Featured Poet - Tim
THE CORRIDORS
My phone connects
without asking.
It knows the ward, the lifts, the way
to A and E, the price to pay
for parking near the entrance.
I wear a lanyard, nod, direct
the lost towards Reception’s desk,
a place I know too well.
The corridors are hard-wired in,
each shortcut, link, and turning grim—
I navigate by smell.
This isn’t how I thought it’d go.
No childhood dream foretold the slow
and shuffling trek to waiting rooms,
the cold instruction of machines,
the silence the sudden noise with things unseen,
the future dull, and slow
And now I see what’s coming next:
The drip, the beeps, the folded sheets
the lift doors sighing shut.
The plastic chairs, the musty air,
The nurses nodding, barely there—
I never dreamed of this despair,
But here it is. And it’s hell
SABOTAGING TIME
It was during invigilating
an exam
that it happened.
Time seemed to stop—
the second hand
on the clock
was stuck.
Unable to summon the energy
to move round,
held by gravity,
twitching
at six
or just past six, to be precise.
The sky was a clear blue,
not a single cloud.
Traffic slowed on the bend
into town,
or maybe the hospital.
Two cleaners were packing up a car,
finishing their chores
for the day,
loading sprays, liquids, cloths.
A Deliveroo man
was dropping off his meals
several Big Macs
at student housing.
Our students were lost
in their exam papers,
or in thought,
or simply lost,
staring, forgetting.
I picked up my book by Karl Ove—
I hadn’t touched it in a while.
I’d used a birthday card
as a bookmark.
It read:
‘You are the love of my life’
THE
elderly couple
don’t
hold hands
for love
they hold hands
for balance
for reassurance
for guidance
as they
zigzag
the pavement
causing
chaos
but no one
says a word
of complaint
just
‘hello’
or ‘morning’
the passers-by
see their
future selves
and I
as I pass
and nod
see too
that of course
it is love
HOTEL BREAKFAST
On holiday
I hide coco pops
beneath my muesli—
like some child
hiding the truth
and girls in pyjamas
in the breakfast restaurant
(the same girls I saw
outside McDonald’s,
crying at 10pm)
fight over dried-out eggs,
fried and scrambled.
A framed lettering proclaims
HAP
PIN
ESS.
It smells of waste.
A slot machine glows.
‘I need to
gather the troops.’
Flip-flops and crocs
are the footwear.
No one has slept.
Coffee drips from the machine,
spilling into the carpet,
its pattern long erased.
An older man,
belly over belt,
trails a young waiter.
And in the corner—
the slot machine
still glowing.
I’ve got a taste in my mouth
of the hotel
like something has been living
in there
overnight
TODAY
The clouds over the valley today
have formed
a range
of snowycapped
mountains.
Like I’m living
in the Himalayas
with the Tibetan monks.
The tops of the snowy mountains
have a tinge of pink
from the rising sun.
My illusion
is ruined
by a man jogging
in dayglow green.
It looks like he’s in pain.
And also
a Pikachu
lunch bag
that has somehow been
forgotten
and left on the doorstep
of a local pub.
I hope
the child
had a locking in.
The illusion is further
ruined:
one cloud
has split away,
taking
the pink
with it.
ABOUT TIM
Tim Boardman, a poet from West Yorkshire, crafts lyrical, intimate pieces that illuminate ordinary life, blending reflection, memory, and gentle storytelling into moments of subtle emotional resonance. A devoted family man, Tim balances his life between his roles as husband, father, teacher, and poet. His work celebrates those intersections — where care meets creativity, and where everyday life becomes poetry.
