Skip to main content

Why Do the Sunflowers Smile?

                                         Vincent van Gogh, 'Sunflowers' (1888)

Do you have a secret?
Are your serotonin levels so high?
Absorbing yellow radiance,
you seem powered direct from the sun.
Bending benevolent heads
you shower me with joy,
with the abundance hoarded
in your life-giving seed,
stored up, it seems, for a future
when heads hang heavy,
sunlight recedes
and winter has come again.

Anon



Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

White Hawthorns

The day speaks of white hawthorn Sundays Long washed out road trips, reluctant relatives waving you off on arrival. Rain from decades passed, a swishing of glimpses. Parents cramped and fretful. Passing through a littered accompaniment of faceless outlines. Stretched out warming children, car sick, scrunch up weathered newspapers. Pungent smells of nostalgia, almost Springs bouncing forward hours. Eager sweet wrappers lunge for half opened windows to adorn the floating blossom clouds of hawthorn bushes, March’s winds step in much like a bone-chilled but amiable hitch hiker. A querulous sibling rolls over, sickening, falls out in a screeching of tires. Tearfully rain-splattered. Another weekend pulled out and pegged up, redolent of adolescences quickly traversed. Mark Ereira-Guyer
View Poem »

Alone (with the birds)

I’m not good at numbers; words are more my thing but I dabble in statistics and the mathematics of probability. Chance I call it. I’m not often alone. Not often silent, except that companionable silence when you’re lost in your thoughts, but in good company. Surprised all at once by a squawk, a solitary moorhen deep in the reeds, minding its own business, today I’m out practising, sitting alone in the sunshine. Together, we come here often, striding up the cliff-top, dawdling through Kensington Gardens, pointing out fading displays of dahlias and falling leaves. We order americanos at the café, with a jug of hot milk on the side – ‘that’s hot milk, please’ – to make our stay last a bit longer. Today, though, it’s just coffee for one. I consider a cappuccino, a break from routine; old habits are hard to break. ‘Americano’ I say, ‘with hot milk, please’. Would I change if I were left alone? The moorhen seems content. Does it ponder the meaning of life? A seagull soars into the blue – doe
View Poem »

Erosion

Unerring yet erratic The weight of water never waits for readiness Sandstone is proven to be a two-faced liar a pretence of solidity written into the features of its rockface which crumbles under a wave’s supremacy and we wave goodbye to all we knew Lynne Nesbit
View Poem »

Leper Chapel - Mosaics of Time

Mudstone mosaics and jumbled fractures - an uneven puzzle waiting; holy stone with leper marks, dotted and spotted black. Ever expanding lichen rings with double oil-spotted rainbow; angular rust-like stains Testing the presence of time. Clenched into cracks Of weathered rocks and broken messages; scarlet snapdragons trailing their cardinal stems. Damp buttress of moss clinging, Festooning the flint; ink spots, stone measles, proud thistle commanding the base. Random yet structured, closely inter-twined cobwebs Fastened carefully to parched and pocketed stones. Chaotic yet ordered toad-like grotesque within; marking essences of devoted and hidden faces. Picture flints grinning their caramel coffee smiles amongst Anglian crags, embracing their forgotten cousins. Stephanie To see the inspiration for this poem and hear it being narrated at the remains of the Leper Chapel, Dunwich, visit this page from our Chronicles of Greyfriars project website.
View Poem »

River Stour, Sudbury

Mirror of ripples, floating tangles and bubbly foam. Swans racing The togetherness Of aqua. Sallow splashes Poplars tremble And minds drift. Jungle of reeds On vertical plane Moorhen hideout. Anon.
View Poem »

Stones of Old

Tell me your song oh stones of old of the summers that warmed you and the strike of the cold the voices of song absorbed in your heart the anger and fear that tore you apart. Speak to me of church bells and whispered dreams the rough hands that gathered your broken seams the waterways that carried your bones of lime the soft crunch of bread and red rivers of wine. Who did you cradle in your shadowed arch as the songbirds heralded the soldiers march as battles raged in the skies ahead and you sheltered your spiders in a stony bed? Is the wear on your shoulders the marks of the wild or the scrape of a heel from a venturing child? Discarded windows frame the dance of time Oh tell me your stories great stalwarts of lime.     Emmalene  
View Poem »

Feathers

It’s as if all the birds In every weather Had dropped every feather The weight sometimes Of all those why's A ton of lead Or a ton of words unsaid Down on a feathered bed The weight belies The width of squawks When the birds are dead And they sing remembering When a ton of song Weighed the same as Fly away Autumns Flu away fall Feather or not Bird at all. Stephen Kirin
View Poem »

Pandemic

Piecing together all our hopes and dreams, joining the broken fragments of our lives, managing the pain of another loss, full of joy when finally together, society’s fabric hangs by a thread. Julia Duke
View Poem »

Above a Sea of Fog

Caspar David Friedrich, 'Wanderer above a Sea of Fog' (c.1818) She once said I looked like a graceful swan drifting serene across the surface of the water, giving no clue to the feet paddling so furiously beneath me. It was a cliché, small comfort unless you are obsessed with appearances. His wandering, like mine, is threatened by the drifting mist that twists and turns, obscuring paths that lie ahead, decisions that weigh so heavily on lesser minds, not lightly made. Masterful he looks, above this boiling sea, so nicely turned out, so dapper in his neatly tailored coat, perched high above the reach of such disorder, never likely to muddy his resolve. Webbed feet paddle beneath me so constantly I am not always aware. I dress well, tie back my unruly hair leaving a wisp or two free to roam. I do not want to look severe. But the fog creeps. Julia
View Poem »