Pub Games - Donald Keyman

do you remember the E & G?
the English and Guernsey Arms to you and me
a good old boozer down the Bridge
bar meals, scampi, darts, cribbage

then one day it all had to change
the brewery decided to rearrange
the locals' opinions were not sought
and a fake Irish pub was duly bought

I went in there when it was done
to see the locals having fun
they were sitting where they always used to be
enduring endless fiddly diddly dee

I could see they didn't give a feck
for an ersatz pub from a flatbed truck
as far as they were concerned it would always be
their old pub, the E & G

for twenty, maybe thirty years, they
drank Guinness instead of local beers
But they never really gave a feck
for the sham shamrock

now history has proved them right
and they have won without a fight
for Paddy's bar has been reconverted
to the E & G it has reverted

and we're left to consider the irony
when there's a band on, at the E & G
the gig venue is a mystery
because it's "down at Blindo's doncha see?"

Donald Keyman

Bleak - Paul Fletcher

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in December 2010

... A past dance 
With a sea devil

Lost souls
Found upon a new land
Separated from their heaven

Sky blends
Into starscapes
Hidden above
The fronds of
Loose leafed cloud

Nimble cumulated raindrops
Froth down into the blue expanse

I imagine children playing
Lives out as drowned men
From a far culture
I toy with the idea they are them
Lived again
Laughing on the warm sand
On a gorgeous August day

Watching the stars
For their return.

Paul Fletcher

United No More - Ian Duquemin

United the Kingdom no longer
Britain the once ever Great
Divided its people stand helpless
In a land so unsure of its fate
The Union Jack once held power
Distinguished in red, blue and white
Seems to have lost any meaning
As its nation can't stand up and fight
Down come the churches and steeples 
New gods are now ruling the land
Our land, once free and untethered 
Speaks in language we can't understand 
Our motto was "Never Surrender"
Yet surrender we seem to have done
And everything British about us
Has vanished, been stolen... And gone 

Ian Duquemin

Sign Language - Lyndon Queripel

The tell tale signs were all there
Bloodshot eyes and tangled hair
Cracked voice and vacant stare
A damaged heart beyond repair.

Lyndon Queripel

In The Bleak Mid-Winter - Christina Rossetti

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk,
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air -
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can, I give Him -
Give my heart.

Christina Rossetti

"In the Bleak Midwinter" is a Christmas carol based on a poem by the English poet Christina Rossetti written before 1872 in response to a request from the magazine Scribner's Monthly for a Christmas poem. It was published posthumously in Rossetti's Poetic Works in 1904. Source: Wikipedia

Christmas 1914 - Richard Fleming

Out of the trenches stepped one man,
a truce flag held above his head,
then from the other side was waved
a cloth and word was quickly spread.

From blackened ground, like seeds, they grew
to cover those disputed lands:
a khaki crop mingled with grey,
cautious at first, then shaking hands.

Gifts were exchanged, tobacco, smiles.
Creased photographs were shyly shown.
Then, from a trench that frosty day,
a leather soccer ball was thrown.

The goalposts were four bayonets.
A match was played in friendly style
by muddy boys, for boys they were.
War was forgotten for a while.

Richard Fleming

Christmas Morning - John Buchanan

Giggles erupt from the huddle.
Excited nudges, toothless smiles.
The air fills with high pitched chatter,
as children talk all at once; no one listening.
Too much fun.

Shiny paper torn asunder, thrust behind.
Fingers break into cardboard boxes
to grasp treasures within.

Hovering in the background,
camera flashing,
parents revel in the joy before them.
A Christmas scene played out
in a thousand living rooms.

It won't be long before little voices everywhere plead;
Daddy, please can I have a go?
...... IT IS MINE !

John Buchanan

Back Then – Trudie Shannon

Back then, it was easy
Because there were maidens, unblemished.
You know, until marriage,
And men whose hearts were open,
You know, receptive to spiritual blessing,
So Joseph could say to Mary
Right on
When she told him she was having a baby.

Back then it was easy
Because there were angels,
You know, visible singing choruses
Of white winged seraphims
That flew across the cosmos with the news.
And back then, there were verdant hillsides
And shepherds,
You know, simple people in touch with the earth
Looking after sheep and lambs
Who could say
“Wow angels, Wow, a new King,
Let's mosey down and greet him brothers”.

Back then it was easy
Because there were Wise Men
Who took notice of celestial changes,
Bore witness to new and beautiful stars,
Who could say
“Friends this star is a portent of change in our world,
Let us plot its path, follow its light, seek its destination”.
Back then it was easy,
Even with Herod
Because we had angels didn't we?
Who infiltrated and told, got the Wise Men on the move.
Didn't save the infant boys though.
But you couldn't have everything, even then.

