Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Poets.
The magic of a moment
In the blink of an eye, a moment can change, A chance encounter, a life rearranged. A simple word, a single glance, Can set a heart aflutter with a newfound chance.
Jacob SergentPublished 11 months ago in PoetsThe Scene of the Mime
THE SCENE OF THE MIME SET By the Home County of Kent on the purple grasses beneath its pinkened skies [o chalky land of Kent]
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsAn Addicting Distraction
Drawn to all the possibilities it holds Illuminated by its cold, blue glow. I Scroll, Transfixed in its perpetuity. Rejigging my
Orange OasisPublished 11 months ago in PoetsHow Shall Man/Woman be Paraphrased?
Its leafage is all of red gold, grove of giving, dealing gentle flame, grown in freely-giving friendship beware, there are false laurels
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsLaddie Thinks
have you ever mentioned to someone you know that you're a poet and then they give you that look that funny face a withering stare or glare
My mother
Oh, my dear mother, so lovely and kind, Your love is the most precious thing I'll ever find. With each passing day, my love for you grows,
Patrick PreciousPublished 11 months ago in PoetsPapa Pasteur
LOUIS PASTEUR (type scientifique) Hermes may have brought Robbery, but also the Scientific Method. Introduce us O Camenae
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsPASIPHAE: and the Birth of the Minotaur
O PASIPHAE A Queenly Interlude o unhappy maid, what madness seized your captured heart and pounded your yearning womb to such unnatural lusts! Fortunate she indeed if there had never been flocks—Pasiphae love-slave to the wild white bull stud
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsTrees and Kennings
sheepnotes and goatnotes CUDDIE TRIES TO REVIEW TREES AND KENNINGS he forgot long ago Glasir being named the tree whose leaves are of red gold
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsIDYLL
IDYLL while I weary myself with reading aloud there you are weaving a basket of fluvial wicker still moist and pliant and the must fomenting with the bubbly hiss of a hoarsest whisper drones midday from the wine vats with the cicada locustals’ bass continuo underlining; while the roots of the sylvan beech hold in the ebullient waters from eroding the humus of soil-cake underneath and the branches above ramify into a kind of textual shelter-place for weary wanderers in word land. There are shadows inter-insinuated in segments,
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsCorkscrewed
"Cork-Screwed" He walked in like he owned the place Though she had kicked him out weeks ago Setting down a cheap bottle of wine for her
Patti Marrs MagillPublished 11 months ago in PoetsHibernation
HIBERNATION unwind get wise get wine for the HIBERNATION spell YULE LOG Bûche de Noël, meditate muses Cozy Cottage Focus inside me, sooty warm
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in Poets