Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Lozi Bolton

Lozi Bolton is an all-round artistic, christian hippy who has always enjoyed the literary scene. The writing seed was planted as soon as she read famous works by Tolkien and C.S. Lewis when she was a child. These books caused her to catch the creative writing bug and so thus she experimented with many forms. Going onto school, Lozi relished her English lessons and was introduced to pieces by Sylvia Plath, Shakespeare and Jeanette Winterson. Having found that these writers styles were valid and similar to hers, her passion for poetry grew. Now she is a 20 year old BMus student, studying the bassoon at the Royal Welsh College for Music and Drama in Cardiff, and is currently honing her poetical skills

AnorecSick

Philandering baskets of french bread.
Amongst the piles of broken tomatoes.
Their very scent attracts the flies,
it makes for enigmatic mould, the sort that tries to smother.

And every time you look at it,
the basket of the wise, the living dead.
You break in half (your milkless bones),
as calcium deficiency devours your apple core.

Twig.
You stick.
Everybody laughs..
and cries..
and stares at you,
yet you forget your paranoia to fiddle with that chip bag
(bug-eyed at the greasy wonders)
Little do you know yourself.

The mirror in the bathroom later,
you look
you stare
you worry.
As the same bug eyed pupils perceive,
a too fat, too ugly, too gross demon: that is you.

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The Moment

I am the music, the cleverly composed,
the crafted canvas covered with colour.
And thou, she that whispers as the very Wind
it settles upon the rainbow tree,
so still
so fragrant.
Fragile kisses of perfect petals upon your neck
as we induce an urging connection,
the very earth is magic,
another spark of blaring firmamental dew spits upward.
In time, we suspend,
and are raised upon the spacey waves of Moments.

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To Start a Storm

to start a storm
in the verging willow cracks:
be still the vocals of the trees,
be still
be still
in the deepest hill
a crumpled darkness attacks

Carved upon the bark of frightened skies,
the dark pretends to weep:
The lies of hidden melodies are lost within the wind
the wind
the wind
in the deepest hill
a crumpled darkness still prevails

The arms of rain are pierced by Paradises nails.
Skin,
and now the thunder sighing,
beating,
laughing,
yelling,
crying.
Time is lost for words.

The darkness tolls for thee,
yet not for me/
It only takes a butterfly to start a storm

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Submission Guidelines: Poems of no more than 30 lines in length each will be considered.