there’s this poem I must write and
that novel of the station master
built from railway journals
and long forgotten tales told by
Winter dippers
I heard no jingle at dawn
no bell or coin
no mournful sounds from the sea
Tino Cassoni was the best baker of bread in our town. His Irish soda bread was superb. Ah, how I loved to eat it warm, with butter melting on it. But his was a hard life….
‘Give us back our harbour’
is not a polite expression
nor it is new
or meaningful or hopeful.
The red white and blue swans
decided to take off unexpectedly
How do you defend creative writing sessions?
It is a question that the poet Richard Hugo addresses…
A war office letter warned his parents that Ted was missing in action in 1944 behind enemy lines.
“Don’t worry, about Ted,” his mother said. “If he fell into a sewer ted would come smelling of roses.”
Repatriated by Australians two weeks after the crash, he was immediately promoted to the rank of Flight Lieutenant.
The weather man looks cloudy today
moist as the air drifting south
hands that shake from an arctic blast
and eyebrows covered in frost.