So when the time was right
And he was born
They were all there,
Expectant revering, gob-smacked!
And they all brought presents,
You know, gold , frankincense, myrrh, a lamb, wool.
No inventory was kept
But all useful gifts nonetheless.

Now there are few hillsides with sheep,
Fewer still with shepherds.
And our star-gazers are all cosmic war-mongers.
And women, all too often,
Have their virginity reft from them
While still children
And men told of spiritual fatherhood
Would beat their fiancé up good and proper
Teach her a lesson.
And angels are disregarded
As figments of fertile imagination or lunacy.

So you see,

Back then,

It was easy.

Trudie Shannon

Four Minutes – Diane Scantlebury

No one had noticed the bright star in the east,
As they sat down to gorge
At the table laden with Xmas feast,
They chose to ignore the plight
Of those destitute and in need,
While they stripped to the bone
Every morsel in their greed,
Not a thought for the child
Whose birth they celebrated
And was in a stable born,
When they sat groaning on the sofa, stuffed,
Amongst the debris of wrapping paper torn,

News of wars, famine and devastation
Bypassed their booze-glazed vision,
As they sank comatose, in deep slumber
To snore like hogs in front of the television,
No one had noticed the bright flash
Of light in the east,
The warning of impending apocalypse
Four minutes before,
The arrival of the beast.

Diane Scantlebury

Christmas Notes – Trudie Shannon

Christmas notes
Fall as light
As steamy breath
From cold children's
Open mouths.
Standing in the queue
At the food bank.

Choirs of forgotten angels
Gather in darkened streets
Cardboard in their shoes
Waiting for soup
To be handed out.

Christmas notes
Accompany wise men,
Loosing laced tongues,
Wandering home
Worse for drink.

Christmas denotes
Crass hypocrisy
Too many falling prey
To shallow glitter
And superfluous gifts


Whose birthday is it?

Trudie Shannon

Really do! - Tony Robert

Close my eyes, thinking of you
And all the great things that you do
That keeps me coming back for more
Never been in love like this before

You are so very special to me
Love you so much, can’t you see?
I’d do whatever you desire
Your love has set my heart on fire

As I lay here in bed alone
Listening to your voice on the phone
Wish you were here for me to kiss
At this time of night it’s what I miss

Maybe one day my dream will come true
I’ll go to bed, cuddle up to you
When I’d wake, I’d hug you tight
You’d help me make it through the night

Sometimes it’s difficult for me to find
The words to say what’s on my mind
To express the way I feel for you
I love you so much, I really do

Tony Robert

Fermain Flight - Richard Fleming

The trees stand random, not in rows;
the path ahead weaves side to side;
bright sunlight falls on branch and bough
as, overhead, white jet-planes glide,
their tracks like furrows from a plough
on a blue field where nothing grows
not even clumps of cloud today,
nothing to mask the brightness, fair,
but swallows sailing like thrown stones
across an endlessness of air.
At the cliff’s foot, sea sways and moans
on this rough coast by Fermain Bay.

Down over mulched roots, swift, I go;
boots drive me over waking ground,
past tall trees, spring leaves richly rife,
drawn by seductive ocean sound
down to the salty source of life.
Deep, endless deep then gently slow,
the tide’s raw pull envelops me:
bright shoals collide behind my eyes;
trees sweep like waves to left and right;
the heart, set free, begins to rise.
Transfigured, winged, in green sunlight,
I soar, ecstatic, to the sea.

Richard Fleming

This poem first appeared in The Man Who Landed, as part of A GUERNSEY DOUBLE, a joint collection with poet, Peter Kenny.

For further details and availability of this book please go to

Time Stood Still - Lyndon Queripel

Time stood still
It came to a stop
In the realm of silence
You'd hear a pin drop

Time stood still
Like the future past
Lost in a dream
A spell was cast

Time stood still
We'd  reached the end
Of the wilderness
Waiting to transcend.

Lyndon Queripel

Maturity - Diane Scantlebury

I’m like an old egg
With a chick still inside,
An ancient cave
Where my inside child can hide,
A vintage decanter
Full of fine new wine,
A young head
On old shoulders
With a fertile, overactive mind,
Youthful errors and mistakes
I’ve made plenty that’s a surety,
But now I have the advantage
Of hindsight and maturity,
I feel no need to regard the passing of youth
With envy or resentment,
I can treasure every year gained
With the smugness of contentment,
I may have had my salad days
Enjoyed, indulged and taken my fill,
But like cheese and fruit I have matured
And am even tastier still!

