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I’m poet Guy Farmer and I created The Poet Community to feature thoughtful, original, contemporary poetry from poets worldwide.


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The Role of a Hyena | A Poem by Alexandre Bartolo Knabah Júnior

My notepad
is full of grammatical deviations
delivered by the hyena with a lion’s mane.

She now fights against her own
paws, looking for some water,
in the immensity of catch phrases.

She hopes no one will interrupt her,
no one will mock her yellow wig,
no one will stamp her face in camaraderie media.

Alexandre Bartolo is a Brazilian student who thrives, reads, and doesn’t understand anything at all.

Fast Lives | A Poem by Chris Byrne

Everybody who works in the fast food industry,
Bar staff, waiters, waitresses, all have one thing in
Common, they met in the pub
Quizzing an hour here and an hour there
Rushing for a bus or the last pint
Never spending time at home
Two hours is a lot when
You’re only five minutes’ walk
From home, we dwell to socialise
Just that hour one pint
Always just the one
But one pint won’t hurt
One becomes two,
Daylight, time
For work

A Death Scene | A Poem by Hadrian Hazlitt

An old woman is
dying on her bed.
Her husband is sitting
by her side, clasping
her hand with his wrinkled
hands and through the open
window a breeze slinks in
and embraces
the couple as the
day is dying fast.
But neither of them
notices these. It isn’t
worth admiring the
beauty of sunset
nor grumble to the
cold embrace of the
wind—not this time though.
The old woman smiles.
To her husband,
As if she’s not going
To die. Just having
a deep slumber. “Do you
You think we’ll meet again?”
She asks. “In an afterlife,
I mean.” He nods and
says “Yes, we will,” not
because he’s certain.
But it’s kind of a good
prospect to hear.
“Don’t forget me darling,”
she says and shuts her eyes,
and there are tears sliding
Down her cheeks. The husband
waits, though he knows she won’t
wake up again. “I
won’t forget you, my love.”
He bends and kisses
his wife. He barely
notices the tears on
his cheeks. Now he
just has to wait.
He only wishes the waiting
won’t be long.

The Thirteenth Hour | A Poem by Dan Tindall

These elderly invaders
Have long since gone
Native on the poor rocky
Soil and ancient drainage
Where Bold Kevin
His chainsaw
And his musical ear defenders
Cut logs for fuel from
The fallen corpses left by
Unexpected storms

Business has no place here
In the shadow of fierce uplands
Where desperation breeds resignation
Just at the moment
When cooperation should
Confront change
And so wrap its many selves
In a warm layer of
Birdsong and light

The blue plume of the two-stroke
Lingers and seems
For a second to
Look west
Then is dispersed
Conveniently forgotten
Amongst the restless pollen clouds

Visit Dan at