Competition Winner - March 2012
Ian Duquemin

A roar comes from the crowd
Expecting music so loud
As I strap on my electric guitar
My audience scream from afar
I have no amplifier
Just this raging burning desire
To be the greatest rock star here
I plug the lead into my ear
To appreciate my audience
I play to them in silence
Although this is the loudest of bands
It’s just me and a guitar between my hands
My fingers glide across the frets
Although I’ve not learnt any chords yet
I play the most ferocious tune
My guitar skills filling the room
My head explodes right in front of me
My hands move as freely as mercury
Music so loud you can feel it
Music without a single beat
When I finish I place my guitar on the floor
As my audience scream out for more
I then leave my stage and step over the broom
Smile in the mirror before leaving the room
Leaving my only fan behind me
In a dream world of rock n roll fantasy

Ian Duquemin

Words - Lester Queripel

Some words can build you up.
Some words can bring you down.
Some words can break your heart.
Other words have a lovely sound.
Words can make people happy.
They can make people sad.
They can make people feel good.
They can make people feel bad.
How do you want your words to make people feel?

Lester Queripel

Dreaming - Katherine Svensson

I see you standing before me,
Smile like a magnet drawing me near.
I feel thousands of tiny butterflies,
Their wings fluttering wildly inside me.
I long to reach out and touch you,
Feel your lips against mine.
When I think of you I wonder,
How would it feel to have our arms entwine?
Would I melt into you so that we would become one?
Your voice echoes in my head long after you’ve gone.
I dream of gently holding your face in my hands,
Covering you with sweet kisses,
Lightly tracing my fingertips around your forehead,
Down your cheeks to your lips.
I want to hold you tenderly,
Take away all that hurts you,
Make your pain my own.
I cry myself to sleep some nights,
Fear this dream is destined never to be for real.
Why does this torment me so?

Katherine Svensson

Universal Embrace - Lester Queripel

Listen to the sound of your loneliness.
As it echoes into space.
We inherit the seeds of loneliness.
They’re woven deep within the human race.
Like tapestries of history.
They are displayed on every face.
Embedded in the sands of time.
For future generations to trace.
The sculpture then becomes the culture.
Seemingly forever in its place.
But time can be a healer.
It always offers a universal embrace.
And that can be your saving grace.

Lester Queripel

Root and Branch - Peter Kenny

There’s marching in the Guernsey lane,
my table’s bare, the pattern’s clear:
they will starve us after curfew
they will break us at the table.

I scrape aside the hedgerow scraps
to float along the willow road
to distant bomb-pocked England
near a city I've never seen

where my children stay with strangers
and, forgetting all their patois,
they turn in skies of fractured glaze
and trill their songs with English tongues.

Each night the doves return as crows
and I’m harrowed root and branch
as they bayonet their places
and their mother stands accused

for I tore them from their garden
and I knotted them with labels
like a cherry shedding blossom
I dropped them from my stupid limbs.

Peter Kenny

The Rohais In The Good Old Days - Lester Queripel

I grew up in the Rohais
Those were the good old days
My brother and I used to walk to school
We only saw a car or two
In the road we’d play football and cricket
We’d use the lampost as a wicket
It was the 1950’s and life was lived at a different pace
The Rohais was a very different place
Two public houses are now office space
There’s a golf course where there used to be a farm
A hotel where there used to be a barn
A house where there used to be a bakery
A supermarket where there was once a vinery
Two petrol stations are now history
What was once a childrens’ playground for my brother and me
Is now one of the busiest roads in Guernsey
That’s progress.....................but we still have the memory
Of how the Rohais used to be

Lester Queripel

Reasons For Writing - Lester Queripel

People often ask me why I write.
Well............I write in hope.
In hope that I can communicate.
Communicate and relate my feelings and my thoughts.
I make myself vulnerable and give bits of myself away.
I hope that someone somewhere might say;
“Hey, I know how he feels, I feel like that today”.
I write for those people who are looking for some kind of relief.
I write for those people who have been battered beyond belief.
I write for those who are refugees of the past.
I write for those who always come last.
I write for those who are crippled by emotional injury.
I write for those who cannot see.
I wrote in honesty with sincerity.
I write for those who haven’t yet ‘got’.
I write for the person who doesn’t pretend they’re happy when they’re not.
I am not afraid to be the object of a trivial remark.
I am not afraid to be the target for a ‘poisoned dart’.
Thrown by those who will always be in the dark.
They can stone me, they can disown me, but they will never stop me.

