Amy Sutton Poems

Flint.
Chipped.
Cold.
Jagged.
...

By day, this well-contented frog
Has made his home on yonder log,
Nipping at flies with rounded ribbit-
Grumble
...

Poets are liars. They cannot be tamed.
They live on borrowed dreams, and have the gift
Of casting out a graceful, witty line,
And catching your heart or mind in their snare;
...

Whatever her name was,
She was right
When she talked about
Men being like buses.
...

Frost creeps over the land
And bites deep into the neck of autumn,
Draining it of colour.
Trees hunch, naked skeletons,
...

Beware the grammar gangsters!
The mafia of the literary underworld.
They saunter into stanzas,
Weapons concealed
...

It shouldn't sting
To hear his words
Caught out of time
In radio static.
...

I dreamt myself a Prince of Moths
Upon a brittle autumn leaf;
And, though a novice in my state
Of wings and things, I found I took
...

1.
We wove ouselves dreams
of love songs and passion plays
sewn into scansion
...