5 POEMS Book 5 launched.
I have completed the last of my practise ebooks series '5 POEMS', that offer a bite sized taster of my poetry.
Hoping that readers like these, and that they generate interest in the 4 full sized collections available to purchase from the publisher -The Onslaught Press, Amazon, Bookshops and other retailers.
These are :
The Lost Box of Eyes
ident
tommorow is the tugboat of today
sound about hot
Best Regards,
Alan John Stubbs
Announcing the publication of a series of Kindle ebooks available to buy on amazon as a taster, in small bites, of my poems.
The books published todate are :
5 POEMS Book 1 available here 5 POEMS
5 POEMS Book 2 available here 5 POEMS 2
5 POEMS Book 3 available here 5 POEMS Book 3
5 POEMS Book 4 available here 5 POEMS Book 4
If you would like to try my poems before investing in one of my 4 poetry collections please consider trying one of these.
Scan.
Is the black an atmosphere, or mud-flats, or fluid?
White body? The white
appears intact inside of the sound
of itself,
a heart is beating loosed
within pale overarchings,
—a bud yearning to spring open
whatever lock restrains
so that what was a chamber of stillness
breaks to be released,
reaches.
Is it weightless?
Aware of its own weightlessness?
I am anxious of the unknown, for it,
its diaphragm rises and falls and rises in
‘practise breaths’
the Midwife says, as she measures and listens
—and we all listen
to blood’s flow through arteries and veins.
This is the cord in section,
a section through the cord.
Why then does this machine not show it
reaching out and running like a cable should
and plugging in shocking us deep beneath our skin.
This is the landscape of the nose, the open
mouth. I remember
hearing memory begins
when words are used for things.
Alan John Stubbs.
Dream
When I realised she was made of ash
and all of the talking, talking, talking. Not
the ash that consolidates about a sapling
but what remains after a fierce conflagration.
A black and grey ash that disperses
eventually breaking to a dust, rather than
the rich blood ash that burnt peat becomes.
When I realised she was made of ash
and waiting, waiting, waiting for some
words to stop her from breaking, I was
afraid that a touch would dry the river
or raise a flood, and understood that her
words would be a wind to raise the good
earth from the charred bones of the land.
Like an anchor
holds close to the shore
it used to be a wise sailor
would tend a crow,
keeping it close
on a long journey, so
that lost he might throw it
up out of the nest
to soar high above
the clouds and see
a line they could follow
to safe land
and tomorrow.....
rail replacement bus service.
the green gleam of leaves turning
metal, fragile, brittle, is changing
as we traverse water that is still
across the road on the way in to Aspatria after
the flood, just a small flood this time
three hundred or so houses emptied out
Oh! but the light is breaking the sky
through a low cloud so forbidding
up high is a blue clear high, and the view
as we descend to the train station by
the Lake District Creamery with it's ageless
sign, a black and white cow and a milk churn -
is of a builders yard with a white van, and the usual
stacks of used wooden pallets
the bus reverses into to turn back
up the road at Johanna Terrace - but what
a light – all encompassing
everything bright as a button
a yellow wagon smiles into reverse letting us on
two horses in a field are
waked by the sun
West Street Health Centre stands ablaze
across the street the Red Lion slumbers in shade
the black faced sheep have never looked so clean
electricity pylons are positively gleaming
and the tops of hedges - shocked into a last
thrust up in the air
are a child's hair under the influence
