Sallie Howson

Sallie Howson Poems

Shot down in its prime.
Shot down
While making daisy chains in the park
For little girls to be daisy queens.

Breakfast was torture
Without you.
The kettle refused to boil,
The toaster burnt the bread

This is no
Sweet “carried off by angels”
At the age of 90
Kind of death.

Knock, knock
On the window.
Two fat raindrops
Calling me out.

I love
Lindt hot chocolate on a winter’s day,
Fresh fruit salad in the month of May,
Summer strolls with the smell of hay,

I have a wooden box
Under my bed.
It’s hand crafted and carved
And inlaid with gold

Give me a man
Who wants the moon
But demands nothing.

I woke this morning to find
An old man in my bed.
Short grey halo
Surrounding his bald head,

They pity her
All alone
In the corner
Of the restaurant

I don’t mind that
You took my books
And CDs
Or even my new set of kitchen knives

Year 1
Launching our boat
On the lake of life.
Two eager shipmates

I will not visit art galleries
With you in mind.
Buying books
And postcards

Why do you love me my friend?

I love you for the lightness of your soul,
For the laughter and happiness you bring,

Tomorrow morning at 10
Or maybe 11
The world will stop
For a cup of tea.

Announced on the breakfast show
We choke on our coffee and
Mothers call their daughters
Fathers call their sons.


I bought a hat today
Ready for the Siberian wind
They’ve been promising for a week.
I hate winter

The words are little
Fluttering around my head.
I catch them

Swing, swing,
Dozing in the hammock,
Above me sky ablue,
Sweet summer Sunday,

Red pen
White wine
Van Morrison
Belting it out

And when I wake
And you are gone
I place
My hand

The Best Poem Of Sallie Howson

Death Of A Poem

Shot down in its prime.
Shot down
While making daisy chains in the park
For little girls to be daisy queens.
Shot down
While tottering down the catwalk
In this years daring fashion.
Shot down
While bungee jumping from Brooklyn bridge.
Shot down
While kite boarding on Porthmadog beach
Shot down
While refusing ecstasy at a rave,
High on the beat and energy of the music
Shot down
While drawing a moustache on Mona Lisa
And carrying Michelangelo’s David
Back to its rightful place in the square,
Where he can enjoy the sunshine, rain and wind
In his hair.
Shot down in its prime.
Lying dead now
On a cold white slab.
Experts dissecting its liver and heart,
Picking over interesting bits.
Sew it back together
Don’t leave it in the fridge.
Give it a decent burial,
Leave it some dignity
And let me weep for it,
Shot down in its prime.

Sallie Howson Comments

Elizabeth Vautrain 09 April 2014

This is excellent. I read some of her other poems and was very impressed.

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Jerry Hughes 06 May 2008

This lady is an exceptional writer, a joy to read...

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Nabil Nazmi 05 May 2007

realy nice.i like it.

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