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Kevin J Taylor Dec 2016
The road that lies below rests deep and still.
No moon to light the snow. The sky is clear.
Heads back and arm in arm—eyes wide!
This winter night—This holiness we feel!

So spill the lights of Heaven into sight
Illumined, rising, falling—Shifting grace.
Upon the starry sweep of Christmas night,
In ribbon-folds of light and dark it sways

Above the shepherd pines and hemlock choirs.
There— This night! The sky! The lights!
The stars! The fire!
Above! Across! Dear God—
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
ryn Dec 2014
Pinholes
punched through
my
canvas of night

An
array of stars
strewn across
Darwin's
blanket of black

Quiet
and
reassuring
are my
Northern Territory
lights

Like salve
to my
mind,
soul
and
inconspicuous cracks
I can see more stars here than I ever could back home...
Incubus' "Wish You Were Here" came to mind.
CA Guilfoyle Apr 2017
Clear water, drinking in - earth soaked
purple violets and fiddle head ferns
cold bulbs and garden tubers, buds and flowers unfurl.
The mating clash of birds, their chirpy squawks and words
an aromatic lilac trance in a variance of blue.
Grass and toes, cool and cold
northern winds of spring.
Chris Neilson Aug 2018
Along the bus filled corridor
from the south of the city
through the Victorian architecture
of Withington and Fallowfield
to the world food of Rusholme
with its plethora of barber shops
shoe shops, shisha bars, cafes
Philips Park and the eye hospital
then the university quarter
students like woolly hatted ants
a human tide of books and backpacks
our future professional generation
of doctors, scientists and philosophers
part time poets and musicians

Into the city centre bustle 
of hipsters and hustlers
high flyers and homeless
rough sleepers and penthouses
side by side in a sea of incongruity
The roman settlement of Castlefield
now sky scraping soulless concrete
in this original city of industry
where workers downed tools 
in cotton mills for anti-slavery 
American Civil War brethren
built on old world immigration
integrated into a working class
of blue collars, graft and toil
bones of its makers in its soil

Images of the lost industries
now decorate ornate beautiful bees
scattered in and around the urban sprawl
timely reminders of our heritage
of Northern grit in all its colours
of invention, science, sport, music and art
of protest, achievement and inspiration
a city that's historical
a city for the here and now
a city for future nascent talent
a city that's changed the world
Manchester, a city for all ages
I wrote most of this after returning from a hospital appointment earlier this year but have now added to it to bring it up to date
Northern Poet Oct 2017
She broke his heart
It needed stitches
Then he said
All women are witches

She let him down
You’re not to blame
I’m leaving this town
It’s not the same
We had love
But it went away
What could have been
Wasn’t meant to stay

He can’t sleep
And his body itches
Then he said
All women are witches

One bad experience
Cut him deep in side
Deeper and deeper
With a rusty old knife
What was once love
Wasn’t meant to be
You’ll get over her
And those memories

The mind weeps
While the body twitches
Then he said
All women are witches

He took the wrong path
And he walked the line
She took him for granted
While he bought her wine
She lied to his face
Time after time
An utter disgrace
He’s now doing just fine
It's never easy
But you've got to let go
Enough is enough
I’m tired of this show
Now he's free as a bird
And back on track
He’s ****** her off
And got his life back

Now she’s gone
He removed the stitches
And no longer thinks
All women are witches
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