, ball of twine, two figurines,
This port hole is filled with concrete, but there is a skeleton key
Within the knot-hole of Boo Radley's oak tree.
Blackbird's Egg Tree
(Catonem ovum arboris)
It was during mid cartwheel on the sea shore
when we found the blackbird's egg tree.
We polished off the contaminate sand and green tea
leaves and found beneath it a door to an egg of shining armour.
The turquoise plating trembled and a split
appeared. Our swords were drawn, really a fountain pen
and a ukulele. From a broken cloud of wise men
a great puff of smoke did emit.
An ear piercing whistle was heard like a siren in a war,
the sand blew a reed of glass out to sea
and there clucked a clockwork guinea hen
in a coat of the very finest pearl two knit.
No one can predict what will hatch out of a blackbird tree's egg,
be it a silver haired rose, or a Fabergé clothes peg.
Grant Tarbard's poetry can be seen in such magazines as The Rialto, Illumen, Aphelion, The Seventh Quarry, Ofi Press, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Bone Orchard Poetry, Blaze, The Journal, Southlight, Sarasvati, Earth Love, Mood Swing, Puff Puff Prose Poetry & Prose, Postcards Poetry and Prose, Playerist, Lake City Lights, The Open Mouse, Miracle, Poetry Cornwall, I-70, South Florida Review, Stare's Nest, Medusa's Kitchen, Zymbol, Weyfarers, Synchronized Chaos, Bluepepper, Every Day Poetry, Verse-Virtual, Tribe, The Golden Key, New Poetry, I am not a silent poet, East Coast Literary Review, Hark, The Black Light Engine Room, The Black Sheep Journal, Haiku Haven, Lunar Poetry, Decanto, Your One Phone Call, Danse Macabre, Message in a Bottle, Of/with: journal of immanent renditions, Elbow Room, The Mind[less] Muse, Ginosko Literary Journal, Abbreviate Journal, Visual Verse, The Fat Damsel, Earthen Lamp Journal, Drunk Monkeys, Anomaly Literary Journal, Wordgathering, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Fur-Lined Ghettos, Crack the Spine, Literary Orphans, Writers for Calais Refugees, The Merida Review, The Penwood Review, Poems & Poetry and First Time.
His poems have featured in a number of compendiums, including Dogma Publishing's Miracle at St. Bede’s, Page A Day Anthology, Storm Cycle, Lost Tower Publication’s Greek Fire and WK Press’s Best of 2014.Also, I have had poems exhibited at my local gallery a number of times as well as at the Quayside gallery in Maldon, Essex. he came first runner up at the age of sixteen in Ottakar's National Poetry Competition with a poem entitled Delicacy, he's been a finalist for nomination for the Pushcart prize and has won The Poetry Box Dark & Horror Poetry Magazine's Sinister Poetry Award May 2014 for his poem Crows Feet.
Grant's first chapbook 'Yellow Wolf' is out now, published by WK Press, his first full collection published by Lapwing and a collection published by Platypus Press will be both out next year.
Coffee shop Autumn
In this coffee shop autumn
Where the leaves fall like receipts from the till,
I want to fall into you
With the force of a dying century,
Or the birth of a star, or a miracle, or a man.
Sat beautiful across this varnished table-top
Bearing the errant grains of sugar
And sweetened pages of chapters
Upon chapters of spoken prose,
We wait for the snow to fall.
Wet leaf end of winter
and I enjoy the walk
through the pockets of the country.
Names left in bark
thaw each spring and I
wonder if the owners did
or if the handle splintered with
the first split-cups of March
when they sweep the pines
and frosty, petalled white
with their baleful heads,
an answer from under
to man’s hardened feet.
Treading through the absence
I can see an ailing snowman
feeding the blades and
biting the tawny wind,
all stick-limbs and root features
coat buttons and spent scarves.
Folding a seminal day
across candlewick ribbon
with the first
of the month,
full of the open window
which drove mirth
in your fingers
as they breed origami birds
from the pages I read
perched on the bedside table,
Ethan Taylor is an Actor/Poet currently studying for his BA(Honours) in Acting in Guildford, UK. He has recently taken up writing and poetry is something he immensely enjoys whether it’s reading, writing, discussing, speaking or analysing it. He has been published in both online and hardcopy literary magazines including ExFic and Peeking Cat.
