man
with a lead
no dog
DVDs
piled high
no player
milk
first cuppa
gone off
socks
washed
one missing
Richard Polley is a UK-based writer who focuses on short, minimalist poetry drawn from everyday observations. His work explores absence, routine, and quiet moments through simple, image-driven language.
Womb
Fist
for
Sinead O’Connor
if you haven’t heard
the hushed vanishing
of a wrecked
protest
angel,
then
tread softly
to this arrow.
Valley your ears
in prostration,
listen
to her
Danny Boy in acapella,
a shadow train
that
harmonizes
your
blood vessels,
body into a tuning fork
your heart an estuary,
an Eire meadow
set on fire
set free
All’s Fair in Love and Poetry
A Sestina for Taylor Swift
A troubadour with a typewriter soul, patient poet,
gams a-glitter, charred cat-eyed tinderbox burns
douchebags’ love letters into falcon folklore.
She seizes every comet’s train of treason, fearless
to rhyme, freeclimb sexism’s summit, reclaim era,
willow quill, ink slipped, writing her manuscript.
Arranges singed edged montages of manuscripts,
Joan tells it slant, never recant, kitten kismet poet,
blow your shimmer kisses in our dreamscape era.
Pandora’s Box no boy will open, and it burns
to say, not even him, phoenix muses keen in fearless
catharsis, kissing ash clouds into lip lined folklore.
Pollocked keys and diaries, jersey shore folklore
turned into wet troubadour’s maroon manuscript.
Stolen memoirs, her version, her vision, fearless
to break out of cages, go in grace, roasted poet.
Beneath betrayal, you find matches to burn,
dirty guillotines slam necks, restricted humanity era
bedazzled bow and sword, Shakti of Arc era
guard up, except in notebooks of Freya folklore
called “American whore” in cat-led chariot, a burn,
nowhere as clever as the Tain Celtic manuscript.
Sorcerers have red lips and everyone knows poets
are dangerous, word spells cast on men, fearless
rhyme against treason, this Chairman is fearless
slays twang, pop, rock, synth, cottage core eras
exes in exile send island postcards for poets
“wish you were here,” pocketful of karma folklore
tortures ricochet into the muses’ manuscript.
Love bombs have no returns, regret’s haze burns.
Melancholy maze of lip scars and midnight burns,
knows the foul scent of a smoking gun, so fearless.
In Rhyme We Trust, just write the manuscripts.
Her jams lift the tops of our heads, Dickinson era.
Showgirls know how to set a scene, In Folklore
We Trust, here kitty, kitty, key is in the treat, poet
Mouths become weapons in our forging era,
a fearless definition of truth and folklore.
Manuscripts are true stories, Sincerely, the Poet.
Hill
Woman
A
Pantoum for PJ Harvey
Dark room revenge
reverie uses winter’s
fingertips to reach the
keys, so help me Jesus.
Puff sleeves doused in gasoline; these
cunning threads escape loosely sewn seams.
She mirrors a dangerous
daughter, young
dish, white chalk in
water.
Sheela
na gig is ravenous, Magdalene’s big
dick energy guts the fish.
Puff sleeves doused in
gasoline; these cunning
threads escape loosely
sewn seams.
Seaweed wraps our cute cunts, spitting out
Persephone’s pomegranate seeds.
Sheela na gig is
ravenous, Magdalene’s big
dick energy guts the
fish.
Hemless sculpture silhouette, eye shadow
puppets cavort in harpie catsuits.
Seaweed wraps our cute
cunts, spitting out
Persephone’s pomegranate
seeds.
She mirrors a dangerous daughter,
young
dish, white chalk in water.
Hemless sculpture
silhouette, eye shadow
puppets cavort in harpie
catsuits.
Dark room revenge reverie uses winter’s
fingertips to reach the keys, so help me Jesus.
Tuesday
for
Billie Holiday
One Wednesday afternoon
after high school let out,
a thin-haired boy
introduced me
to samosas, mango
lassis, and Billie Holiday
all in the same hour.
Her moonlit music scooped me, spooned me
her velvet voice licking my white kitten ears.
