All sites promoting proletarian/working class poetry are too sanitised. Where’s the Chaucerian bawdy humour, the sense of anarchy?

is concrete. breath, beat, beyond our senses. Delight in the peace of a forest when cannot hear the shuffle and bustle of tiny lives in fight for food, for shelter, for continuance, taste their small victories, touch their achieved peaks, inhale their determination, or see their acts of survival without mechanical help. It is all abstraction, imagined construction, logical supposition while the wood falls about us in evening light.

via Daily Prompt: Abstract

Glean gloaming gloom
gossip chattered roost
arise into darknesses descent
black sand beneath glass
race ripple roll run
amoebas, balloons
morphed by invisible hands
wings outstretched until
last light glimmer fades
sudden spill downwards

a low murmur rises
to fade with darkness fall.
via Daily Prompt: Murmuration

to the nth degree in this polite, middle class, university educated, hip down stone steps into barrel vaulted, retro chic aged wood where all is whispered respect, horrified at slightest guffaw or hint of youthful disgust amongst the carefully cadenced delivery, unlike night before in a rowdy bawling tumult when she tried not to shout into the mike in front of the bar her other poetry of rap and rhythm that said the same thing.

via Daily Prompt: Nuance

Essential read for me to get close up and personal with war and it’s aftermath. Every line contains a punch, a reminder of the cost our military personnel endure. Yes, some volunteered, probably unaware that the experience would affect them, and their families from the start. Matt is brilliant at bringing the war home because he has no choice. He writes so the reader is welcomed into his nightmares, and needs to stay with him to discover more. This is not poetry for the faint hearted, an escape from life, it is a head on experience of life.
I cannot leave his poems unaffected, unmoved. Once read I carry them with me in my blood and bone. This, to me is the sign of a great poet. Thankyou Matt for enriching my life.

Available in print and for kindle

Squall Line on the Horizon by Pris Campbell
Heartfelt Beauty

Like moving through stages of life, in and out of landscaped partners. At once tender and delicate these superb tankas take your hand gently and converse intriguingly and enticingly with your imagination. A collection to be mused over, re-read and pondered, images gently lap like saki that floats your contemplation. Highly recommended.

Available in print and for kindle.

only when acute intelligence engaged. Nothing so sexy as looks and brains. Glint in her eyes sharp as her smile, makes my inside smile back, and air sizzles, tiny bodies bump against one another, a flipped stone bounces off surface sends increasing circles towards our edges and vibrant water meets shore

via Daily Prompt: Desire

twitch, stuttered speech in his stone cottage in Ampleforth whose abbeyed choir raises perpendicular majesty over New Yeared hills where we walked upwards that fresh cold day over crisp iced soil and indulge his warm invitation, while metal railway station signs hang above his doorways, unlit steam train lamps crowd his sideboards. We would not see each other again.

via Daily Prompt: Nervous

loudly chomps open mouth stuffed

with sour, stodgy hard substance

endlessly ripped from urine drenched

fertile soil, sparkly with lively flies

who tread delicately over tongue, lips,

dip into saliva and often eaten too,

by the self absorbed eater and digester

who turns incessant complaint into milk

via Daily Prompt: Ruminate