Great Poetry Circle

Great Poetry Circle

About the Poetry Blog

Selection of Great Poetry and some from Tommy Stroller - choose your category - and see my other sites -

Croatian Scapes

TS InscapePosted by Tommystroller Thu, November 01, 2018 08:49:44

Rainy Sunday

I am so lazy

on this sodden Sunday

the city is empty

the cafes lie down in a bath

of salty water

the umbrellas drip

like lonely children

on a Scottish outing

someone has nicked

the white houses of Opatja

across the bay

but the casino

is still no doubt

open - I sit

no longer with coffee

toast or money

the world spins slowly

away from me

and my cigar

whispers smoke secrets

in the ear

of the ashtray

something has departed:

the last train to Ljubljana

sounds like a wall

I cannot climb

Tito’s Yacht

There is a place

in forested Croatia

a little port town

Where Tito kept

a little yacht

so similar to

An English queen’s

And in a cafe

overlooking the harbour

I once sat

for an hour

Waiting for

my love to come

and looked over

the Adriatic

But only fishing boats

back from their nightly soundings

came to greet me

Their fish

winking at me with sad eyes

and in the distance


Extraordinary Homecoming

Extraordinary homecoming

This journey to the heart

Of a foreign land

Croatia’s tears are merely smiles

To Europe’s hopeful peacemakers

I tread the tightrope of north to south

My silent fall is mystery

To all my watchers

Yet still the net quivers

When all the clowns have entered

The drum too trembles on

& reverberates with history

Spiral Thoughts

Rijeka is my inspiration

For so many spiral thoughts

Galaxies of lives

Interwoven into the coming of the night

Glittering stars and rose-red reflections

Cries of children

Refusing to come home

Rijeka Weather


In a cloudless evening sky

The mountains eat the sun

The sun drinks the sea

One last blue-red reflection

Before the world turns away from me


The clouds stroke the mountains

The mountains feed the streams

The streams bubble into the sea

The sea embraces the clouds

The clouds piss rain

And the rain? It falls on me

Istrian Twilight

Above the mountain

the cloud mountains of the sky

Above the sky mountains

the universe - too far to comprehend

for minds too-used to daylight

we only feel

its quivering rays

Below the mountains

the lithograph of orange light-lines

on deep blue Istrian paper

Below Istria’s shadow-plays

the squirm of Opatja’s painted charms

Below Opatja

the quayside lamps

delving deep shafts of gold

in the absolute black of the sea

Opposing Opatja

the moon slowly rises high:

a scimitar slices the hills

south of Rijeka

Coming to the Limfjord

TS InscapePosted by Graham Thompson Tue, March 01, 2016 22:04:26

Coming to the Limfjord

Coming over the long slow hills

Of Jutland and its weather-torn

Landscape of blunted morraines

And trilling darkforest

The bridge over Aggersund appears

A mouth with metal teeth

Gaping into the Limfjord

That northern inland sea that once

Was unsalted lake a maze

Of febrile land and water

Islets coughing off narrow spits

The low foam rarely amounting

To waves of real neighbour seas

And in that winter’s evening hour

Suddenly the light behind

Imprisoning clouds breaks free:

The light now upon the face of the sea

And the face of the sea is mine alone

And its light on me

Something That The Wind Blew In

TS InscapePosted by Graham Thompson Sat, January 09, 2016 19:15:40

Star on the Mast

A star sails into harbour

On the yule-tree

On the mast

Of the old tug

Longing for repair

The Light Is Going

The light is going

way over the copse,

it shrinks from the ploughed

gullies and blackbird runs

between the hawthorn,

gilding still the leftover

harvest straw, the elm tops

threading the November dusk

with stripped and lonely lifelines.

Old man, old woman,

two lightning blasted trunks

await their final rest,

like an old couple

in God's golden funeral parlour.

Only the old railway

holds a claim on tomorrow;

all else is nature's slow sleep,

turning its nose into the cold

pillow of night

and the longer stillness,

which is ours for the watching

Something That The Wind Blew In

Something that the wind blew in

Through that midnight banging door

Sets my heart to wandering

Wraps my thought in fur

Vacant lots on city streets

Lonely pines on moors

Telephones ringing in empty flats

Minds that talk with walls

Yesterday’s unfinished washing up

Beachballs left in dunes

Jigsaws and wine almost spilt

Coffins in front rooms

Connections between bus and train

Timetables and accounts

All add up to the same

Nothing was destined to meet

It was by chance we came this way

Chance when we shall leave

The only certainty’s in our reason

Or spells cast in the dark

Little Farms

We are like strangers living here

As if from distant planets flung

Falling separately to little farms

Where contact tentatively

Is made


Cross fields & border hedges

The outstretched arms

Reach blindly for the tips

Of fingers searching back

It Floods

Kick the dust:

Stub-toed and obvious

The iron and the rust

Pokes me.

Black faces in the sun

Run to meet me;

Sour eyed, respectfully I turn

Away. I

see no blood

On the trees, they are green

And I am hungry.

It floods,

Sometimes, this dust, into my

Head. The people excite me,

They belong without ties;

No goodbyes

Or "hope you have a nice trip".

They simply turn away

And are gone before you've even


Maybe one day I will

Follow them.

But no,

It never floods



A gold diamond reflection

Has been robbed of its brilliance,

For today, early and scuffling,

The lights have changed. The almost

Orange plays no more its gaudy theme.

The waters ripple under much cruel

And crude description.

The cold saliva brushes past the days

And catches my tongue between

Two definitions. But sharper

Are my thoughts, not hurried

In uncomfortable salt of sweat,

But freezing harder onto

This prime-evil life.


A dance of criss-crossing curves:

Branches in the wood

Dead elms leer out of the eaten bark

Myriad paths of beetles mark their underways

Faces of frogs and children in the leaves

Interwoven in the light wind

Parting and joining through the lowering sun

Old couples go mad in the children's playground

Roundly edit the merry go round

And make a last exit from the swings of heaven

The gold flash of the

Dead soldier's helmet

We are all legionnaires in the woods

Of subtle and self-mystifying desires

We are all young old dead

In receipt of life's greed


The chemistry of the moon

Is still alive and living through

This grey matter, the ghost shiver,

The twitching dog dance,

The unweavable play of feet,

The welcome combusting engine roar

Of car come home,

The fucking combined bodied suck

Of lovers' domes,

The poet's tongue.

Paris Wakes

Under Helen's dark eyes

we are all slaves of the love promise

crystalized in that low-cut glance

and I was stabbed by the moonlight

flashes through dead branches

knives hurtled into night's

soon forsaken black sleep

the words of dead lovers

in the extinct river lights

a city telegraph

for yearning eyes and ears

over the sighs of bridges

the enemies of sleep still walk

but me I retrace moon-steps

into my lost one's arms

and Paris wakes

in the sewers' puke

and waves of new sun`s ashes

brushing cold skin air

Paris wakes

but Helen is not there


Do these words have a place

On the page before they are stowed?

Do they already have a mast in your mind?

For is not all that is done

A voyage of ports

Wherein place is sorted in time.