Along Devonshire Street North
& pausing at Universal Square,
John Dalton is buried over there.
A barely functioning knitwear
factory straddles playing field,
once a prestigious cemetery &
hidden under shaved green grass
it’s always eerily quiet here.
The atomic theorist hawks down
from the tower of Nicholls hospital,
& as the day grows old
in supposed rush hour
the drivers cease to notice
the sprinkling of humans
on the cold pavement
as if they were ghosts,
past the gothic building
as it blares the evening’s
Someone told me
are not written
but fester in the mind
until spewed out
onto the blank canvas.
are given away
so the poet
the craft of letting go.
before you and I –
recited by ancients
to vast public crowds
or in the King’s court.
scratched as hieroglyphs,
paint vivid pictures
that lures the reader
away from didactic
are the responsibility
of the writer so
when criticized the author
should not complain
or even worse curl up
in the fetus position
do not have to rhyme
but can projectively
free verse all the way
can be be exchanged
but nowadays many
say poetry is a dying art –
long live the poem.
committed to root out funding extremists,
emboldened by Donald Trump’s
war dance – Saudis and allies blockade Qatar –
in Harrods, the Shard and Chelsea Barracks,
she bathes in swathes of capital.
but isolated and the critical investments
prompts London to ogle possibilities?
don’t make the arduous trek to Blackpool
between the Ribble and Wyre estuaries
sea-bathing to cure afeared ills.
From all over they come.
The sudden influx of visitors
on scorching summer days and
This is understandable,
for this town became the first municipality
in the WORLD (yes the first!) to turn
street lights on + a brand new promenade.
The ‘working class’ people flocked
and marveled at this wonder.
But these pretty lights
would ultimately become flickers
in the darkness for Las Vegas
this is not!
& when the revelers depart,
leaving their black pool of chaos behind &
the hotels empty: Blackpudlian dwellers,
my girlfriend and I,
curse the blessing as we natter
away in the George Hotel on Central Dive,
sorry – Central Drive.
That sperm cell dwelling in semen entrapped
In a viscous fluid in the penis tract
of such of those evolved.
Others journey seeking the other side
but only if specifically discharged.
Semen related to Shem?
Shem seized then presumed inheritance –
Scheming to fuse, binding his with Hams
To secure a succession
of organisms to rule
Earth saw this, using sequencers
That set inferior, people fed poison
conditioned to die with no energy –
conned by ciphering sorcery
and beaming the opposition radioactive ways.
My Able brother?
Descendants of Cain now flourish
in high office craftily manipulating law.
Look brothers and sisters!
See the radiance
of Nachash’s glow on their faces.
“Baylonianmaps”.Licensed under Public Domain via Commons – https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Baylonianmaps.JPG#/media/File:Baylonianmaps.JPG
solitary I sit
in a dimly lit room.
heard bawling and wailing
as barrel bombs dropped
fathers scamper round.
mothers clasp their frantic hands
as soldiers approach,
toxic tears streaming down
I watch the vision
on their faces.
catch the child squealing.
the building crumbled to the ground:
fleeing the horror. the rage and
storm of battles terror moving in
on the refugees…
An apsis @MchaleMorris
4.5 billion years the Earth formed
Luna was traumatically born
a natural satellite destined.
a product of this antiquated toil
are sons and daughters of the soil.
they made my breakfast this morning
with help from the illusionist.
are you familiar with harvest moon?
it’s light to the field
the Old English call “belewe mōna.”
I look up and scan the cloudy sky
time granted on limited lease
I monitored and marvelled
at this once in a blue moon
but it’s not new –
even Julius Ceasar paid homage to Maria,
but this one is ‘unusual’
for ἁψίς appeared in synchronous rotation
almost kissing the Earth,
appearing bold, bright and easy
to see but not to deduce
for at moments it was hiding
and when publicly illumined
it did not look blue at all.
in fact colour has nothing to do with it.
the “Blue Moon”
a travesty of man’s editing,
a bespectacled intellectual’s plaything
for all the full moons have names, proto-
types laid by the Algonquins. Who?
An apsis @MchaleMorris
January: the Wolf Moon,
February: the Snow Moon,
March: the Worm Moon,
April: the Pink Moon,
May: the Flower Moon,
June: the Strawberry Moon,
July: the Buck Moon,
August: the Sturgeon Moon,
September: the Harvest Moon,
October: the Hunter’s Moon,
November: the Beaver Moon,
December: the Cold Moon.