Tag Archives: derek adams

Something Lurks – a poem by Annest Gwilym

ANNEST GWILYM

 

Something Lurks

 

We walk by your side in the silence of crabs

as your mocking laughter ripples

the sea’s crypt. Too close, your mud-flesh

sucks at our feet, sinks them

with sly sips, sucks and swallows.

 

Your distilled Cretaceous soup is home

to one who drums his fingers in the dark,

jaws snapping in the tunnelling depths.

Long reachings taste children’s legs,

unaware of a huge digestion in the deep.

 

We bring you gifts of skimmed stones,

cigarette ends, plastic bottles and bags.

You give us the ruin of shells,

vomit a brown yeasty froth,

spit out bodies of the drowned.

 

During high tides and storms

your fingers reach up our garden paths,

sneak under doors into our houses.

And at night your tentacles whittle down

the star-draped heavens.

 

Something Lurks by Annest Gwilym received a special mention in the sentinel literary quarterly poetry competition (May 2018) judged by Derek Adams

A Certain Kind of Death – a poem by Anne Sheppard

ANNE SHEPPARD

A Certain Kind of Death

She stands in awe of her predicament,
Tight bound and balanced on a precipice,
As hecklers crowd around
Like swords to cut her down.

Soft shoes wet now with effluent that runs,
No chance to hide her fear, the
Gutter tribe around her sneer,
There is the stink of disillusionment.

The precious seconds ticking by,
Each one counted by the scribe,
Until the hangman makes his move,
Feted and regaled a hero by the crowd.

She trembles as she feels the noose
He places round her neck.
Warm breath upon her cheek he speaks,
Soft now, she strains to hear but then no more

For mere distraction as the trapdoor swings;
She feels the drop, the dislocation of her neck,
As darkness moves to cover her,
But not before she hears the cheering of the mass.

A Certain Kind of Death by Anne Sheppard was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2018) judged by Derek Adams

Moth – a poem by Mark Stopforth

MARK STOPFORTH

Moth

In the pheromone filled night,
feathered antennae dust the moon’s
nectar heavy pool of black perfume.
Moth mouse fur and tympanal ears,
drum the air for scent,
each instinctive insect thought
folds the air under pollen powdered wings,
and a toe, gently taps the petals invite.
This moth like an emperor in ermine,
floats majestic around his walled garden,
where, visible only to the ultra-violet eye,
sweet misted midnight veils
plume and drift and rise.
This is the inner insect psyche,
where the tips of probing tongues uncurl,
uproot and quiver drown, in sugar scented wells.

Moth by Mark Stopforth was highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2018) judged by Derek Adams