I taught a portly porter proper water regulation When he had chosen hosing all the poppies in the station. I suggest it best, I thought, to water from a can, As candidly, the hose he chose would leave them weak and wan. This stocky station-stocker thought me odd and off my rocker, Retorting with
“Pride. The scent por butch, pour femme, pour non-binaire.”
It stank like bed-sweat, months after requiring a change of sheets, but with a gentle lilt of ripe apples after a summer rain. The tart musk hit like a curse, but the immediate familiarity of it pulled him in deeper. He inhaled desperately to keep chasing that soft bitter-sweetness beneath, as though burying his face into the pillow of a departed lover.
Love. Any colour, taste, or feel of it. We all love. For Valentine’s day 2018 our prompt was to write any short piece about romance or love, with the strict rule of not being cynical about it (for, in our edginess we often resort to treating it scathingly and mishandling love in our creative writing). I wanted to show that love, earnest love, could still be both happy and sad, without being cynical.
Volume in drive A is BOOTDISK Volume Serial Number is 0X14-4RN Directory of A:\ CONFIG SYS 0 30-01-2018 2:40p HELP SYS 22 23-09-2016 7:09a LIFE COM 42,000 28-01-2017 12:00p 3 files(s) 42,022 bytes 0 drive(s) 24,644 bytes free A:\>_ A:\>run LIFE +——————————————————————————–+ |
My love of Steven Universe knows no bounds, and so it is with great pride that I present fan poetry in anapestic tetrameter (with a cheeky iamb to start). This spoilerific homage/backstory to the show came from my love of the spectacular extended world that Rebecca Sugar and company have created. Sure, the lore is deep and mysterious, but this playful sci fi setting is a vehicle for messages of love, acceptance, bravery and equality, which makes it one of the most important tv shows of our time. My brother, Peter, liked the poem so much, that he fancied it up in a delightful poster for your enjoyment. I believe in Steven!
The challenge was to write something that was ‘against type’; in some way opposite to how you would usually write. I identified that my poetry usually sticks to rhyme and meter, and is mostly reliant on metaphor and simile. I tried to write a lovely seasonal piece without any of these things, and this is the result.
He wasn’t happy. He’d had enough of being teased by the others; always the butt of their jokes, always mocked and teased. He got it wrong. What an idiot. What a moron. What a dummy. They’d lived together amicably for a long time now. When they all first met they thought they’d
The final breath of a much appreciated rest at the mountain’s peak. A break in the clouds in the last afternoon of the working week. The dial tone after that long-delayed call to a distant friend. The visible bottom of the jar, signalling the peanut butter’s end. A single strip of green remaining for the