The monotone boy may
have hoped
for some exchange, but
now only mango
on my tongue, and Billie’s world, existed.
I wouldn’t understand Strange Fruit
until years later, when magnolia trees
and southern breezes
changed for me.
Her smoking, joking,
poking,
on government lists, wouldn’t put up
with nobody’s shit and when she
opened
her mouth - anyone could see the
universe
if they wanted to, hear its sound in an arcane
infinite
river of crinkling record static.
How
to Become a Bad-Ass Witch
for
Stevie Nicks
1.
build
a nest of dried moss and crystal wands
2.
gather
lyrics and sage in fingerless gloves
3.
hover
near huts of synchronous moonlight
4.
stir
words into gold dusted wonders
5.
whisper
secrets in a wrought iron cauldron
6.
consecrate
everything with a tambourine
7.
spin
counterclockwise until you dervish
8.
stretch
your shawl wide like hawk’s wings
9.
ignite
change, make it holy by rooting deep
10.
dig
down in the toothy forest to firmament
11.
guide
us weary travelers with a witch ship
12.
navigate
misogyny sea, decks waterlogged
13.
shield
us from darkness of ego and power
14.
discern,
as a true sorcerer, power in balance
15.
draw
salt circles of protection
16.
climb
mountains in black lace pointy boots
17.
seek
solace in witchy little cabin of mischief
18.
machete
sadness swamps, weeping wetlands
19.
shapeshift
into red-winged blackbirds
20.
“find
your coven,” lay out the tarot cards
21.
illuminate
innate truths of Empress and Star
22.
hold
in wombs our molecular motherhood
23.
cast
spells with breast and bone,
24.
burn
beeswax candles, regency fan the flame
25.
learn
to fight, moon in Scorpio or Sagittarius
26.
get
mad, make a snack, grab a torch
27.
refuse
to stand down, aside, or back
28.
answer
questions in riddles, or more questions
29.
landslide
into sword’s reflection
30.
refuse
to be silenced, bounded, or restrained
31.
refuse
to use the lens liars look through
32.
avoid
trials where they press you with stones
33.
trust
your instincts when they try to hang you
34.
compost
the broken system into crumble dirt
35.
plant
placentas, grow sweet candied gardens
36.
take
fay flight above fur, wings, rocks, brooms
37.
peer
into valleys, look out over mountains
38.
draw
wombs on our foreheads in ash
39.
feel
a little bit Misty from time to time
40.
bend
fortune’s final hour into a surprise party
41.
save
your mind from chutes and shadows
42.
remind
us once again all reasons not to
43.
fill
our pockets with keys and rocks, not Woolf
44.
walk
into rage’s river, sanity under locks
45.
forgive
every version of yourself,
especially
that one
DRUMMER
I was always a drummer.
Five year old with a toy drum.
The electricity even then
in my hands and heart.
Restlessness finding its measure.
Something to pour itself into
like chopping your life
Into 4/4
Or making it skip
like a stone in 9/8.
Pencil beating the desk
just to get the poison out.
Hands bringing alive the
bottom of the waste can.
Zildjian cymbal ride
giving credence to
any little melody.
High pop of the mama bongo
saying the room is
already dancing.
Not a musician with
their beauty and discontent.
A drummer finds what is there.
No ending but just release
to give notice to the silence
that hey we won’t take that.
GRIEF
She arrives
a little while
after the death
and sits across
from me saying
I am the one
who must do this.
The others have left,
walking toward
the hills.
Her cloth bag
is emptied
on the carpet.
Light
inhales itself.
Darkness comes
without effort.
You must stay
with me.
You must learn
from me.
Your grief is
sunglasses
on a blind child.
Carry what you learn,
deep wound of
understanding,
farther than
the blue beyond.
Farther than
the yellow sun
can find its way.
LIFE OF
DOORS
I live my life of doors
within an amber inch of sleep
the thin light gains and loses
on my green rug like a wave.
I meet myself coming and going
only my privacy's saved.
I'd beat it down if words I chose
could hold the things
I'd have them keep.