With the dry stone walls divining the fields
The bales bagged in the gilded grass,
The once heaving landscape is briefed to a sylvan sulk,
No longer bulked like birds fending off a chill,
The nightjars churring silenced amongst the tawny trees
Hooting and harring in the night
Where croft houses appear like toadstools in the mist,
Abandoned farms with their teetering gables,
Rafters rifting from the ceilings
Above smashed sashed windows
Reflecting cumulus sheep afloat on the hills,
Where the sun extinguishes itself to night.
Before it reignites the gorse
Churning butter as the snowdrops melt back to green,
And the sloe quick to blossom with winters emulation.
The narcissi beaming inebriation,
Keeping their lilting heads aloft.
With the wasps girdling fences,
And birds building nests.
While tits flit about the branches,
Bobbing dolphin-like through the air,
Whirling a whistle of spiralling agility
Against the pirr of the wind
That tears confetti from the erumpent cherry spurge,
Then the hawthorns surge charges spring to summer.
The first half of my life feels like forever
The second like no time at all
While I get on more in touch with my phenological sense
Replacing the kairological with the chronological
Through an acquiescence and appreciation of time
Now patience and care rather than rushing despair
Not living life with a sense of urgency
Wishing my life away
Constantly striving to get where I was
Unable to remember one day from the next.
Now I like to live in memories.
To bask in the comfort of my mind
Observing my memories
Where the persistence of vision entrances me with the moving image,
Photographed on my celluloid cosmos.
Images existing of the past
Making light of time
Remembering things, not as they were, but as they are now.
The romance of a cold night against the warm glow of reminiscence,
Moulding moments into shape.
The soundscapes of Debussy,
A Turner for the ears,
The Great Western e-merging
Out of the landscape,
Pulling up at Gare St Lazare.
Such kineticism of colour
Vibrant with reality,
Summoning light from
In a séance of scenery.
Anthony Ward tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including Cultured Vultures, The Pygmy Giant, Shot Glass Journal, Message in a Bottle, Lunar Poetry, Torrid Literature Journal and Crack the Spine, amongst others.
Sitting On The Platform Opposite
Awake with wine she waits beneath the heather
of hanging baskets for the midnight train
is late again. Alone in moonlight she sips
her wine, unzips her plastic purse, and files
her nails to convex curves. Time to observe.
His Last Supper
A daddy-long-legs lollops in and bebops
a life of jazz; the dip of frenzied wings,
the gangly limbs, the lopsided tread of air.
He batters glass, spirals down in the fog
of tobacco poisons, stutters to land.
Almost legless, limps across a pop-art
of cod and clammy chips and mushy peas,
threads his demise in robes of tomato sauce.
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His poems can be found in various publications including: Clear Poetry, The Lampeter Review, The Black Sheep Journal, Dactyl Zine, the anthology Wherever You Roam (pub.Pankhearst).
WE ONLY DIE WHEN LOVE PERISHES
at first we wore Winceyette pyjamas because nights were Arctic and that put an end to lust
it wasn't our dream at first we wore Winceyette pyjamas
it wasn't our dream because nights were Arctic and that put an end to lust
with its requests for payment, children, jobs etc. life became ordinary
the Mesozoic period with its requests for payment, children
the Mesozoic period jobs etc. life became ordinary
152” full HD, Plasma Display, with 8.84 million pixels still in colour and high definition
our love still in colour and high definition
our love 152”, full HD, Plasma Display, with 8.84 million pixels
“I'M SAYING I LOVE YOU”
into the flames of my heart into the chains of his hearth
passion with its hammer and sighs caution with its hanger of goodbyes
growing with drops of desire growlings he can't decipher
I'm distracted, sings, rages, a flaccid thing that lurches
weeps, curses, confesses weak, deaf and undressed
like a lunatic plagued in hell like a music awkard in its farewells
how I cherish her he's a devilish flasher
in these trickling, stumbling lines reciting middling, crumbling chimes
my immortal song that are awfully long
of the colour blue of the deep blue waters of your eyes
I have a sudden desire to write of the colour blue
I have a sudden desire to write of the deep blue waters of your eyes
the bright blue of the sea at noon and the blue ash falling like leaves
the dark blue of the afternoon the bright blue of the sea at noon
the dark blue of the afternoon and the blue ash falling like leaves
the soft warmth of your kisses and the deep blue waters of you eyes
the blue warmth of you blood the soft warmth of your kisses
the blue warmth of you blood and the deep blue waters of you eyes
Rodney Wood lives in Farnborough, took early retirement and spends his time looking after granddaughters and the dog, occasionally doing front of house work at a local arts centre, writing poems and has just draft part1 in a sequence about THE POET ASSASSIN. Last year he had over 30 poems published.