Brother

Your hair was so white-blonde
that in photographs it appeared
to be a halo around your head –
a translucent golden orb
giving the impression
that you were a little bit
out-of-this-world.

*

One of the consolations

of being a woman
is that no one will ever ask me
to shoulder a coffin.

*

Georgia Hilton is the author of ‘I went up the lane quite cheerful’ published by Dempsey and Windle in 2018. She lives in Winchester with her husband and three children.

I particularly like short poems as they are the truest possible distillation of a feeling, event, idea or image.

https://www.dempseyandwindle.com/georgiahilton.html

A Habit Worth Forming

Have you ever found yourself queuing
in your local café, thinking of nothing
in particular besides snaring
your favourite seat, when the woman behind
taps you on the shoulder, leans in
to whisper something in your ear?
No, I haven’t either, though I’d hate
to miss a day, in case it ever happened.

*

Lost for Words

One day I dropped my dictionary and the words fell out.
I was in a hurry so I swept them into a pile and left the house.

When I returned the words were nowhere to be seen
and now my life is a catalogue of surprises –

a strange dog on the couch, unwanted salt in my soup
and the unlucky spectre of a fresh crack in the mirror –

though, to be fair, I’ve also noticed the reappearance of bliss
every time you call.

*

Nascent Romance

This morning the barista fashioned a heart
on the top of my latte. I thought nothing of it
until you sat beside me and the heart started
to quiver, gently at first, but, when you asked me
to pass the sugar, I detected a definite skip,
hoped you hadn’t noticed, gulped down
my coffee and left. It was only later I wondered,
whether by chance you had caught me
in one of your selfies.

*

Maurice Devitt is the curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site, a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group and published debut collection with Doire Press in 2018.

I love short poems because when you plant them they can turn into epics.

Coastal Motion

The stone bones of the beach exposed,
Sand-skin flayed away
By gales and storm surges.

In the B&Bs, the refugees huddle,
Turned inwards to protect
Against this aggressive climate.

Offshore, a sandbar builds,
Stretches out a long arm
Reaching for home.

*

Penny Blackburn writes and performs her work in the North East. She was the winner of Story Tyne 2017 and runner up in the Reader’s Digest 100-word story competition 2018.

I like short poems because they say what needs to be said and no more.

Penny can be found on Twitter as @penbee8

Boating

With swift strokes the girl’s father rows from the jetty.
Keep your hands in the boat, he calls, or something will bite them off.

The girl laughs – knows the danger to be more about germs
or discarded shopping trolleys than flesh-eating fish.

She waits for her father to turn around. Takes her chance,
dangling her hands over the edge to chase ripples.

I envy her defiance, the choice she has made
not to keep her hands in the boat.

*

Swing

A boy swings on a yew tree’s branches,
pieces of bark drop like toy bombs.

Blood stains his fingers and knees;
he feels no gnarls or splinters.

He ascends above the canopy,
sun haloing his blond head.

I want to call him down;
he knows nothing of this tree, how it claimed a life,

did it easy as a blade or tablets hidden inside pockets.

*

Belinda has worked as a psychiatric nurse, lecturer and creative arts practitioner. Her poems have appeared in magazines, on-line and in anthologies. She has read at the Cheltenham Literature Festival.

belindarimmer.com

I’m drawn to short poems as I like the challenge of saying as much as I can in as few as possible words. Each word has to work so much harder.

Rosebay Willowherb

They send out seedsmoke, a nudging, thrusting, abundance
hiding, gliding over fences,
hitching rides on unsuspecting sheep;
oozing, cruising the landscape, streaming, teeming magenta.

Each year the same. Hair-triggered by
every wisp of breeze, sailing over roadsides,
golf courses, building sites, aiming to colonise the planet
with rosebay confetti, rising like the phoenix.

*

Damsel

Wummin, scootin aboot yon lochan
in yir smirrt silks o turquoise an cobalt,
d'yi ken jist how bonnie yi are or
d'yi ging aboot the world pynin ti be
a licht-hertit Admiral or Cubbage White?

Afore lang yi’ll be dwynin awa,
Mither Nature’s wye o daein,
laivin iz ahent, heelster-gowdie
in luv wi yi, aye myndin
o mi wummin in air-blue.

*

Fran joined the M.Litt at the University of Dundee when she retired. She writes mainly in Dundonian/Scots and has been published in Mixter-Maxter(Grey Hen Press).

Small poems involve delving into the essence of things, a satisfying pastime.

Note

Our lives and how
they fray at the weave:

the bark of birch trees
unrolling like paper.

*

The Library

You measure a life in stages
to understand its cost:

pennies dropped inside a bowl,
a library moved, book by book.

*

A Decade

There are stories to tell
about sleeplessness
and early food, the rooms

you have forgotten,
the songs. I remember
a family of foxes

sheltered in the garden
all of us woken early,
a car alarm in the storm.

*

Daniel Bennett was born in Shropshire and lives and works in London. His chapbook ‘Arboreal Days’ is published by Red Ceilings Press.

I like short poems because they act like charms or spells, conjuring lives and worlds with brevity and measure.

absenceclub.tumblr.com
@AbsenceClub

Evenings

Winter evenings were the best, curtained in
as last light faded while moss-bearded logs
crackled and spat out warmth that settled on

hands wrapped round mugs of Earl Grey.
We shared the silence then, or else made
plans for how to spend our mad, endless future.

I don’t remember how the mugs were cracked
or when you went off first to bed, leaving me
to finish my book alone, watching flames die.

*

Crow

It lay on the lawn,
wings outstretched like a torn umbrella,
an actor’s final curtain call,
an infinity of crows reflected from its eyes,
caught in its stare,
daring me to inch no further,
as strength defied weakness,
even in death.

*

Janis Clark has poems in various magazines and anthologies. She has been commended in a number of competitions.

I like short poems because every word counts in conveying emotion