Dry January - Diane Scantlebury

Missing the booze,
Eating out, without a doubt
Not quite the same,
Missing the booze,
The vision blurred,
Sentences slurred,
Reality’s too plain,

Missing the wine,
The aroma, the grapey taste
Flavours so sublime,
Missing the fizz,
The Prosecco hiss,
The tingle on tongue,
When the night’s still young,

Missing the Friday crawl,
Ritual drowning of sorrows,
Blinding headaches tomorrow,
The parched throat,
The red eye,
Life’s too bleak
When January’s dry.

Diane Scantlebury

Ask Uncle Sam - Lester Queripel

How is the world with you?
Does the joy outweigh the pain?
Are you getting more sunshine than rain?
Are you on a mission?
Or do you follow the old tradition?

Do you complain and look for someone else to blame?
Or is your loss someone else’s gain?
Is there something you’d like to rearrange or exchange?

Are you in a jam?
Have you got a future plan?
How many decades does it span?
Do you relate to your fellow man?
Have you had a word with Uncle Sam?
Perhaps you should when you can.

Lester Queripel

The Chingats (One of Daddy's bedtime stories) - Tony Bradley

When my Dad was fifteen he joined the Navy
he'd lied when they asked what year he was born
he told us they weren't bothered, 'cos World War Two had started
and Belfast held no future, so bleak and forlorn.

He came out with seven medals, and a machete, engraved
on the blade, his initials, and rating number
he told my brother and I, it had been in its scabbard
since Burma, '42, when he was much younger.

He told us about the evil Japs, the terrible things they did
(it probably helped bad memories to fade)
but he told us too, about the 'chingats'
the bravest friends he'd ever made.

They were local, jungle fighters, skinny
so tiny, seven stone, wringing wet
but men with more loyalty, pride and dignity
and unwavering courage, he's never met.

He said they'd saved his mates many times
they'd stand and fight, to the last man
the Marines were braver, with them alongside
if the Japs saw any Chingats, they turned and ran.

Tony Bradley

That Place We Don’t Speak Of …. - Trudie Shannon

I wake up I hear a noise.
I wonder Is it Father Christmas?
Is it his sleigh crunching on the sand?
Is it his reindeer hooves drumming?
But it isn’t.
The night was so cold and I had no blanket.
Mumma said. stay close darling, I’ll keep you warm.
But she didn’t and I was still cold.
Mumma is cold now too, very cold.
I try to wake her, Mumma, Mumma, wake up,
It’s Christmas, perhaps we have food today?
Can I have milk today Mumma?
Milk on Christmas Day Mumma, Mumma?
That noise again, that noise again Mumma, Mumma
Barrel bomb Mumma barrel bomb Mumma
Wake up Mumma
But she doesn’t, Mumma doesn’t wake up
And I am cold and Mumma is so cold.
I put my hand in the red stuff on her skin
It is sticky and cold
The explosion, the metal bees buzzing so close, so close
Not Father Christmas
Not his sleigh, not his reindeer
Barrel bomb…..
Mumma, Mumma
Oh Mumma ……………

Trudie Shannon

Open Mic Monday 23rd January 2017

Open Mic Evening - Monday 23rd January 2017

20:00 hrs - 22:00 hrs
La Villette Hotel, St. Martin, Guernsey
The 'Non-compulsory' theme is; 'Hope'
There guest musician is; 'Gregory Dominic Harrison'