Morse

by RODDY SCOTT

Lit houses strain at their moorings
in the midst of the maelstrom
some flotsam of a boy

alone in the multiplying winds
life and soul at a party of his exclusive ken
gatecrasher at a ball for the elements

drunk on adhesive and air, cheeks bunching
out with bullfrog rhythm, hands clenched
to the lips sucking hard at the white poly bag

he silhouettes under a tinny orange
from the tall street lamp and glancing up to this window,
with his own code

spells out one word,
and a whole society of meanings.


‘Morse’ by Roddy Scott was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (July 2020) judged by Terry Jones.


SLQ Daily 06 September 2020

Read of the Day

MARK TOTTERDELL
One night I slept on land that isn’t there

One night I slept on land that isn’t there,
the cliff now tumbled to the beach below.
So much that once was firm has turned to air.

I was so cocksure then, so free from care,
I had no better place to sleep, and so
one night I slept on land that isn’t there.

The music carried on, sweet, wild and rare.
I heard it float up from the town’s bright glow.
So much that once was firm has turned to air.

The warm turf cushioned me, the stars were fair.
Why should it matter now that you should know
one night I slept on land that isn’t there?

And when the early sun caressed my hair,
I knew for certain which way I should go.
So much that once was firm has turned to air.

My maps are ashes now, so who knows where
the paths went? I’m impelled to tell you, though,
one night I slept on land that isn’t there,
so much that once was firm has turned to air.


‘One Night I Slept On Land That Isn’t There’ by Mark Totterdell was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (July 2020) judged by Terry Jones.


Blast from the Past

RICHARD L PROVENCHER
That Old Mill

is alive in the light of day

harsh wind grabbing
your windpipe, breath of winter-chill

icicle eyes staring dimly
at the scene, leftover pussy
willows as
stiff fingers beside river’s bank.

Within view an ancient mill
memories
dulled
by the passage of time.

Images of life return as a photo
album, deer
within shadows
cows flicking horse flies

kids painting the barn and
three dogs chasing.

Childhood is splashing in the
creek, pages from life
a long time ago.


‘That Old Mill’ by Richard l. Provencher was published in Sentinel Poetry (Online) Magazine, August 2003. Provencher is now retired, allowing him more time to write. He combines a love of nature with contemporary issues. His poems are in: Ottawa Arts Review, Paragon, Folly, The Dublin Quarterly, Parenting Express, Time of Singing, and Phatitude Literary Magazine. He and his wife, Esther, live in Truro, Nova Scotia. A poetry chapbook In the Light of Day is available through Mercutio Press.


One Night I Slept On Land That Isn’t There

by MARK TOTTERDELL

One night I slept on land that isn’t there,
the cliff now tumbled to the beach below.
So much that once was firm has turned to air.

I was so cocksure then, so free from care,
I had no better place to sleep, and so
one night I slept on land that isn’t there.

The music carried on, sweet, wild and rare.
I heard it float up from the town’s bright glow.
So much that once was firm has turned to air.

The warm turf cushioned me, the stars were fair.
Why should it matter now that you should know
one night I slept on land that isn’t there?

And when the early sun caressed my hair,
I knew for certain which way I should go.
So much that once was firm has turned to air.

My maps are ashes now, so who knows where
the paths went? I’m impelled to tell you, though,
one night I slept on land that isn’t there,
so much that once was firm has turned to air.


‘One Night I Slept On Land That Isn’t There’ by Mark Totterdell was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (July 2020) judged by Terry Jones.