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Editor’s choice
Poem of the Day
Today · 25 October 2026Entrapment
— Nick Cooke 2026
Son of God? In truth I was left uneasy,Wishing it more thought than said. In its placeI revelled in Son of Man: this did keepMy followers entranced but gave less spaceTo those who sought my ruin. God made queasyThe mind so wrapped in faith it longed for sleep. Time proved me wise. The High Priest asked me straightWas I the Son of God, and though I tried(Lord help me) to equivocate, they’d foundThe hint of blasphemy so long denied.What need we further witnesses – the gateOf reason collapsed as I hit the ground… Even the servants beat me. Prophesy!Who is’t that smote thee? What would they have saidIf I had answered, He that denies meAs we speak, e’en as slaves dare touch my head.He that first used the killing phrase doth lie –Three times to your Godforsaken spies he Curses and shrugs; think ye I even feelYour clumsy buffets? I would laugh to scornEach one of you, were mockery the aimOf He who means to drive this final mornTo the bitterest end, and then to stealFirst thunder, then the scene, and last – His Name.
Without Honour
— Nick Cooke 2026
Art thou not the Jesus we know?The carpenter – old Joseph’s son?Then wherefore believest thou thyselftransformed into the Chosen One? Little of true wrath survivedin he who spread the wings of love;yet that familial mockery(sent, I must assume, from above) poisoned everything I achievedthereafter. What was Mary’s linein suddenly quitting the pastand denying what was mine as announced by the Lord Himselfthrough (could she forget!) the angel?Thirty doting years, it seemed,had proved long enough to change all sense of herself and of her Son.No wonder I turned my backwhen they appeared at Templeseeking me out. And then the lack of support at the very end…Michelangelo be damned:only in John does Mary cometo the Cross, and the door is slammed in her unweeping face when Igive her away to the “disciplewhom I loved”, and off she goeswith him – even the Bible fails to produce a shred of proofof any “Pietà”! And wherewere my brothers and sisters allwhen my clothes were torn and the air rang out with lashes? I hate to thinkthey were down there urging Pilate onbut in the bitterest momentssuch is believable. Upon this sea of gall much good did flow,I suppose, and without itwho can say I’d have been so driven?Thus you can see how it might fit God’s holy plan, which demandeda leader with something to provein the eyes not just of his flock.But this hasn’t sufficed to remove all doubts; and though God knows His motionsmust be slavishly respected,in truth I don’t see Mary muchup here – formal events excepted.
For Tara
— Gill Gregory 2026
Time beginning with thin slipsof paper in your gift in the palm of a handfresh dreams sifting truth. I stand beside a wellspringimagining you in the stillness of deer and kind hearts.
Fear
— Gill Gregory 2026
When I was small in my shoes I carried tiny scraps of paper lists in pencil faintingwhere I trod ‒ listen to everyone, listenlisten, listen (white rabbits thunderingthrough tunnels telling time ‒ ) I cut the faded bitsinto tiny scraps of paper I buried them in cornerswell-acquainted with the night ‒ * in my forties I beganto find slim volumes in the cleft of ancient trees.
Apple and Pomegranate
— Judy Dinnen 2026
I slip between the hangingsof the years,looking for light.In the arena of time, I pace.It appears in my dream,a sliver of light,light freed into gold,blue, green, apple, pomegranate,the dream world of my soul.The room is there,bathed in mystery,stepping stone to the present.The glow is minimal,incense barely perceptible,plain song, heaven’s murmur.One thing I know is, I’m alive.
The end of Rose’s life
— Judy Dinnen 2026
Slowly Rose’s life was dismantled,her favourite chair, the cornflowerblue tea set, once her mother’s,the brown, tiled mantlepieceand the grey, pottery horsethat grazed there, shelves onceladen with her jam, all in the skip.Slowly her days and nightswere torn into minutes, ticks,and then awkward oblivion.Her stories and words werepicked syllable from syllable.The darts of her life were steeredinto the heartless, metal skip.Her friend watched as the skipfilled with cupboards and hope.She sighed and felt a fragmentof herself tip into the high,orange vessel bound for ignominy.‘Rose, I’ll remember you!’She muttered to the damp air.
The thing is
— Susan Jane Sims 2026
There is another grief —an add-on grief to what has come before.Like a snake sloughingoff its skinand coming back just as fresh. I don’t say yes to life.I have always found lifemore complex than that.I don’t refuse it either. I make tea.I write things down.I notice the tree outside the windowdoing what trees dowithout asking permission.A squirrel runs its branches,quick as lightning. I read a message about my grandchildren.I smile. This life is a series of happenings.Some choice, yes. Some random events.Some fate perhaps? Yet here’s the thingWhatever the occurrence,I can choose my response to it.Hour by hour,minute by minute.I can choose.
In My Hands
— Johanna Boal 2026
Don’t look at the exterior of my handsignore the chipped nail varnish, broken nail,bruised fingers, look at the muscle and bonessee how precisely they connect. In the fields, think about the frameworksee beneath the surfacethe dragging ropes tied togetherrolling stones, see in the grass and mud. Digging networks – deserts and watersand, lime came in small and large stones,neatly piled in size order for the workpeople gathered with their hands. Carving and slicing, scrape and cutred blood oozing contrasting coloursblackbirds, lichen, seasons – bronze worthy sculpturesformed dry stone walls in North Yorkshire.
Work and Duty
— Johanna Boal 2026
In the beginning, at the train station: bells and whistles chimed.His careful hands specialised, pry apart her eyepicking out the coal grit, boiling water for the tea,steam rising and paint peeling on the walls. She thought of a miner – his high-visibility clothing –the gabardine coat, teacups clinked, engine drivers chatting,hanging from the big ceiling the chandelier actedas his hard hat with Davey lamp lit the refreshment room. Casually they meet on Thursdays to watch the filmsintense and emotional Rachmaninov music:Back at the station, engines running, ticket inspectors,the black soot on the tracks once in the seam of a wall of coal, honourable backbone, they want to love each other but the heavy-dutymachinery of convention – married to other people.Both aware of the tearoom assistant tidying the table and chairs.She cries at home and her husband thanks her for coming back to him.
Blood Relatives
— Patricia Brody 2026
Slicing rare beef, she hears chatter from the cooking showher husband watches daily,We’re in Budapest, Bourdain says, Let there be blood!Let it be in this form, let the blood squirtacross your plate when you press itwith your fork Her husbandfrom Poland, eats pork, and she, not koshereats it too, at Christmas with cloves.He’s never got used to being un-nativeAnd they joke about Godhis, hers, they talk Jesus, they talk liver,talk chicken fat vs. butter.Not to stray from the beastthey love best: he who meows keenlyat the door, this buttery boy is who she would beif she were four-legged.Siamese dancer, seal-point so cuddled –Do you know how they look: Black nose,four black paws, black tail, black, apple-heart shaped face,snowy chest and body, blue eyes crossed,peering, peering into your eyes come morning.
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