Diane Scantlebury

Christmas (Present) - Ian Duquemin

Under a lamplight a choir performed 
Snow spiralled down from the sky
People walked by wrapped in coats and scarfs
To the shops and the sellers nearby
Where pushing and shoving had started
Where greed called the modern day crowd
Beside them the choir sang sadly
In an atmosphere freezing and loud
Above them a star hung unsurely
Around them the night gathered in
The ghosts of a past kept on singing 
While the truth bit like rats on their skin
The lamplight did shine on the present
Where Christmas was tainted by greed
Where choirs and carols and spirit itself
Were no more a part of or need
But under the snowflakes still falling
A small child stood under the light
He sang with the choir not seen by all 
With a song of a silent night

Ian Duquemin

Black Christmas At Wood Grove (A Jolly Xmas Rhyme) - Oscar Milde

The Browns were tending their garden,
Jack Wilson was washing his car,
Rose was unloading her presents,
while William was bound for the bar.

A cat was asleep on a lawn
as puppies played tag round a tree.
A shadow passed over Wood Grove.
It was Saturday, just after three.

The ground seemed to suddenly tilt.
A resounding tremor was felt.
The sky turned hot as a furnace
and the elm trees started to melt.

The air grew steadily hotter
as house-windows splintered like ice.
The smoke-grey cat turned into ash.
The pups spun like tumbling dice.

Wood Grove was changed in an instant:
red-brick houses grew suddenly pale,
chimney-pots tumbled like skittles.
Far off, sirens started to wail

then faded into a stillness
where bird-song and breathing had ceased.
There was nothing but towering silence
and a mushroom cloud to the east.

The Browns became garden compost
while Jack and his clean car went pop;
William exploded; Rose never
unloaded. Everything came to a stop.

Black ashes gathered like snowflakes,
enveloping, drifting and thick.
Whatever had passed over Wood Grove,
it certainly wasn’t St Nick.

Oscar Milde

Stone Fish Swimming ~ A Photograph - Trudie Shannon

Wave washed pebbles lie glistening beneath the sun filtered sea,
Like shoals of surreal fish.
The land fall, the small islet, is like an observer,
Draped for effect, in landscape.
Sky is distant and for the moment neutral
And the static fish and the unmoving water
Shift and ripple symbiotically, mesmerically.
Our minds, on oath, swear we gaze at chemicals on paper,
Bound to shape and form by some alchemic magic
And that those shapes and forms bear witness
To a given moment on a given day,
And unlike the invisible movement of glass,
These textures of submerged stones ARE stationary.
But, if we blink, it is as if, out of the corner of an eye
We see our static pebble fish, that swim, that swim
That swim away.

Trudie Shannon

Lightstorm - Stephen A. Roberts

Meteor shower, Swift-Tuttle,
celestial message in a bottle.

My thoughts as Perseids
instant and forgotten,
pinpricks of light in the Sargasso of doubt.

I cry stardust, for I
won't live to see
this comet, or
the transit of Venus again.

Then, during the lightstorm, the thought,
searingly bright;
                    neither will you.

Stephen A. Roberts

This poem appears in the Poetic Republic's third e-book "Poems To Talk About : Warming Bees".

For further details and availability of this e-book please go to

Meeting a Famous Person – Elizabeth Fisher

I met the Queen
When she was visiting Blackpool
I was standing in the front of the crowd
When she stopped right in front of me.
She asked me my name
And did I have a job
Did I live here and like it .
I couldn't speak
My legs felt weak
I pointed to the newspaper shop across the road and said 'Just above'
(I thought "you would prefer the palace Luv")
Then she shook my hand with her white gloves on and gave me a smile.
I was stunned for a while .
I met the Queen
How lucky is that
I'm only an ordinary chap !

Elizabeth Fisher

Sunset at Cobo - Richard Fleming

Out-of-body experiences
are said to be like this: a bright
whose infinity of light spreads
across water
in ripples of diminishing red
towards a richness
of setting sun.

Barefoot among rock-pools,
I feel contentment
here on this west-facing shore,
my summer skim away
as, over waves,
a thrown stone

Richard Fleming

This poem first appeared in The Man Who Landed, as part of A GUERNSEY DOUBLE, a joint collection with poet, Peter Kenny.

For further details and availability of this book please go to

Surrender - Lyndon Queripel

The light was bright
All was revealed
Shadows surrender
Time to yield
Your nerves are shot
No longer steeled
Lay down the sword
With the shield
Lay down your arms
And the fears they wield
Now open your heart
Pray to be healed
With your name signed
And your fate sealed.

