Pij
Matted.
Down and out.
The dust of crumbs
threaded through the sweat of rain,
preened out by an idle beak.
No matter that
the child kicked you,
the hawk hounded you
down and out.
You were Nelson’s friend
and you’re still mine.
The Worth of Words
Terse reply traded for verses
deemed mediocre laments
and lame attempts affirmed
in critique. Poetic powers weak
in designs drawn and quartered
among throngs of others’ work
executed with equal expectations.
Yet, failure
fans the heat of expansion
in mind where liberation
succeeds inane inspiration
freeing worthier words from a hand
then lacking but now intact
ready to be read again.
Susan Wilson is looking for people who not only hear what she is saying but are also listening. From East London, UK, she began writing poetry after her mother died in 2017. That loss opened the door to inspiration. She has been published by Lucy Writers, Snakeskin, Runcible Spoon, Dreich, Areopagus, Streetcake, Rue Scribe and Amethyst Review and her debut chapbook is “I Couldn’t Write to Save Her Life” (Dreich, 2021).