I live my life of doors
within an amber inch of sleep.
SMALL PIECES
Give
me the wisdom
of
a flightless bird
but
let me fly
in
my dreams.
Take
me to the place
the
music started.
Teach
me to talk
the
orange language
of
the pumpkin
so
it can reveal
how
it came back to life
from
a dry seed.
Let
me love
without
purpose.
May
the wind
have
its wish
to
find somewhere
to
stay
and
the trees
have
their wish
to
travel.
May
I repeat myself
(repeat
myself)
only
when saying
what
drives my mind
above
the speed limit.
Let
the riddle
remain
unanswered,
as
we dance
to
the question.
SO MANY TIMES
So many times
I have been a bell
that cannot hear
itself.
Vibrating from the
sound
which disappears
over the ridge
like an
announcement
to what needs it.
Touching the eager
ear,
the heart’s half
which is broken
from chances not
taken.
The long road
forward
and the longer
road back
to when we were
content
just to see the
sky
dancing in
boundless wonder.
And the deep sleep
when there was
darkness
so absolute
the leaving light
kissed us
goodnight.
Geoffrey Godbey has published four books of poetry, most recently Lean Toward the Light by Finishing Line Press in 2024. His work has appeared in over 50 outlets including The Nation and The World and I. His poetry has also appeared in several high school textbooks. He was a Festival Poet for the Central PA. Festival of the Arts. U.S. Poet Laureate Donald Hall praised his work and tried to get him a major publisher.
Beautiful Things are
Born from the Dark
Lovers entwined
bats flutter
mesmerized by night
moths
hoot of a barn owl
at the moon man
the waves crest
hypnotically
along the bay
Deep under the
dark
beautiful things are
born
the coyotes on their
hunt
their blonded fur
and green eyes
glow under the
moonlight
the trees speak
through their splintered
branches
create a frame
around the dark
of beautiful night
Malfunction
I didn’t fight
nor scream
accepted your
burdens
so heavy and absurd
I became you
as you entered me
and you became
death
rotting me from the
inside
I can scream now
no one exists on this
earth
to want
to hear it
Unremarkable Days
These breaking
waves
call to me
as time spills in
to this incredible
Pacific - or is it that time spills out
into endlessness??
There’s a man fishing
along the shore
he’s been at it all day
caught nothing but huge
clumps of seaweed
he seems calm, endless
too
it’s all a funnel - the
sea, the inertia of the catch
the realization it may
not be what you ever expected
Passersby walk the
beach
stare up at this
balcony
yes I’m here on it —
don’t judge
you don’t know my
wars
I envy the
fisherman
the seduction of his
wait
there isn’t any torture
or impatience
simply a quiet knowing
that a fish
will eventually
bite
things do turn - those
peaks and valleys
Only yesterday
my husband mentioned he
had so many photos
in his iPhone…..thousands
what will happen to them
when we die?
will they be uploaded to
some motherboard
of dead people pics
and remain on that cloud
eternally
does it really matter?
Yes Mr. Fisherman you
finally caught one!
no pics
only I watched
from my balcony
basking in your happiness
Dear Ma
Here I sit
you’re dust
and I’ve just begun to
whither
so now I know
everything you said
thirty something years
ago
has come to be
back then I shut all
your witchy
predictions
down
You’d wait up
hear me wobble in
higher each night
burning up wild
in some planet of my
little universe
that I sustained until
your death
I created a love song
for us
the lyrics scrawled
across the stars
because we know
you’re there
on a throne
incredibly queened
at last
Others would say
you’re at the right hand
of Satan
those others also dead
now
they didn’t know
all that I do
about your perils
and the burying of your
secrets
to protect some
future
family jewels
All dust now and I’ve
never told - some vows kept past death
I’m still here
only you - and whichever
side of the forces you landed on - know why
Bent as bent could ever
be
broken and drying
brittle
I close in…maybe
And you smile
across the night
sky
if it’s all happening
together at one time
it was never truly so
bad
was it now?
car full tank nowhere to go man with a lead no dog DVDs piled high no player milk first cuppa gone off socks washed one missing Richard Po...