Lyndon Queripel

Guernsey - Ian Duquemin

The rolling yellow cliff tops 
The ripple of the sea
The greedy call of seagulls...
With their "cry of hunger" plea
The sands that keep returning
Lying warm upon the shore
Framing Island history
On ocean ever pure
Guernsey keep on blooming
Let your flag lift high and proud
Keep your cheer of freedom...
As a song forever loud
And help your children flourish 
In the future, as the past
And may your strength and beauty always last

Ian Duquemin

Ebola Orphan - Diane Scantlebury

And so it came
A silent thief,
Brought only pain
With no relief,
Left an orphan crying
For his mother,
Who lay unnamed
In an unmarked grave
Alongside his father, sisters and others,
For this newly created ‘only child’
There’d be no joy or pride,
He’d be a lone survivor in an empty world
Where all his family had died,
With no one left to love
Or nurture him
Nothing more for medicine to do,
Ebola orphan child
What will become of you?

Diane Scantlebury

Paused - Janinka Diverio

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in December 2010

Washed up, eroded
by the course of, the force of...
...the caressing game of life

Once stirred, once a battle against the odds
Ogre-like in its stature –

- like you

A failed plight, dead of night
A colossus so frail, strewn masts and a shredded sail
Now simply a faintly image, my friend –

- like you

Ghostly clouds embody the secrets of a hoped-for land
of a kind face, a warm heart and a stroke of your hand

Deathly silent, tears shed,
what lies now on the ocean bed?

Paused -
so quiet
Embers littered midst drift woods and lives

Caused -
what caused
shattered hopes, quashed spirits and severed ties

- by you?

Janinka Diverio

Celebration (for which there are no proper rites) - Vic Gamble

there are no proper rites,
ambrosia slipped between the tiles,
on the tiles
cat-walk screeching
in lingual insubordination…..
it is all a cacophony to some,
but we must encompass the whole caboodle,
like a contango,
our celebration forward fan-faring,
a fountain for the day.

a bellow of a raindrop
on the green leaf vein,
black circles black
and back to blue again,
the flag-rag wave,
the beauty of swans slow-gliding,
old eyes sup energy from joy
while the young mischief making merry;
there is no phantasm in celebration,
only that which exists,
not phoney, but phonetic
as loud as clear as cheering.

grab the glad rag Gladstone bag
let rhyme and song entangle,
exhale to exhaustion,
savour, scamp & spangle;
there are no proper rites,
enjoy the day's spatula of lights
and quick skip
the light drowned fandangle.

Vic Gamble

A Gift Of Flowers - Trudie Shannon

He proffered two flowers,
Both full-blown , a blue and a yellow.
She thought of Spring but
This was Autumn and he was well into his winter
His shoulders stooped, his head bald
And his skin ruddy with burst capillaries.
She took them graciously
Whilst he swept his cap from his head
Bowing slightly.
And realised in that gesture
She was in receipt
Of a simple gift of love.

Trudie Shannon

Firestone - Lyndon Queripel

Through fields of flood
And rivers of mud
With puddles of blood
In the name of God
On streets of shame
They keep the flame
Of greed and desire
In a stone of fire.

Lyndon Queripel

Winter Sun - Stephen A. Roberts

Don't be afraid of the silence
Don't be afraid of the dark
The winter sun is behind us
But the devil has left his mark

There is a devil inside every one of us
And we must leave our mark
Don't be afraid of the silence
Don't be afraid of the dark

Stephen A. Roberts

Owl - Richard Fleming

In a green lane in St Peter’s
near midnight, under a full moon,
a pale owl
flew across my path, silently,
then low
over dark fields to the tree-line, hunting.

I turned
to watch his tireless sweep
over dumb ground, mist spreading like a shroud,
till I lost sight of him,
and coldness, creeping,
turned my leaden footsteps home.

In bed, near daybreak,
I jerk awake, heart pounding,
mindful of accelerating time, moments eaten up,
of golden, soundless wings,
that questing eye;
sharp talons reaching for my heart.

Richard Fleming

This poem first appeared in The Man Who Landed, as part of A GUERNSEY DOUBLE, a joint collection with poet, Peter Kenny.