I write because I care and I write because I want to share.
I write in hope that I can communicate.
Communicate with people who are in need.
People who want to read..................these kind of words.
That’s why I write.

Lester Queripel

ToSumUp - Stephen A. Roberts

A tongue in cheek summary of the majority of online comments made about the purchase by the Guernsey Police of an Armour Plated, bullet proof Landrover costing £183,000 of Guernsey Taxpayers Money

ToSumUp - Stephen A. Roberts

Inspector Rice is in a paddy
He only wants to kill the baddie
Safe inside his Norman keep
He polishes his designer jeep
Ignoring questions from Gary B
About the force’s profligacy
He keenly reads his Daily Mail
Where’s that water cannon sale?

Yes, he’s waiting for that glorious day
When society’s fabric breaks away
And he can tool up and sanction murder
By the shock troops of his New Order
Ready to roll on this small rock
Are PC Heckler and PC Koch
With armoured cars and rubber bullets
They’ll erase the Bouet and les Genats

The nicest guys you’ll ever meet
Are Guernsey bobbies on the beat
But Ricey will lose the public trust
Sending his Panzers to a bust
A drunken spat, a few raised voices
Domestic grief the sniper’s choices
So Ricey, before you come a cropper
Trade the Landy for community coppers!

Stephen A. Roberts

Fog - Liz Woodington

Sat on a bench,
Gazing at God's creation,
The sun sparkled
Highlighting utter artistry.
Watched in awe,
Seeing the smiles on people's faces,
People relaxed,
Slowing down to take a moment,
To look and watch.
Peace was very evident.

The dense fog,
Appeared in an instant,
Obliterating the scene,
Cutting off vision
And forcing paralysis.
Lingering,
Not lifting,
Blinding the way forward.
The atmosphere completely different.
Sadness and fear were very evident.

In this moment,
It was very hard to remember,
The fantastic feelings of before,
The beauty had been annihilated.

But hold on a moment,
Looking up,
The sun seemed to try to shine,
Slight gaps in the fog appeared,
And it seemed to be retreating,
More and more of the view returning.
Bit by bit warmth invaded,
Filling me with happiness once more.

Isn't it a bit like life?
Things can be going so well
And then suddenly despair rears it's head.

But there's always hope,
Hope of the splendour reoccurring,
Memories to cling on to,
Glimpses of a way out,
Snippets of freedom coming.

Liz Woodington

The Feeling of Shame - Liz Woodington

A dagger piercing the heart,
Constantly ripping,
Shattering peace,
Causing my head to hang low.

No-one wants me,
No-one loves me,
Not worth anything,
The dagger delves deeper.

A black cloud lingering,
Getting denser and denser,
Loss of self-belief,
Fading away from existence.

Trying to get out,
Means taking risks,
Exposing the shame but.........
The dagger causes more hurt.

Liz Woodington

In The Corner - Liz Woodington

Little girl,
Sitting in a corner.
Rocking,
Crying,
Hugging her damaged self.
No-one comes
To her aid.

Little girl,
All alone.
Does anyone really care?
She lives,
Or so she says.
Outside she seems happy.
Inside she's dead.

Little girl,
Who's not so little.
Having to be
All grown up
Before the right time.
Play days are gone.
Suffering has come.

Little girl
You're an adult now.
Where did your childhood go?
Still sitting in a corner,
She cries,
And rocks.
Will her pain ever end?

Liz Woodington

In My Dreams - Liz Woodington

Pretty garden,
Full of flowers and trees.
Can hear the birds sing,
Hold on to nature,
Experience peace within.

Garden awash with colour
Fragranced with beauty.
Water trickling over rocks,
Sun shining above,
Casting shadows on the ground.

Stand in awe
Of this perfect place.
Catch a glimpse,
Before it disappears again.
It may be gone for some time.

Daybreak comes.
I stir from sleep,
And reality sets in.
It is all but a dream.
Back to the pain and hurt.

"Take me back," I say.

Liz Woodington

Social Meejah - Stephen A. Roberts

Image by Stephen Roberts

Social Meejah - Stephen A Roberts

Mobile devices in my hand
I like to roam the land
I like to keep in touch
Maybe a bit too much
“I’ve had an egg sandwich
In a café by London Bridge”
I twitter far and wide
An incessant verbal tide
I don’t care who wants to know
I let my inane babble flow
I’m there – and I’m here
Tweet, tweet, like diarrhoea
Shock revelation – I’m on a train
With my “Social Meejah” – but not my brain!

