wand poets backup

Loose Words

There is a thing called a poem

like a moonbeam held in the palm

gone as soon as it is remembered

There is a memory of who I once was

before I knew that I was

the first time I saw my face in the mirror

There is a mirror, a bright shiny thing

that stands between you and I

and cracks as I reach in and cut my hand

There is a scar on my hand from the day

I shattered that mirror. Do you remember?

It was blue and you said its reflection told lies

There is  mirror that I hold

in this scar that is my memory

that I give to you  here in this poem

Laura Hymers

This day has closed too soon

I am standing on the cold stones

of the humming garden alone

thinking of you.

When will you come?

autumn whispers through the trees.

Are you there in the streets

watching me as my heart starts  to numb

Anya Nin

You and me babe

To the end.

Through loneliness

And craziness,

This natural seesaw

That anchors

And lifts off

propels and pulls.

We make demands,


But beneath it all,

I want


And you want me

and we want to be


You and me,

And the one

In between

And life really is as

As simple

As that

We propel and pull

Past loneliness.

Our headiness,

Halfway falling

And all a-tiptoe tap

Upon our seesaw's

Sea shattered slats.

A pair of persian pierrots

With baby bache

On our back

As the swinging anchor


Ticks off

Our tri-soul's fragile minutes,

Our fat love watches on,

Waiting out,

The rumble tumble lift

The stratospheric soar

To a scene

Beyond the shore

*bache is persian for child

Lay, languidly in my dreams

Lay, languidly in my dreamy mornings

With you a new dawning.

In my dreams and heart

Your sonorous voice

Enraptures me

And leads me on course.

So lay languidly

In my dreamscapes.

Life is as we give,

We make

Charles Wiseman

Copyright © 2013 Wand Arts Review www.thewand.org.uk. All rights reserved

River Ambler


When I stand on Battersea Bridge with you,

I wonder why I ever went out,

Stomping the pavements of Europe

With my limp torn Baedecker

Fraying in the heat

Why did I crave to see first hand

The stories I gorged on through winters,

When our bones contain all the world,

And you alone,

in your ambling way,

Can knit us into being.

Laura Hymers