For further details and availability of this book please go to

Tipped Up World - Ian Duquemin

Is this the day where everything changes?
Where life's tipped up and rearranges
Is this needle in my arm...
Delivering help... Or inflicting harm?
Are these lumps beneath my skin...
The coward killer from within?
Is this the fight I face alone...
'Though I'm not on my own!
I've always had to find my way
But now I need your hand this day
The hand that fits so well in mine...
As if made by design
With your strength I stand a chance
A future's waiting to advance
From a tipped up world of only mess
To tidy... More or less

Ian Duquemin

Blue (A Poem For The Blue Planet) - Kathy Figueroa

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in December 2011

It's in the blood
And in the air
It's something that's found
In the mountains
And the seas
It's part of us
And all that breathes
Humanity seeks it
In outer space
And rejoices when we've
Found a trace
'A riddle,' you might say
'Well, this is odd
Does it involve a Higher Power
Often known as, 'God'?
'Yes,' the Torah
Old Testament and Koran agree
In an example of rare unity
At the beginning of Creation
It was given form
And from it, all of life was born
Here is an additional clue
It's given this planet a lovely hue
Of blue
Acqua, agua, amanzi, eau
Immerk, ma'im, maji, maya, mizu, pani, rano
Shui, usun, vada, voda, wasser, water... H2O

Kathy Figueroa

Puška* - John Buchanan

They stand in front of me
wide hollow eyes search my soul.
Grubby faces, ragged clothes, empty eyes.
Itchy fingers point,
the word "puška" comes again.
In my hands it's a tool of the trade;
yet their young eyes have seen,
their young ears have heard
and their, so very young lives, have lost.
I reached into my pocket
pulled out marbles and squatted.
There in the dust we played.
That day I lost a few marbles,
learned the word "puška"
and the hollow eyes still haunt me.

John Buchanan

* Puška = Rifle

Precious One - Diane Scantlebury

You’ve come and gone
My precious one,
This isle was never big enough
To hold your interest for long,
Before the lure of the mainland
Drew you back
To its excitement and sparkle,
Leaving me behind
With a mother’s sadness,
The nest emptied
For a second time,

Off again on another adventure,
With hopes high
And your two dear cats in tow,
The unknown beckoning you
Enticing your restless spirit,
Like the summer
You’ve come and gone,
Stay safe in your new life
My precious one.

Diane Scantlebury

Vote Vote Vote – Oscar Milde

We voted half the last lot out
and voted all the new lot in.
We thought that when we’d had our shout
there’d be an end to lies and spin
but here we are and nothing’s changed:
someone who votes must be deranged.

It’s one thing voting on the phone
for Strictly dancers week by week
or jungle celebs, who just moan
because we know they’re past their peak.
Those are honest competitions.
What fool would vote for politicians?

Their manifestos, every time,
are works of fiction woven through
with fancy promises, sublime,
where not a single word is true
and yet we trust them, offer votes
instead of fingers round their throats.

So what’s the plan, a coup d’etat?
Cheer a dictator and his crew?
You might as well elect a cat
or move away to Timbuktu.
There’s always leaders and the led
but true democracy is dead.

Injustice is a fact of life
as much as inequality.
It’s them and us. In peace or strife
there’s no escape from polity
or politicians, sad to say,
until they carry you away.

Oscar Milde

Immortality Is Overrated - Lyndon Queripel

I tried to write a poem
About how I'd like to be remembered
Well, believe me I tried
But all I could think of was
I'd like to be remembered as
The man who never died
But then again you see
Who would remember me
If I just lived on
And you and everyone
That I know
Were all gone ?

Lyndon Queripel

Hanois - Vic Gamble

The shadow & sink of night
fills the water’s simpering.
Murkish, musty clouds
edge,shove and elbow by the heights
of Hanois,
as she fingers accusation
to the muddled moods of elements.

The sun is ginger
when it finally hits this fusion
and softens there
naive in  warm illusion.

The petal & smoke of sunset
is clearing from the battlefield
whilst white eyes stalk the waves;
it is either madness of foam,
or the underbelly of mirrored stars,
(but the dance is elfish anyway.)

Nowhere is breath breathing
and Hanois grows rigid
with the fear of loneliness,
a crazy monolith to the
wild, still movements
of space and air and water.

The last long shadow
thrown out like the cat
is caught in the wink
of its own blink
and sinks,
conquered then
in the toll of the fold of a

Vic Gamble

Sarah's Lament - Sarah Tonan

Now everyone I meet these days
tells me that they’re writing poems.
Not modestly: they’re sorry that
they’re not the Poet Laureate.
They rattle on like metronomes
about their skill. I’m in a daze.

So why’s the Guernsey Poets blog
not inundated with their verse?
A Sonnet shortage? Odes as well?
Not even one neat Villanelle
or little Haiku, short and terse?
Attention poets, it’s no slog

to get your arsis* into gear
and send your precious poems here.

Sarah Tonan

* A poetical term referring to the unstressed syllable of a metrical foot.