Stephen A. Roberts

How Not To Make Cider - John Carré Buchanan

In biology we’d made alcohol
which sparked the great idea;
to make our own cider
to drink at end of year.

We scrumped and crushed the apples
and collected all the juice,
which we stored in a glass flagon;
purloined for just this use.

One lad acquired some yeast
on a trip to the brewery.
A great big yellow lump of it
which made it bubble with fury.

The sugar came real easy
as tea was served at break
and pockets full of sugar
were delivered with a shake.

So juice, yeast and sugar
were mixed in a bubbling flagon
kept warm under the floorboards
by leaving an electric bulb on.

It made a murky, frothy potion
which needed to be strained,
so we made a filter with a loo roll
through which the mix was drained.

The result was pink in colour?
The loo roll without a doubt!
The first few sips drew gasps
as we choked and spat it out.

Five minutes later, our precious brew
was tipped into the gutter;
and the evil smelling pink concoction
down the drain did splutter.

The next few weeks a funny smell
pervaded the whole area.
The masters tried to find the source,
While we - kept silent - of course.

John Carré Buchanan

The Weatherman (it’s turned out nice again) - Fred Williamson/Lester Queripel

Snow in the morning, sunshine at night.
He cannot get it wrong for getting it right.
It’s mixed weather all day long.
He cannot get it right for getting it wrong.
Mixed forecast, hail, gale, sun and rain.
They say it is going to turn out nice again.
We get all that weather in one single day.
Now what is it going to do today?
Can we go out to play?

The weatherman said it’ll be sunny and blue.
But he really has not got a clue.
He said that yesterday.
But it rained all day.
No one tells him off; he doesn’t lose his position.
He does not seem to have any opposition.
Whether or not he makes the right forecast.
You can bet your life that prediction won’t last.

At the end of the day it’s all a joke.
Because the weatherman is such a nice bloke.
He always has a smile; he is always jolly.
Even when he tells us we need a brolly.
By golly, I do believe he is off his trolley.
It’s turned out nice again, hasn’t it?

Fred Williamson/Lester Queripel

Hunger Cries-Hunger Dies - Fred Williamson

Barren land, dusty sand.
No rain for years.
Brings cries for help to our ears.
Disease and flies.
Hunger cries.
Hunger dies.

Mothers carry children on their hips.
Dry, cracked, swollen lips.
Walking for days, bleeding feet.
In need of shelter, medicine, water and wheat.
Families weak.
Families weep.
Hunger cries.
Hunger dies.

Losing babies; the old and frail.
Along this hunger trail.
Feed them now.
We must not fail.
We must not fail

Fred Williamson

Let The Real You Shine On Through - Lester Queripel & Fred Williamson

Stop feeling guilty, you are not to blame.
There is no point in suffering. There is no point to pain.
Stop waiting, start believing, believing in yourself.
Do you want to spend your life sitting on the shelf?

Give yourself a chance. Get on up and dance.
Let the real you shine on through. A better life waits just for you.

You must pursue your dreams; they’re worth their weight in gold.
With your desire and passion, your story will unfold.
So face up to your feelings, they won’t just go away.
The world needs to hear, what you have got to say.

Give yourself a chance. Get on up and dance.
Let the real you shine on through. A better life waits just for you.

You have a right to tell your story.
So tell it in all its glory.
You should be proud of what you do.
Please let the real you shine through.

Give yourself a chance. Get on up and dance.
Let the real you shine on through. A better life waits just for you.

Lester Queripel & Fred Williamson

All Life is Precious - Lester Queripel

There’s that sign again..........’Baby on board’.
Is a baby’s life worth more in the name of the Lord?
Or is it paranoid parents being overprotective?
In that case why don’t they hire a detective?
A police escort would be the safest way.
Bodyguards to see them safely through the day.
Let’s not pretend!
Where does this paranoia end?
The simple fact cannot be ignored.
The sign should say ‘People on board’.
Because all life is precious.

There’s that sign again..........‘Baby on board’.
Is a baby’s life worth more in the name of the Lord?
Two people are smoking on the front seat.
Baby in a baby chair fast asleep.
All the windows are closed, no fresh air.
Isn’t there a cruel contradiction there somewhere?

