Poetry Corner 1

The Art of Bird Feeding

Furtively the finches look

back and forth,

then go on selecting,

or sit content watching me,

watching them.

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So,

I take my time approaching, and wait.

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The feeder may be down a bit,

empty,

or on some days,

missing.

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This is the art of bird feeding

(I’m learning)

knowing when to come,

when to go,

when to rest and watch.

By Antoni Ooto,

Antoni is an internationally published poet and flash fiction writer. Well-known for his abstract expressionist art, Antoni now adds his voice to poetry. Reading and studying the works of many poets has opened another means of self-expression. His recent poems have been published in Amethyst Review, The BeZine, Green Ink Poetry, The Poet Magazine, Brown Bag Online, The Wild Word, and many journals and anthologies. He lives and works in upstate New York with his wife poet/storyteller, Judy DeCroce.

‘In Safe Hands’

Our home, our planet,

our marble of blue.

Made of land and oceans,

what have we done to you?

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A blue dot amongst black,

merely a speck.

With us as our passengers,

soon to be a wreck.

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Revolving and orbiting

around a bright star

for millions of years,

it’s come so far.

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Origin unknown.

People have guessed.

We have tried to look after it,

but we haven’t done our best.

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We know we've some work to do,

that much is true.

Planet Earth, do not worry,

we will save you.

By Kit Williams.

Kit has worked as a Parrot Keeper and an Animal Management Lecturer in the past, and now works as an Employability Skills Tutor. He has worked with animals and students for the last fifteen years, and has many hobbies including reading, wildlife photography, crafting, and creative writing. Whilst working with Further Education students aged 16+, Kit taught many subjects which compassed the diverse and intriguing detail of the animal world, including global ecology, conservation, and British wildlife.

Crests of the hills ablaze

Crests of the hills ablaze.

Our days have turned orange,

The in-between congealed.

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We struggle to breathe in

The immobility

Of space solidified.

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The microscopic shards

Of glass, of ash, fill in

Our masks, our cavities –

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Nasal, buccal. We breathe

Through plaster, an imprint

Of what used to be space.

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It must be how it feels

To be a fish in a

River of filth. What cost

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The work of men, slashing

And burning their own hands.

Their hope: that death will wait

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At the door, for profit.

By Lorelei Bacht (she/they)

Lorelei is a European poet living in Asia. When she is not carrying little children around or encouraging them to discover the paintings of Edvard Munch, she can be found collecting bones and failing scientific experiments. She has also been known to befriend orb weavers and millipedes. Her recent work can be found and/or is forthcoming in OpenDoor Poetry, Litehouse, Visitant, Quail Bell and The Wondrous Real. She is also on Instagram.