The Bugle Call – Ian Duquemin

The bugle called, yet no-one came
Out from the blood, the mud and the rain
Silenced the call left an empty space
A barren, desolate place
Rusty wire entwined with hair
Had ripped the flesh in its tangled snare
And darkness covered this land of red
Hiding the glorious dead
Prayers of loved ones were never heard
By those in trenches left here interred
Eyes that witnessed such hurt and pain
Stared lifeless upon the slain
One hundred years have come and gone
And with each new and thankful dawn
That bugle to this day is blown
Calling them back home

Ian Duquemin

Inscription - Trudie Shannon

Upon this candle,
I inscribe these words.
May peace embrace you.
I will take a match
And light the stranded wick.
The living flame will burn my words
Out into the ether.

Would that all words between people
Could be dispersed
With such gentleness.

Trudie Shannon

The Twitcher - John Buchanan

The birds flew in just after dawn.
They skimmed the treetops,
left ripples on the surface of the lake.
The first, and last, their prey knew of them
was a mighty, stomach clenching, roar
as they flashed past;
leaving dust and devastation in their wake.
Up on the hill top
he tucked the laser away,
confirmed the kill,
then crawled over the brow,
stood and broke into a stooped run.
Job done,
bug out.

John Buchanan

Thinking of Dad - Diane Scantlebury

I’ve got great memories
About my dad,
He’s long been gone
But I still feel sad,
When I think of him
There’s a bright beam that shines
And only illuminates the happier times,

Gregarious and fun
He kept our family together,
Loved to party and would barbeque
Whatever the weather,
Beneath a huge umbrella
In our small back yard,
With smoke billowing from the grill
And the rain falling hard,

A green fingered wizard
His forte was gardening,
His pride was his allotment
He could grow almost anything,
From apples and pears
To runner beans and flowers
In the border beds,
Pumpkins, potatoes, tomatoes,
Even grapes in the garden shed,

Which of course he turned
Into homemade wine,
Then made sake from rice
If he had the time,
There’d be demijohns bubbling
And yeasty smells from under the stairs,
The cupboard would be packed to heaving
With bottles of homebrew stouts and beers,

Much to mum’s annoyance
My little sister’s first word was “beer”,
Pointing her finger to the door above the fridge
And the brew that was hidden there,
She’d not settle and bounce and whinge
Upon my mother’s hip,
Dad would just laugh,
And when mum’s back was turned
He’d let her have a little sip,

I’ve got great memories
About my dad,
He may be gone
But I no longer feel sad,
When I think of him
There’s a bright beam that shines,
And will only illuminate the happier times.

Diane Scantlebury

Lifeline - Joan Etoile

The news today has bothered me
The Co-op want to close their facility
There's talk of 'contingency' and 'food security'
But what if it snows like in '63?

Their plans have filled me all with dread
I'm fearing for my Sunday spread
That's why I've got a year's supply of bread
In a freezer in my shed

My grandsons and Stroobs the cat
Won't survive on toast without fat
Nor will I, if it comes to that,
I don't want to be like Jack Spratt!

No, to keep the wolf away from the door
We'll have to call the Red Cross once more
To bring us the foodstuffs that we adore
Just like the Vega did, back in '44!

Joan Etoile

The Beauty Within - Julian Clarke

When you feel the
Beauty within
You will see more
Beauty around you;
When you feel the
Peace within
Calm stillness will
Surround you.
It’s there for all
Of us hiding in
Every breath;
Majestic trees
Purify the air
As they dance and
Sway in the wind;
The oxygen released
Holds the breath
To give us the
Beauty within;
Can’t you see the
Extinction of trees
Suffocates the world
We all live in.

Julian Clarke

Ormer Trauma – Stephen A. Roberts

Low tide atrocity:
Wading, hunting
Turning the rocks.
Lifting the roof,
Shell heart beating
In its watery home.

The tide has turned!

Low tide anxiety:
Wrenching, pulling
A leg that's stuck
Under the rocks.
Flesh heart beating
In its watery grave.

Stephen A. Roberts

How’s Your Father (these days) - Vic Gamble

{ part one}

God was not such a bright spark
cajoling Noah to build an ark
and then, with celestial watery eyes
matched only by His wilted watery brain,
He drowned everything He had created
in His god-dam godly game
(except for the usual twosomes,the lions,giraffes
 and big horns of the jungle).
But what about the ones that noble Noah had forgot,
the insects and the platypus, the amoeba
and the tsetse fly, not to mention the No 7 bus?
and if Noah had a chance to veto
why didn’t he swat those two mosquito?

(oh! didn’t that heavenly Father make one hell of
a beautiful bungle!).

{ interlude }

I may not be the one to say
but is it not somewhat deranged
to destroy all you have created
and carefully arranged,
little fluffy things drowned
in wild wide eyed fear….
the one saving grace of course being
God does not actually exist,
He is not actually here.

