Amy Sutton Poems

Flint.
Chipped.
Cold.
Jagged.
...

By day, this well-contented frog
Has made his home on yonder log,
Nipping at flies with rounded ribbit-
Grumble
...

Poets are liars. They cannot be tamed.
They live on borrowed dreams, and have the gift
Of casting out a graceful, witty line,
And catching your heart or mind in their snare;
...

Whatever her name was,
She was right
When she talked about
Men being like buses.
...

Beware the grammar gangsters!
The mafia of the literary underworld.
They saunter into stanzas,
Weapons concealed
...

It shouldn't sting
To hear his words
Caught out of time
In radio static.
...

We meet more like strangers,
Hollow skulls in the melting candle flames.
Splintered eyes glance through the rippling air,
And we turn away.
...

I am an urban chameleon
In the hustle-bustle of the urban jungle.
Every day the business stampede
Crosses the high street savannah.
...

Tinsel sags,
Needles litter the floor,
Shineless baubles
Come to rest
...