stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17827
    [post_author] => 16
    [post_date] => 2017-03-14 15:06:42
    [post_date_gmt] => 2017-03-14 15:06:42
    [post_content] => there was a centaur on the road
this morning, yelling iceman
in beer-froth syllables.

bare chested like a promise
outside a betting shop,
a woman with plastic bag skin
is singing

of her lost velvet platforms
(lost days, lost nights)
she scoops up silvered minutes.
    [post_title] => Ten Line Love Poem to Bold Street
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => ten-line-love-poem-to-bold-street
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2017-03-14 15:20:31
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2017-03-14 15:20:31
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=17827
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2017
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem was a winner in the Short Poems challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN) in 2017.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Winner, Short Poems Challenge 2017
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 17808
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Eira Murphy
            [slug] => eira-murphy
            [content] => Eira is a winner in the Short Poems challenge on Young Poets Network.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 17808
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Eira Murphy
    [slug] => eira-murphy
    [content] => Eira is a winner in the Short Poems challenge on Young Poets Network.
)

Ten Line Love Poem to Bold Street

Eira Murphy

there was a centaur on the road
this morning, yelling iceman
in beer-froth syllables.

bare chested like a promise
outside a betting shop,
a woman with plastic bag skin
is singing

of her lost velvet platforms
(lost days, lost nights)
she scoops up silvered minutes.