Land of Pometos – Issue 2

Again it has been a great pleasure seeing the submissions for The Land of Pometos. I was delighted to find a great variety of submissions…in subject matter, style, location of poet and the offered way of combining poem and photo. Seating, Siskins, the Sun, the Swale, Statues, Stone Walls, Streaks, Cigars, Cherries and Nice. Huzzah! I hope you enjoy the edition.

Lord Pometo


Helen Boden


Dykes etch ownership on the intake.
Late winter longshadow-surface
accents an underpasture:
bedrock’s irregularities, what determines
the random patterns of drystone geometry,
the contours
cultivation’s forced to follow.

Intake: Northern English term for farmland reclaimed (or, rather, claimed) from moor

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Marie-Therese Taylor


On the oily slope
the streaky stain
of your treachery
will not remain
– big guy
as always
you’ll get away with it

marie terese



Brian Johnstone


The four enigmatic Moors of the Campo dei Mori… are…supposed to have
been among its ancient residents.
……….Jan Morris, Venice

One tilts now, one bows down, another cries
in rust marks, nose replaced, and traders pass,
mere ghosts, below the camel’s gaze:
one foreleg raised, the sea ways locked and chained.

Here, round the corners of the Campo,
they sway beneath their turbans’ weight: the tales
that took them in the camel’s wake to chart
what citizens would only doubt, serene.

A wave, a dune? They sought them both
and found those things men saw as magic, lies
or heresy at worst. What they knew
seeped into foundations more surely than the tides.

But something kept the camel to the back, made them
place this plaque where stone rots, moss grows
luminous with damp, below those feet
that crumbled, fell off, missed the beaten track.


Karla Linn Merrifield

Rum and Cigars Will Bring Us Together

Why did the pearl guinea fowl and her chicks cross the Cuban road?
it rained. Hard. As Hemingway might write in his journal. He could add,
Coctel Vigia, his hacienda outside Habana, scared them chicken-shitless.
the dead heads mounted on whitewashed walls stare back. With dead eyes.
……………And because
las héroe Papa shot to kill. Bird, beast, himself. After the hard rain.


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Rachel Tennant

3 AM in Nice




Julie Hogg

Low-slung sun over Middlehaven

Heaven could look like this,
ecliptic and derelict with
a painted metallic halo slipped
below a natural sun-set, a lot like
that day, I pickled it for prosperity,
when we reached a blind summit
of something-else and I could see
with the fresh eyes of an immigrant
in the aftermath of a famine centuries
ago, could stand on a foundation laid with
every intention of a saint by a plaque, here,
the site of an altar by the east window,
in a soundless cityscape with a ticker-
tape parade from a reposing ghost ship
in the dock, could see how geese fly from
Fall to Autumn in perfect synergy and I cried.
Did I tell you how much I love this? I love this.

Photo credit Kev Howard Creative Photography 

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Arwen Webb

Swale Poem




Anna Lavigne

Cherry earring days

You were spinning
in your kitchen
with the small
enraptured girl

Summer cherries
flirty leaves on
hooked and swung
from jaunty ears

seasons took your
cherry laughter
laid you
in a sullen soil

thirty summers
hazy later
see the girl
who watched you dance

in an orchard
flinging cherries
rolling back the years
in France

thinking of
a mother’s pleasure
passing on
a moment’s grace
placing cherries round the earlobes
of another spellbound face.

See them spinning
in the orchard
cherry earrings
no disgrace.
See us laughing in the sunshine
cherry laughter
mothers’ grace.


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Mandy Macdonald

Bark, Inverewe

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Marie-Therese Taylor

You might as well not be there

Taking your ease
with my sunlight
move over
I’ve work to do


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