Biography of Miki Byrne
Miki has an honours degree in three dimensional Design and a PGCE in Education. she has had many jobs including teacher, musician, music business manager and poet. She has written three poetry collections, had work included in over 160 poetry magazines and anthologies and won poetry competitions. She has read on both Radio and TV, judged poetry competitions and was a finalist for Poet Laureate of Gloucestershire. She opened Cheltenham Poetry Festival 2014 with the launch of her latest collection, ‘Flying Through Houses’ available from Indigo Dreams Publishing. Miki is disabled and lives near Tewkesbury. UK.
Miki Byrne's Works:
Nice bits & Hissy-fits.
Flying Through Houses.
Miki Byrne Poems
A Christmas Poem.
I see the lights a-glitter. I hear the choir in song. Children gaze, sparkly-eyed For Christmas won't be long.
By Magic. I often look to the sky and wonder how
Deep inside the hillsides gut, I see its entrails. Not soft like mine, nor red with pulsing blood but made of its own devising.
Christening At St. Mary Magdalene's
In the church, sunlight slants through coloured saints. Paints the floor in rainbows. A flower sentry made by earnest ladies, stands tall by the door, Scents the air
About Edna St. Vincent Millay.
This poet speaks and Her words slice into me. Slow and tender like A silken thread, pulled
As I Walk Through Birmingham.
I pass grey buildings where decisions are made. Notice how the industrial revolution smeared dark blusher on their ageing cheeks. My stride carries me down the alleyway.
Another blue day. Heat shimmering, Rising to meet the sky. Not many days like this.
A Sharp Rebuke.
I left the preparations. The last minute pinning's, smearing of ghoulish make up. Settling of wigs and food made grotesque by strange colourings. I walked down from East Hill House.
Ants In My Friends' House.
The ants formed a line. Tiny bodies so tightly packed That it looked like a solid entity. Yet it moved. Wriggled and shimmied.
Arboretum In Sunlight
Trees rose. Majestic, stately in their maturity. Reached for the cerulean sky, leaves lifted toward sunlight.
By The Beach Fire.
We sat on the beach. Backs tucked into hollows. Scooped out of the peaked dunes. The fire we had built flickered
In the ditch the leaves were crisp and deep. A layered accumulation. Protected by the deep overhang of the hedge, that curled like a matted wave over me.
A White Rose.
A brief silhouette stirred beside the copper-beech. Fleeting as an eye-blink. I was unsure of its reality.
A Small Act Of Defiance.
The overalls were blue. Washed to faded shadows like pieces of captured sky. They fell into folds worn into their own memory. The boots were hard. Toe-tecting bulbous humps
A Dream With Conscience.
The dream breathed out a sigh.
Saddened by its dark form.
It could not choose its clothing
when emerging from its random
nightly birth. Its nightmarish garb
had caused a lake of fear and its
guilt was a sharp probe needling
under its skin. As it flowed away