senses in everything else, but the world. You inhale the immaterial, the imagined. Touch the surreal, taste the oneness, hear distant abstractions. No stink of hardness, grate of sourness, tap of shoes on surfaces. You only sense a dream, not dream’s source.
I Record
details of an ordinary day as if wonder inhabits all its moments. Rattle of catbells as they leap on toys, or scratch. Movement of locks as she goes outside the porch to take plastic bagged rubbish to coloured recycling bins, skitter of kids voices and anxious calls of parents as hurried feet patter past school bound, cargrowl manoeuvres up onto kerbs, drawerflap, cutlery jangle, woodstrain of stair as she brings breakfast pots to bed. I appreciate routine, a regular going on
Thankyou to Scott for publishing at Wish Poetry three of my poems: Low Murmur Rising
Thankyou to Scott for publishing at Wish Poetry three of my poems: Low Murmur Rising
https://wishpoetrypress.net/2017/03/13/low-murmur-rising/ via @NostroviaPoetry
“Liberation” Kindly Published By Julie In Her “Sacred Chickens”
Many thanks to Julie of Sacred Chickens for publishing “Liberation”
Sacred Chickens http://www.sacredchickens.com/2/post/2017/03/liberation-by-paul-brookes.html
Working Class Poetry Sites
All sites promoting proletarian/working class poetry are too sanitised. Where’s the Chaucerian bawdy humour, the sense of anarchy?
-All Abstract
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.
Murmurs
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
Hers Nuanced
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.
Book Review:A Clock of Human Bones by Matthew Borczon
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
Book Review: Squall Line on the Horizon by Pris Campbell
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.