There’s that sign again..........‘Baby on board’.
Is a baby’s life worth more in the name of the Lord?
The simple fact cannot be ignored.
The sign should say ‘People on board’.
Because all life is precious.

Lester Queripel

The Arcadian - Alec D. Jackson

Shall I forever be
named Strephon?
He that other herdsmen
laugh upon,
They, who live their days in
raucous venture.

Will Arcadian fields
grant succour
to one whose heart is true,
full candor,
or is fidelity
vainly nurtured?

I fear so, I know so,
but still...
The universe becomes
a bauble
when her sapphire eyes turn
greeting, smiling.

Yet all time is the price
in waiting
I give willing, freely.
Yet fleeting,
goes such melancholy span,
spun to an instant.

Alec D. Jackson

Educating Granny - Jenny Hamon

I’ve become a Granny, Oh what joy!
My son has fathered a baby boy.
So now to learn the modern way,
(It’s all so different from in my day.)

I want a pram with navy trim,
To push the new arrival in.
This one folds from corner to corner.
Good grief, it’s just like a transformer!

A safety car seat’s now the rule,
From birth until the child’s at school.
But which way round, and on what seat?
Installing it has got me beat.

Does he sleep on side or tummy?
Should I let him have a dummy?
Many things now to debate,
To keep this child from Granny’s fate.

No terry nappies in a bucket,
Disposable now, just change and chuck it.
But how he wriggles, I fight to win.
At least no pins to stick in him.

No Granny, please don’t give a treat,
Of something he’s not supposed to eat.
So how can I spoil him rotten?
What’s that rule? Oh, I’ve forgotten!

And so to sleep, his eyes grow dim,
I lay him down to tuck him in.
But where’s the covers? (try not to nag)
Instead he’s buttoned in a bag.

Learning things is now my quota,
For when it’s my turn on the rota.
And as I gaze at him with pride,
I WONDER HOW MY KIDS SURVIVED!

Jenny Hamon

Bali Ha'i Sark - Shirley D. Carré

Far Away our own special island is calling,
On sea approach it beckons to you.
On arrival charms, lures you up to the top.
There it embraces and enfolds you.

Charts show off the indented, forty-mile coast,
Two linked rough diamonds, the larger northeast,
A little island close off its west coast.
The smaller has rocks, a sea stack to its south.

From Guernsey, along the eastern horizon,
It lies - a grey form with sloping-down ends.
Recumbent whale, the sea stack its fluke.
Mist emphasizes its repose and mystery.

On the ferry approach, cotils and cliffs
Resolve into colourful, soft slopes above,
Sheer, fractured facades and gnarly rocky
Coastline below with sea caves, walled coves.

Bendy strata and serpentine balls give
Testimony of awesome ancient forces and
Events uninviting then, fascinating now.
A smudged dark line rings island and rocks.

Not endemic pollution problems, but algae
Living on the edge, at the high water mark.
Your landing has surprises - the walk from
The jetty, through tunnel cutting a headland.

The islands once uplands in a grassy plain
Roamed by aurochs and hunter man.
The in-flooding seas carved the coastline,
The wind and rain smoothed the cotils.

The coast is vertical stage-set for avian
Concerts, ballets, dramas, where birds of
The sea, coast, and cliffs perform.
Their voices welcoming your landing..

At the top is the "Avenue" Sark's village,
Venture farther to discover the jigsaw of
Fields, landscape of scattered house
Clusters, buildings, and Sark time.

Prehistory, legend, history, narrative,
Welded into the landscape, reflected in
House, courtilege, field names, making
This our own special island, calling you.

Shirley D. Carré
Acknowledgement: South Pacific by Rogers and Hammerstein.

When You’ve Got To Go Spend A Penny! - James Willis

This piece was written as a spoken satire. I subsequently realised it could be performed as a ‘Talking Blues’, with guitar accompaniment in flat picking style. Further, it could be performed as a musical satire in cabaret or as ‘Lounge’ entertainment with piano. James Willis.

When You’ve Got To Go Spend A Penny! - James Willis

The dearest loo in the whole damned nation
I thought the one in Victoria Station
It boasts by far an extortionate fee
For it’s twenty P to have a wee!

There’s turnstiles…………
No change machine……….
You can’t even sneak in the ladies………..

It seems to me
When I was wee
I could have twenty wees
for twenty P!

