Sorrow is a well. How absurd that this a metaphor for depth. In conversation, I say proudly, I have never written of lovers. I refuse to put them into my poems. The truth is, I can't speak of horses or of certain pastels without flinching. "Objects bring pain when associated with a particular person." (Not... Continue Reading →

what's the point of poetry? once, a prideful egg, I told someone "it's to show that every surface is a mirror" but that wasn't even right. just a pat answer, made up to impress, like throwing away a bag of coloured painting. some way to while the evenings, drinking wine, smoking and listening through the... Continue Reading →

As all men are, we are weak: the feral perfumes of our loins unabated by  our greater muse, intuition, with our  faces for all seasons like so many   pockets of change. We are of the ways of the old masters: carvers, molders, melders of slab and stroke--the curiosity  seekers of our covenant's yin .... Continue Reading →

He meant to build a room. Loose lumber leans against his fence. That’s proof—this is the time. He’ll square windows, frame doors, sketch out straight lines with chalk. He’s bought new tools, shiny. They lean dry, sheltered by eaves. But his nights are lean—   His time leaks away. His hands are too soft for... Continue Reading →

Oh, I never recall the bumpy flights, or the rude passengers. Only the waiting in freezing airport lounges, those endless waits. Everyone dying to get home. The soiled napkins, the cold pizza, the road warriors flaunting their billable hours  and stabbing their enemy laptops, defeated by thunder and lightning and things unknown. Women shouting into... Continue Reading →

The bath used to hang on the wall in the scullery. Not our scullery. His scullery. We borrowed it from Mr Neil who rented us the rooms at the front of his house. One down, one up. My mother would knock on his door and he would lift it down for her. But she had... Continue Reading →

I threw away everything that came before he was in my life so I could pretend that I was brand new just like the baby I held in my arms, just like the perfect baby that somehow came out of me Photo by TUBARONES PHOTOGRAPHY on Pexels.com About the Poet: Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared... Continue Reading →

I waited for you As on the muddy heath Outskirts While Thornfield Hall Bled the past ablaze Furious flames That vanquished all that Was.   I waited for you Haunted Psychotic and hallucinatory Thoughts Like Manderly Burning into darkness One last rancid breath As I corked the bottle.   I waited for you A midtown,... Continue Reading →

I have written so many poems about you, for you, snuck you into fictions and abstract paintings, disguised you into nothingness, shone a knowing spotlight on your unforgotten skin, I feel I should pay you royalties. But of course, I won't, and will deny all your guest appearances in my words and strokes, say it... Continue Reading →

It seems so far away now that place where I once stood and  peered out like the beam of a lighthouse  over an ocean of possibility  back when I knew  that out there somewhere  among all those faces was love and happiness  there’d be hand-in-hand walks  through woods and gardens and along rocky shores there’d... Continue Reading →