The Naval Architect

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

My eyes roll on a direct path
to my right hand - they always have -
ever since Dad primed my sight
to command made out lines .../


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Summer Solstice

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I can guarantee
that at three-AM
on our longest day .../


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Ashpan Texas

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Your waking place
is a hollow-man's town
with vacant homes
close to falling down
.../


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Furze

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

They grew low gorse
alongside their homes to
thorn-tie bright laundry
under drying high winds .../


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Centripetal

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I am in my blind tower -
only two carpeted floors
above those rain-runners
out on that constant road ../


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Before An Alarm

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I am abraided at five AM
to another sung summoning
of loud bird light beyond
my night-bared sash panes .../


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Russian Roulette

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I’ve heard that at Oxford Auden slept with a revolver under his pillow – Elizabeth Bishop A bolster-engineered solution works for my now nightly supine issues – no handgun is – yet – required – but poets can be miserable fuckers and that urge to fire off blank verse in that hot scrum of an...


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Breakages Will Be Paid For

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

If we retune our focal point to close-up local degrees – before losses mount and tip – we will shore our existence Beauty is frail underfoot and to be stepped lightly upon – not a fixed distance of uncrushable listed hillsides Those huge labelled targets are easily miss-able Our urgent responsibility is in within our...


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British Aisles

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Among slow movers in Waitrose – who have all the time in the world to hunt and gather tea time’s treat to eat under sheltered rooflines – there is a muttered dignity in aisles These retirees place select items in shallow trolleys as they stop-go Unhurried in their emeritus ways In its cafĂ© even us...


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Blown

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Throw them ever higher into blue skies to become black smoke and blown particles and do not care about age – infirmity or status of anyone – just soaring margins She turned into flight as sooty confetti A working lift? Is this Heaven? She saw London’s sawtooth lower jaw How cold she felt dropping as...


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