Ian Bowen Poems

'That Card' has now left the shelf.
The red roses have died, and now lie
under a thousand tons of waste.
...

Listen! It is night in the bedroom.
(of course toys, can come to life) ...

the soldier bangs his drum, and teddy
...

On the island of Kermadecs;
a member of the Macauley group,
my book has become a best seller;
when my brother (a sailor)
...

The green stains
of grass and moss
on the shoulders
of your white summer dress
...

Look out of your window and see for miles,
none of your mist and snow that piles
up the walls, covering the tiles, blanketing
our fairweather, sunshine smiles.
...

On a whim,
I thought to visit
that house, where babies screamed
and my parents struggled with life.
...

Having made the error
thinking I knew you
must I reavaluate
personal levels;
...

When he was less than
the fingers of both hands,
memories of the farm;
grunted, clucked and bleated
...

Once, it seemed like I’d walk forever
on those thick, plush carpets
that kept dark the cracked,
stained concrete floors
...

Here in this flurry of freezing fluff of flakes,
Those last-leaf trees, tremble
In a snow-gliding wind.
Bowing grasses, soon to be interned
...