Return to Ithaca
by Mark McDonnell — He arranges chairs, has quiet words / with waiters, reprises their old walks / in a golf buggy so she can get around ...
The Friday Poem archive
Oh, someday, girl, I don’t know when
by Sharon Black — The swing-seat is shaded / by hanging rhododendrons / whose leaves and flowers ...
Tammy Wynette
by Dane Holt — The only records found in my grandmother’s attic / were by scorned women for scorned women / written by men ...
After What You Have Been Through
by Lex Runciman — If you have roses, it would be good / to water them now, though it be late, late / September ...
Morphine Driver
by Nia Broomhall — We could hear it was working from the soft shunt of fluid / through the tube and the reassuring whisper // she’s fine ...
The Wheel
by Kathryn Bevis — It begins like this: in January a single stitch / slips from her needles. By Candlemas, / her paintings, shelves of knick-knacks start / to stray
Snowday
by Ian Harker — The cars are falling with long sighs / down Monk Bridge Road, their tanks empty / and the beck grinding to a halt
The Climbing Frame
by Sarah Corbett — Square of hot concrete and new plimsolls / pulled on, elastic at the front, the soft/snap / over my heels & I leap up
Photobombing Dad’s moment
by Maggie Mackay — I am playing fiddle with the Volga boatmen. / My father conducts from the riverbank. / His baton swings like a machete.
Mom cooks fish
by Samiksha Ransom — from my nose to my chest / i feel the pangs of panic / and want to un-smell it // vile saltiness / swish of the sea