{part two}

But his little elves don’t feel that this is so,
How’s your Father? you ask them,
still messing up the world?
Oh! yes indeed they say, He’s still all go! go! go!

It’s all a bit weird and wearisome,
with a touch of gruesome for Godly gains of glory,
this vacuous How’s your Father (these days)
this little fairy story.

Vic Gamble

Author's footnote:
Not to be confused with “How’s Your Father?”
a Victorian expression used to ascertain the whereabouts of a young lady’s Daddy, prior to any potential rutting.

Big And Strong - Lester Queripel

If you drink your milk
You’ll be big and strong
But I didn’t like it
So I didn’t drink it
That’s where I went wrong

Lester Queripel

Mad Woman - Trudie Shannon

She walks the wet, windblown street,
A tatter of human flotsam.
Her voice tumbles before her
A persistent litany.
She articulates each word into the rain full air,
Rants to the invisible,
Plays both sides of some heated conversation,
She berates herself, her anger
The heartache, the cruelty, her loneliness.
But nevertheless, she strides purposefully on,
Oblivious to the strangers she passes.
Were she a poet in performance,
She would receive a standing ovation
But isolate, on a people filled street
Her madness is pointedly ignored
Hidden inside upturned collars
And embarrassed glances into shop windows.
She walks the wet windblown street
A tatter of human flotsam
And we are shamed by her.

Trudie Shannon

Crazy Butterflies in Love - Diane Scantlebury

Circling, circling we spiral
Ever upwards,
Around and around,
Crazy butterflies in love,
Spinning and spinning
Till we crash, exhausted onto the roof,
But featherlike land without sound,

Was it an autumn thermal that drew us?
Up to these dizzying heights
Away from the leaf spattered floor?
How we got here
We didn’t notice or care,
While locked in the throes of amour,
Too absorbed in our passion
To feel the north wind’s
Breath chill,
We butterflies in love are helpless
And have no free will,

Circling, circling we’ll spiral
Ever upwards,
Around and around,
Crazy butterflies in love
Spinning and spinning
Till our desire is diminished,
And the north wind floats us, spent,
To the leaf smothered ground.

Diane Scantlebury

Masquerade - Ian Duquemin

When did I reinvent myself?
As foetus in my mother's womb?
At birth when light out-shone me?
In times when life had frightened me?
Or when presented with my truth?
The truth of who I really was... Repulsive! 
But then my mask was stapled on
It's sunken cheeks, eyes azure, and lips that longed to be kissed...
All features that disguised the hurt
And kept the curse at bay
But sometimes when I'm forced to smile...
In that moment horrified
My mask has slipped... Exposing pain
Where my broken parts remain

Ian Duquemin

Anthem For Doomed Youth - Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
---Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,---
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

This item is from The First World War Poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford (;
© Copyright The Estate of Wilfred Owen. The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen edited by Jon Stallworthy first published by Chatto Windus, 1983. Preliminaries, introductory, editorial matter, manuscripts and fragments omitted.

The Dangers Of Literature - Oscar Milde

Literature is fascinating:
keen discussions, sharp debating,
makes us fervent, animated.

Literature is complicated.
Some like poems, others prose:
rhyme or reason, I suppose.

Not contentious, one might think
unless you add The Demon Drink
then it’s a case of life or death.

Two Russian drunks, with vodka breath,
grew heated in their chilly hut:
one stabbed the other in the gut.

When charged with this outrageous crime,
he claimed to be defending rhyme.
His sorry victim lies in state:
murdered for being literate.

Oscar Milde
Based on a true story!

Remember Larry - Julian Clarke

The battle lines are drawn
From many miles away,
The soldier looks within
He hopes it's not today.
His head's in such a spin
Forgets it's his birthday,
Go; go, over the top lads
A bullet goes astray.

Mum sits by the telephone
A birthday wish to say,
Lying in the mud alone
The ultimate price he paid.
The soldier and his Noreen
Were soon going to marry,
When they turned eighteen
Not to be; poor young Larry.

Julian Clarke

Death On An Axminster Carpet - Vic Gamble

she went blubbering into
the bathroom
& spliced her wrists with his razor,
her beautiful & delicate wrists,
as if they were rotten saplings…
as if they were  romantic molten wax
of candles…

her husband found her in an incidental barrage in,
left, & locked the door
& called an ambulance as if it were a shout
for pest control,
as if a predacious animal had been found,
his voice croaking with need
for mesmerising lights of blue
and other flashing toys of emergency.

“Don’t save me” she cried, “He lied”
& the ambulance man leaned close,
like an angel, and said,
“Don’t worry honey, he just didn’t want more blood
on his new bloody carpet”

Vic Gamble

The Only Way Is Up - Lester Queripel

The only way is up
Unless you would rather go down
Do you prefer to wear a smile?
Or do you prefer to wear a frown?