That’s inflation………..
Liquidity……….
Bladder splitting……..
Cross legged people on the trains!

What’s even more of a sensation
When I do a further calculation
Twenty P was four bob, you see
….That’s 48 ‘d’
Four dozen wees for twenty P!

At one a day…………….
A pound lasted eight months………..
A year was one pound fifty………….
Today it would only stretch to seven-and-a-half days…….

But things get even more sinister
For there’s a loo or two down at Westminster
Where they have the cheek
To charge ten bob to take a leak.

They have a special offer …….
Two for the price of one……
Buy one, get one free!!!
Have one now, save one for later!

But all of that gets a little bit blurred
When I get some news that’s totally absurd!
I’m told, at Harrod’s, if you need to get rid
It’s goin’ to cost you all of a quid!

Twenty shillings…….
Two hundred and forty ‘d’……
A nicker………
That’s wet!

That’s taking the P*** !!

James Willis

The Mariner - Marianna Pliakou

He weighs his past by the sea,
each year a wave,
each wave a part of him.
In his beard salt and seagull cries.
In his eyes the rhythmic dance of the ocean,
sometimes shifting softly,
sometimes restless and angry.

He weighs his future by the sea,
hoping his waves will soon melt into a rock.

Marianna Pliakou

Dan Dorey - James Willis

Is it that you know Dan Dorey?
For now it’ll be a bit less,
It’s not long I remember reading
Dan Dorey has died, on the press.

Is it you remember Dan Dorey?
He lived near the Hampshire, alone.
It was ninty steps for to get there,
And a hundred and fifty goin’ home.

It’s a fact you’d remember Dan Dorey,
He’d one of those memorable faces,
He’d travelled all around the world,
And various other places.

You’d never forget Dan Dorey
For he disarmed a German, barehanded.
He was caught celebratin’ gone curfu
When the Canadians in Diep had landed!

A well known man was Dan Dorey,
In the pubs and to the bookies as well,
Of his winnings he’d often talk proudly,
But of his losses he never would tell.

Lest anyone forgets Dan Dorey,
His name is carved out in stone,
“Dan’s Cottage” cut in the lintel
Over the door of his home.

James Willis

Words (Abridged) - Aindre Reece-Sheerin

What then are words to me? they are everything and they are nothing at all;
they are what cut so deep and which heal in an instant’;
they can tread me down and yet lift me up to previously, unimaginable heights.

are Words Mathematical or a form of Weapon? –
gifts that are ours to take, to give and to use freely?
often we hear people say,
‘I give you my Word’ or ‘count on my Word’, ‘my Word is my Bond’.

you sent me words recently and everything that we were about was based upon words.
we relied on the words of the other and believed, even if with some incredulity, the words the other used to share experiences.

I have always been ‘Good with Words’. Yet, now when I most need them,
Words fail me.
How can I possibly express what desperation I feel,
what deep, deep loss I am experiencing; how my arms ache to hold you once more,
to stroke your eyebrow and sing low and soft as you drift off to sleep
or come with me to that place that only you can take me.

would that I could write a sonnet of the greatness of my love,
would that I could lift you up and sing your praises once again and see and feel the magic in your eyes.

yet, what am I doing, right here, right now? I am but using ‘Words’
mere valueless Words - because Words have no currency, they are without honour,
they are without rhythm or rhyme, they cannot speak, they cannot sing, nor can they sign or touch you,
they have no life of their own, they are dependent on you and me.
We are for want of a better Word, their God, we give them life;
they are but scratchings on a piece of manuscript, it is you and I who must give them life

these, ‘Words’ carry within them in their use a huge sense of honour, of responsibility in how we Write them, in how we Send them,
in how we Sing them, in how we Speak them, in the essence of how we communicate using them.

‘Words’ then are my life, my experiences, my poor ability to try even feebly to express how I am feeling;
they are everything to me as long as I have energy and wish to use them;
they own me every bit as much as I own them

Aindre Reece-Sheerin

Getting Fit - Jenny Hamon

Oh my God, this keep fit lark
Is supposedly good for your heart.
Stretch and tone your body and limb.
They say it helps to keep you slim.

My Bmi is far too high.
I join a gym and heave a sigh.
Now, exercise, build up a sweat!
But I just find myself in debt.

How about a dancing class,
To swing your hips and wiggle your arse?
The other people look so neat,
While gyrating to the beat.

