Skip to main content

Dust by Chris Hemingway


Hold that thought.
Hope it relaxes.
Let it know every notion
has a place.
That sometimes polished thoughts
are the ones you should trust least.
That truths lurk on broken shelves
in run down holiday homes.

Park that thought.
But do it unaided.
Let it rest without uniform
or privileged space.
The best letters look the same
in rear-view mirrors.
Short words fill gaps
on scrabble boards, in silences.

Hold that thought.
Like it’s on the verge of falling.
Let it know every surface
tells a story.

---

Chris Hemingway is a poet and songwriter from Cheltenham.  His first pamphlet “Party in the Diaryhouse” was published by Picaroon Poetry in 2018, and he has previously self-published two collections, “The Future” and “Cigarettes and Daffodils”.

He helps run Gloucestershire Writers Network, Cheltenham Poetry Festival and the “Squiffy Gnu” poetry prompt blog.  You can find out more about Chris by visiting his personal website just here.

Comments

  1. tbwzkidvw21 January 2023 at 12:24

    Remember that gambling isn't a method to earn cash, and you need to} by no means spend money on on line casino games that you are be} not|that you're not} 100% snug with shedding. By claiming your unique on line casino welcome bonus, find a way to|you possibly can} play your high games for real money, with out wagering your own. Join PlayOJO to play Live Casino games online and as a brand new} participant you will get a fairer welcome bonus with 50 Free Spins on one of OJO's favourite online slots together with your first deposit. Without a doubt, Evolution {is one of the|is among the|is likely one of the} market leaders phrases of|in relation to} live casinos. Active since 2006, Evolution has introduced numerous improvements and revolutionary options to the desk. After you’ve discovered an acceptable recreation and played to your heart’s content material, you’ll have one more 온라인카지노 necessary step to cover.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time
93 comments
Read more

Smoking and Swearing by Ian Manson

He’s stood outside, he’s on his break. He’s unsure whether to be smoking or swearing. He decides on both. Inhale. Fuuuck! Inhale. Fuuuck! A person, a visitor, or a patient. Heading to the hospital, sees his scrubs and scowls. “ It’s not very professional for a nurse to be smoking and swearing. ” But he doesn’t care. He’s already done his good deed for the morning and by midnight he’ll have done a dozen more. Yesterday was a paltry four. Tomorrow’s shift will be five or two or maybe eight, and another night of finishing late. Inhale. Fuuuck! He breathes a cloud of smoke. Watches it swirling, ascending, a spirit en-route to heaven. The person’s saintly sanctimony means nothing to him. Because he’s on his break. And he’s smoking, and he’s swearing. --- Originally from Scotland, Ian has lived and worked in Worcestershire for the last 11 years. He can normally be found performing his poetry and prose at events on the Worcester spoken word scene
24 comments
Read more

“Are You So Tired Then, Stranger?” by Ace Boggess

  —Dick Allen, “B&B”    Wind exhausts with its icy fists. Knives of rain wear me down, & leaves in their helicopter swirls like leaflets dropped from a plane. October depletes me, & November. They’ve too much busyness. They send me spinning, dancing, lonely with the rake, the broom. I surrender, collapsing like an old barn, debris of me piling in a chair with clear view of the television.  News is on. It spends me. Talk of politics, also. I’d like  to shut up the voices that fatigue. They hum like a B-flat in the pipes. They bicker & scold, condemn. They expend me like carrying  groceries up a flight of stairs  until I’m too drained to care  which side they’re on. --- Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, including  Escape Envy  (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021),  I Have Lost the Art of Dreaming It So , and  The Prisoners . His writing has appeared in  Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, Mid-American Review,  and other journals. An ex-c
1 comment
Read more