Stuart Miller-Osborne

I had intended to write about a steep hill The Hovis Hill In Shaftesbury For those who know Dorset well But as I was writing this very poem I found you in the kitchen making coffee Wearing only your favourite cardigan This pleased me greatly as I like seeing your bare bottom In the early…

On the wall of my lounge I have a print of Picasso’s La Vie It was purchased in Paris Some years ago And has a tragic story Behind it Or so I am told As it portrays The doomed artist Carles Casagemas Who was a good friend Of Pablo Picasso It is a lonely work…

I am just a story Beginning Middle End But what if I decided to rearrange these Lets say Middle Beginning End Or nothing at all No beginning No middle No end   When looking at a drawing (or a sketch) I always study The blank spaces (usually white) I ignore the seen And create the…

I am of the belief that one haunts all of the homes In which they have once lived throughout their life The houses where I spent my childhood years Still echo to my laughter and gentle brutality   I have loved most of the houses of my residence And have very fond memories of my…

I was born in a facing cottage All of its dry stone walls Were built by my late father Who now sleeps in the shadow Of a ruined church tower   My mother still lives with me And often works the fields In my more vivid dreams I have just buried her loyal dog Who…

Short sweet stacks high hidden In the corner of a fallow field Almost forgotten in the fine fog That lingers within its season

Two girls late of youth stand patiently on the pier head It is late afternoon and their shadows are lengthening slowly As the August sun travels across the sky On the horizon three fishing boats are darkening Against the swift and sheltered silver sea       After the painting by Philip Wilson Steer

I was writing a poem Love Light and Lonely Hearts You were watching me From our marriage bed With a smile on your sleepy face   I was trying to ignore your lovely breasts Because this poem was important to me I only write poetry on Tuesday mornings You asked me a surprise question What…

a lone streetlight at the end of a lane illuminates the storm

Where can I find a man governed by reason instead of habits and urges Just look over your shoulder as you have passed him in the street     KG