Nostalgia poem. Where i am at.

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the horizon, up ahead
another county, towns in which
many other opportunities
while my hair whips in the wind
skirt lifting from my legs
carrier bag plastic flapping in my clenched fist
i look up and across
that tantalising horizon
but even if
i took that journey
packed a bag &left
would i find home –
people who care
locals receiving. Helpful with accommodation
the work plentiful
details correct
yes
or will it be as it is now
effort, hard work
the very maximum for effect
never giving up, a determination –
i know
i don’t need to journey
i am going to celebrate where i am at

originally published put me down, I’m terrible

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Entries open for The Aryamati Poetry Prize. Win publication, books & critical feedback on your writing

Hello. Here to share a contest where you can win publication and books. Courtesy of one of my favs Fly on the Wall Press. If you see the thread below you can find out all about it.


 

 

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Fly on the Wall webzine Submission Call

Fly on the Wall Poetry press is looking for submissions for its second webzine. The themes are Change and New Beginnings. Poetry and prose. The response time is quick and you can trust your work is safe in the hands of editor Isabelle Kenyon. Details here


Poems House for Demolition & Letters by Deryn Pittar.

HOUSE FOR DEMOLITION

Memories chase me down the slippery verdant path,
through the gate with its rusty spring.
I nod to the passion fruit vine
still visiting the neighbours,
leaving crop as payment for their space.

A climbing rose has embraced the Judas tree.
The roofline steeples its hands in prayer
giving thanks for the harvest,
and begging for rain.

The laced veranda and weather-board bodice
hug the red front door.
It swings to my touch.
A waft of lavender and mothballs greets me,
a cobweb strand brushes my cheek.

In my old room, sunlight prisms through bevelled glass
scattering rainbows on the wall.
Dead flies decorate the windowsill
and the smell of mown grass creeps in through a window crack.

I open the cupboard door,
deaf to the screech of its hinges.
My fingers seek the noggin in the dark
finding the soft leather cover still there.

Small pages stuck with damp,
speckled with mould,
encase the scribbled voice of a child.
Reclaimed, held close,
The words echo against the beat of my heart.

Diary retrieved,
I leave.

LETTERS

Albert and Julia Featherstone-Cox
have a beautiful elegant blue letter box
with wide hanging eaves to keep out the rain
it sits on a cleverly curved welded chain

The Smiths down the road because of their debtors
have set up a cream can to hold all their letters.
Placed on its side with a slot in the lid
through the slot all their letters are carefully slid

At the end of the lane where the Postie won’t go
stand six mismatched mail boxes – all in a row,
odd colours, odd heights, lichen-dressed and rust stained
they appear like a queue of one legged cranes

My mailbox is small, I don’t get much mail
and what I do get is consumed by the snails,
I get emails and texts and junk mail – a few
but what I crave most is a letter from you

One I can read, full of love and your pain,
one I can read and then read again
to put in my pocket, to fondle and muse
on our time spent together on that great ocean cruise

when passion ignited two elderly hearts
an autumn of love – and now we’re apart…


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Poem by Karen Ankers Meeting at Euston.

Meeting at Euston

a girl with city faded eyes

excuses her request for a pound

says she’s never been on the streets before

tells me in a worn tobacco coated voice

she needs the money for a bus


as if I need a reason to be kind


the coin in my hand is bright

as she once was

has unquestioned value

as she once did

perhaps

when her eyes and soul still shone

before promises and practised lies

took her light as deposit

on oxygen and pavement space


the metal that slides from my palm to hers

courts the sun

just for a second fairytale gold

illuminates the touch of our hands

and in that moment more is passed

than money

skin meets soul remembered skin

blood beats between us

each strengthening the other

in the time it would have taken

to turn and cross the road