How can I zumba and look great,
While trying hard to concentrate?
I try to follow with my feet,
But then I seem to loose the beat.

I’ll try a jog along the lane,
A solitary way to go insane.
Oh no, what exercise will I find,
That really works but calms the mind?

So today I bought a Wii
To exercise in privacy.
I’m waving arms and legs about
And give the screen a hefty clout.

The screen is blank, my wii is broke.
I’ve tried to fiddle and to poke.
Now that’s gone for a ball of chalk,
I’ll take the dog out for a walk!

Jenny Hamon

Summer Night Garden - Wendy Maitland

Pale as pearl the garden stands,
Dazed to silence in the phantom light,
Breathless in the spell of summer night.
Dark beyond the arch those shadows wait:
No leaf or petal stirs, no bird awakes.

The heavy-headed blossoms drowse,
Their scent extravagant upon the faded air;
A sudden flurry of the Pipistrelles
Swoops and darts, into the waiting shadow,
Beyond the darkening arch.

Wendy Maitland

The Oak Tree and The Pixie - Janinka Diverio

Image: Taken at Blaise Castle, Avon by Janinka

A very different style for me (in that it doesn’t derive from a personal experience) but this poem celebrates the Glos/Wiltscountryside I have grown to love so much and was inspired by my favourite childhood book The Faraway Tree. - Janinka

The Oak Tree and The Pixie - Janinka Diverio

Stoic, tall, proud, high
Branches, trunk and leaves to the sky

Long-reaching arms fingering polka dotted blue
A garland of filigree leaves stretched around of you

A pixie plays and hops amongst your tangled roots
Throwing her hat and jumping with earth-trodden pixie boots

Oblivious and unaware of the sound upon the ground
Blades of grass protrude like turrets of a castle surround

Treecreeper friend scurries messages your way
An invitation for you to come and play

Occasionally, you rustle or a leaf floats gently down
As if it were a feather from your regal crested crown

Midst robin-egg blues and skies of satin white
Pixie calls for black bird and try as they might

With wings out-stretched and in full span
They try to fly to the land of cyan

Cloaked skies turn grey and leaves are shaking loud
As Pixie tries in vain to hop upon a cloud

The yellow beak of blackbird sings a merry little song
As Pixie flies upwards to where she might belong

On the canopy of leaves that sway gently to and fro
Little contented pixie reaps her seeds to sow

Janinka Diverio

Another Anniversary - John Carré Buchanan

“Happy Birthday.”
Happy Birthday,
another anniversary,
another testament to that day,
another reminder,
of the loss,
of the pain,
of the……
Oh not all this again.
Happy it is not.
Happy I am not.
Nor can I ever be.
I was, I was, I
am no longer.
Destroyed, torn asunder,
one moment invincible
and then.....
Happy Birthday.....

John Carré Buchanan

Untouchable - Alec D Jackson

On the bewitched shores of Hesperia
You stand,
There, where dreams are drawn to reality,
Or life is renewed.
Shipwrecked, I can hardly see beyond you,
My Helen.

The Faustian pact I would broker
For one touch;
The slightest caress, glancing warmth
Too much;
Eros would explode forth bearing my heart,
still beating.

Untouchable upon the sands
Of all time,
I sacrifice all that is
All mine,
Selene's radiant silver beams
Reveal me:
A crystal silhouette,
Empty.
Without the lights that incandesce,
Within you.

I can not offer palaces nor
Paris,
I am the faithful servant
ever,
You the Titan, I the mortal, honest
and constant.

Now I look for fates guiding hand
to show,
We both in signs and portents we
would know,
That time has brought us here today,
to love, again.

Alec D Jackson

Fishing Memories - Karen Allaway

Happy memories of fishing trips at St Sampson's harbour and the Castle Emplacement with my family as a small child was my inspiration for writing this poem. - Karen.

Fishing Memories - Karen Allaway

Looking into a bucket of sand
Rag and lug squirming under my hand.
Worms collected that very afternoon,
So we could go fishing under the moon.
A worm is carefully threaded on my hook
And then.......
I cast out as far as I can.

I can see my float dancing up and down.
Under the moonlight, I dance round and round.
I’ve caught a fish, I’ve caught a fish
I nice big bass my dearest wish.
I frantically wind back the reel and........
Nothing!!
Just a remnant of worm left on my hook.
Maybe I’ll just go and take a look........

........over here.

