Stuart Miller-Osborne

Auden considered that poetry And this applied to most authors Fell into four classes First of all – The Pure Rubbish Secondly- The Good Ideas that Fell Short Thirdly – The Decent Poems but sadly the poems that Lacked Importance The final class are the poems That are the Really Great Poems They are a…

Two women Phipps and Rebecca They were last seen In the Quarter of the Dead I was a fraud but frauds survive As I had stolen the bloodied armband From a dead Red Cross worker Although I knew little about aid I had a basic knowledge As I made my way towards the front line…

In the years Before the Civil War I would summer With my cousins In the Deep South I can remember the mansion well With its sweeping Lace Curtains Virgin White But certain trees On my uncles plantation Confused me As the lower branches Were white And stripped of bark I was told not to question…

Billy No Mates died tonight It was an unremarkable death He just faded and then vanished In the hours Before they devoured The festering remains Of those who had displeased Billy Had sung to his beloved eagles In his strange yet almost lyrical voice Although he was once very popular Billy had slowly lost his…

I was exploring the outfield Of my local cricket club Under the hot afternoon sun Rosie was carrying her sandals She asked me about the outfielders What was their function During a cricket match Was it to stop the ball from Invading the nearby railway lines I explained that there was A Left Fielder A…

Dearest Lyonesse It is late summer now and the days are becoming deeper Our beach hours are becoming less frequent Yet the East Kent light is even more perfect Than I am ever sourced to imagine In the coming months the beach Will wear its austere winter’s coat And the romance of this summer Will…

On the evening of the 23rd of October 1958 At Braintree Station in Essex A very alarming event Was overheard on the loudspeakers A woman’s scream Stop it Jack you are hurting me Then another scream And then the sound of somebody falling on to a wooden floor The strange thing is that despite extensive…

What is like to be a poet Joe I am not a poet God is a poet And he shares his talent with me People think that you Live above your station That is impossible As my town Does not have a station It has never had a station That is not a serious answer…

This idea is we are Nordics I am you are we all are As we have produced All the things that make civilisation The Sciences The Arts We have built huge cities With buildings that touch the sky I do not really understand Tomas Neither do I but he has a vision A vision that…

The Shadow Fathers have returned I was not there to witness their return A posy was left in remembrance On an empty beach under a white sun Shadow Violets Remember Me