by Ryan Stone

Clock hands circle lethargically. Heels
clack, a distant speaker hisses –
muted, surreal.

I shift on a green vinyl chair, eyes
trace an arc from clock to window.
Outside, a succubus sun
kisses children at play.

At my father’s bedside, both of us
wish I wasn’t. I despise myself
for watching the minutes, and him

for teaching me to. Broken
conversations keep awkward vigil
for something long dead.

155th Weekly Poetry Contest

by Lee Nash

both you
and the moon tonight
a second late


(First published in The World Haiku Review, Summer 2017)

154th Weekly Poetry Contest

by Ciarán Parkes

The wheel, the most precious piece in basic sets of Lego, seldom used by young children who prefer to build block on block or merely throw the stuff around, often goes off by itself, rolling under heavy furniture where it isn’t missed until something more ambitious is being planned and then it can’t be found.  

154th Weekly Poetry Contest

by Ciarán Parkes

A lake the size
of a small room

an island no bigger
than a single bed

when you set out in your boat
you've already arrived

to lie on your back
beneath a dazzling sun

so small you can blot it out
with one finger

153rd Weekly Poetry Contest

by Lee Nash

A sketch of the game
folded in your pocket,
we buttoned up, left
our drained espresso cups,
the ornate pieces locked in war.
At home, my boxwood
and my rosewood just laid out,
I settled on the sofa, a woman
within grasp,
yet after a confident opening
of all the moves
you could have made, you chose
check, and checkmate.


(First published in Shot Glass Journal, Issue #23, October 2017.)

153rd Weekly Poetry Contest