Little Fears blog

Not poetry perhaps in the strictest sense but I thoroughly enjoy these deceptively simple little short comic fictions at Little Fears blog – the punning talent is prodigious! 😄 The naive drawings of the other-worldly characters resemble a child’s doodle cartoons but I find them haunting and they draw me in. Inbelieve there’s is a linked shop and when I ever make some money I shall visit. In the meantime take a look.


“Sorry to hear that, Pterodactyl” said Yuffie. “What’s up?” asked Fuen. “I just told my man I was leaving him because of his ‘Who Wants To Be a Millionaire’ obsession,” grumbled Pterodactyl. “Oh dear,” said Fuen. “What did he say?” Pterodactyl sighed. “Is that your final answer?”

via Bird — Little Fears


A resonant and beautiful reminder to tune into the light and peace at the heart of things by Roger at

Rabbit Lane

In our lives, in this world, so much of what we hear screams at us; so much of what we see strains the eye; so much stimulus overwhelms our senses.  So how do we sense the sublime? How do we discern the quintessential?  Beauty and ugliness both surround us.  To see beauty despite what is ugly requires both a choice to see, and a belief that beauty is there to be seen. For a moment, put aside religion, God, spirituality, and morality–and trust that intrinsic beauty and goodness are real.  That is when you will see.  My poem “Commandments” points at the difficulty of having faith in goodness, of sensing the sublime, of believing in beauty, touches on the straining effort faith requires, but affirms the reality and virtue of light, goodness, beauty, and sublimity, and their power to eclipse evil.


Of you
I require
to hear Wren’s peep

View original post 57 more words

Night Watch

Slumber-dark, the room inhales, exhales,

with the shifting focus of my myopia,

to the breathing rhythm of your body-heap.

I scan the watching shadows

that see bland day-lit domestic detritus

turned to hood-cloaked guardians

of midnight’s unfamiliar realm.

I also watch.

The unblinking snake would envy

the piercing intent of my study

of your head’s side. Skin-lids shudder

as your eyes twitch and roll in pursuit

or retreat in the dreams racing

through your Tardis mind; that universe

of memories, lusts, imaginings, clustered

compactly inside that adored box of bone.

Peering at your ear,

I will myself tiny as the flea,

so to boldly journey

past embryo-curled exterior structure,

through the winding, narrowing dark

that leads perhaps,

towards the flickering kingdom

I could never dream to map.

~Polly Oliver (2017)




Negative Revelation

This! Might as well give up writing -and loving- now! “The contoured dunes, the flooded valleys…” Dark and hot.


f585e564782ac62bef6bc514aac681b9[1] Max Ernst-Long Live Love 1923

My love for you
Was a negative revelation
The intensity of the darkness
Where we embraced
Outshone the brilliance
Of the heavens above.

You were beyond understanding
No words I utter could delineate you,
Beyond mere comprehension;
How could I possibly define you
The meaning of your innermost being
Eluded me though I pursued you
And search for you still from place to place
Down the avenues, up the highways
And through the byways of a transformed city
I’m standing on the corner just waiting
For the moment that our paths cross
Once again in the hope of that succour
That escapes me even in my dreams
To listen to the swelling ocean inside
Avert my gaze from the dual
Suns of your blazing eyes
Inhale the scented distemper
Of your rapid breathing
Traverse the landscape of your body
The contoured dunes, the flooded valleys.

View original post

Which is an Eye or a Bowl, a Dream

And mortality and the dream of life far better expressed than my early morning Haiku-blurting. This is from Robert at ‘O at the Edges’

O at the Edges

Which is an Eye or a Bowl, a Dream

Or well-placed mirror in a sunburnt room, shivering through shifted
images: that hand, blackened and stout, opened like a dark peony;
the tattooed chin; shovel and torch; hook and owl. You say no one
chooses one fist over another, that bread’s rise completes its cycle
and begins anew, pressed flat and rounded. Take this heart and seal
its chambers. Note the anterior descent. Compression, lesion. Plaque.
Consequence. And your friend, who slept, never to awaken. Lying
in that strange bed, you taste salt, acknowledge change, whisper
to no one: audible house…audible tree, knowing that time’s limit
remains unclear. The air swirls and you accept this new light.

Note: “Audible house…audible tree” is from Jane Hirshfield’s “Not Moving Even One Step,” from The Lives of the Heart.


View original post