The cranes are not working now finished for the day
So I step in the bucket and begin my play.
I’m sitting on a ferris wheel that’s going round and round
Or maybe on a train and I make the sound
Clickety clack, “tickets please”,
Doesn’t the moon look like a big piece of cheese.
Hmm, I wonder what we’ll catch today?

I hear mummy calling, I run over and look
To see what my brother has got on his hook.
The family’s been busy while I’ve been away
Some mackerel, a rockfish we pack up for the day.
So home we all go to eat for our tea
The fish we have caught...
With new potatoes and fried tomatoes YUM!

Karen Allaway

Bastard Tree - John Buchanan

As a young Captain I was lucky enough to serve in Belize (Central America). I spent some time working in the Jungle near the Guatemalan border. It was here that I first met a tree, known colloquially as the Bastard Tree. The following poem explains all;

The Bastard Tree - John Buchanan

The path knows to avoid me
It skirts my trunk as if to flee.
Its muddy course bending round
my fallen leaves upon the ground.

The steep slopes I enjoy the most
as better vistas they do boast.
It’s here I get a chance to play
a little game upon my prey.

My trunks a mass of needled spikes
A bit like ancient soldiers pikes
I’ll catch anyone who deigns to touch
and they won’t like it very much.

Here he comes; his feet are slipping
my unseen roots prepare to trip him.
He reaches out to stop the fall
And that is when I hear the call.

Bastard tree, Yep that’s me….

John Buchanan

The Dragon Tree - James Willis

In fertile fired fissures grown
The weirdest wonders ever known,
But the strangest single sight to see
Is the rare Canarian Dragon Tree.

This agricultural aged delight
Spreads its limbs to heaven’s height,
Its ariel arteries grow, but slow,
To root, again, in the ground below.

A branch is born and grows, intact,
Another sprouts, to counteract,
Balance and ballast and buttress combine
In an Archimedean spiral design.

The sap that oozes from broken bark
Is rusty red, to leave its mark.
Medicinal remedy lore is rife
Of Dragon ‘blood’ enhancing life.

Disputed dates, debated wide,
Rumour oft retains its pride.
The sight emits emotion, strong,
The centuries seem to roll along.

Tales are told, of time and size,
Of great gatherings of the wise,
Who met and massed within the girth
Of the amazing oldest tree on Earth!

James Willis

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star - Alec Jackson

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are;
A million light-years from my sky,
Your flame still burning when mine must die.

But greater yet I incandesce,
A glow more potent than you possess,
For though my span of years is few,
My life, each day, is made anew.

And constant; giving; you may be,
My heart shall feel, my eyes shall see,
The love I pass, for whom I care,
I hold them close, a rare sweet fare

So glower, star, from your distant space,
Your beams across the darkness race,
To where I stood eons ago,
Looking up at you, that you might know.

Alec Jackson

Owl - Stephen A. Roberts

Face like a radar
You swoop from above
Your target the vole
Anagram of love

Stephen A. Roberts

Sweet Pain - Karen Allaway

Sharp fine metal,
Attached to vessel,
Pierces the skin.
The thumb goes down and the vessel empties.
Exquisite pain is plunged into my back and travels down the nerve to my toe.
Who could imagine that this pain would feel so sweet but me?
The nerve bulges waiting to explode but no, wait.
Numbness envelopes my leg like millions of tiny tentacles.
The pain recedes apart from point of entry.
Not once but thrice this has to be endured.
And now lie in wait.
I wait for the shots to take their effect

Karen Allaway

Loving Mother - Alec Jackson.

The leggy blonde stands outside the pub,
Her glistening peroxide perm quivers, slightly,
A breeze strokes her thighs, a shiver.
She begins, strutting her stuff,
Forward, back,
Back, forward.

Virginal white lace smooths her body, pulled tight; a wonder bra.
Leggings cling, the chalice awaits,
The dowry, dry pleasure,
You know, love stuff,
Forward, back,
Back, forward.

Handbag bulges, a purse, make-up case,
hand mirror, fags, condoms, soap,
A few intimate things,
Photo of her kid,
Strut stuff,
Forward, back,
Back, forward.

Home; she checks her kid, caresses his brow,
hair out of eyes while sleep engulfs,
Purse full of cash, till her pimp comes,
Love, strut your stuff,
Stuff your strut, love.
Forward, back,
Back, forward.

Alec Jackson

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