Will you be optimistic or will you be pessimistic?
Will you be idealistic or will you be realistic?
Is a paradise lost a paradise found?
Can the value of a person be measured by the pound?
To ‘go up’, you need to leave the ground
Light the blue touch paper and retire
Light the fire
Head for the sky
Head for the stars
Head for Mars

The only way is up
Unless you prefer to go down
Do you prefer to wear a smile?
Or do you prefer to wear a frown?

Lester Queripel

Storm - Ted Huge

Like mad puppets, bird-feeders jig.
The wind, a wild puppet-master,
whips them onward, faster, faster,
with rod and bar of branch and twig.

Flower-pots are tumbled; knocked for six.
The fence I built is standing, still;
and bird-table, by force of will
or two strategically placed bricks,

stays upright like a tall ship’s mast.
I pull my cap down, check around;
make all that matters safe and sound;
secure until the storm has passed.

Ted Huge

Remember, Remember… - Traditional

One of many versions of this traditional chant

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.

By god's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!


Saviour, Monsieur Sidaner - Trudie Shannon

When child small, the lane
Was a deep, grey channel, a gauntlet to be run, save
When the old Frenchman with green hands and black beret
Stood on the hill high bank,
Tomato full greenhouses at his back,
To hold council in his somersaulting tongue,
Whilst we stood, the rescued,
Captivated by his rapid sing song
And the dance of his gesticulating hands.
The bullies always passed us by
When Monsieur held court
No taunts, no pushing, no shoving.
And we always stood together
His rapt, uncomprehending audience of two.
But we listened just the same
Awaiting the moment when
Those green leathery hands would
Proffer fruit for 'Maman'
Which they always did and we would take them, as we always did
Then scurry away in safety
Muttering and giggling Oui, Oui
All the way home.

Trudie Shannon

Where Beauty Sleeps - Diane Scantlebury

Where beauty lies
Beauty sleeps,
So beauty will
Her secret keep,
Where ugliness lies
Then ugliness knows,
The darkest place
Where ugliness grows,
So let beauty wake
And in your heart shine,
Don’t let ugliness creep
And your heart entwine,
If beauty’s secret
You wish to keep,
Don’t let ugliness know
Where beauty sleeps.

Diane Scantlebury

The Youth of Today - Joan Etoile

I made my eldest grandson some fairy cakes for tea
But he didn't want them, because he was high on E
The young are so ungrateful, they don't know that they're born
They've never known real hardship, or woke to a hopeless dawn

These days they're out 'til all hours - no curfew bothers them
Money is no problem, they're changing phones again
It seems they want for nothing, but are never satisfied
The attention spans of goldfish, no morals and no pride

It's a far cry from the old days, when we spoke in Patois code
We did it to fool the Germans - and the Jersey toad
Back then it was real excitement, painting secret signs
Spying on the neighbours, in case they changed sides

We lived in constant danger, there are stories to be told
To my feckless grandsons, before I get too old
I'm sure they listen really, I think there's some hope yet
'Cos I heard the youngest say he had to hide his crystal set...

Joan Etoile

The Terror Cure - Ian Duquemin

The man stood at the boarding gate
All eyes on him were filled with hate
Or was it fear of the unknowing?
Would they get to the place they were going?
Security men had searched him well
He had nothing as far as machines could tell
But on the plane, air conditioners blew
If only the passengers knew!
The wheels touched down from underneath
He heard the sighs of some relief
With feet back on the tarmac'd ground
Arrival... Safe and sound 
Of course the man was searched once more
He had no weapons, they were sure
So he was free to walk away...
His prayers allowed this day
Days did pass, and in a room
The man in sweat... A martyr soon
His virus oozed from deep within
From here, all would begin...
The other passengers at home
Had spread his illnesses, then unknown
Passed to husband, wife and child
To spread like fire... Fierce and wild
And years after the martyr died
A woman screamed... A child cried
The population dwindled fast
How long would sickness last?
They never found "The Terror Cure"
But masks were issued, worn by law
And those that lived would live in fear
As God had put them here
A small injection in the vein 
A foot upon a boarding plane
A carrier let through the door
No weapons... Only war 

Ian Duquemin

The Buriers - Richard Fleming

A Rhyme For Halloween

A barking dog, somewhere nearby,
alerts us to strangers’ presence.
We draw curtains, secure both doors,
duck behind chairs, crouch on all-fours.
Such precautions make perfect sense.
We do not welcome those who pry.

We do not welcome those who pry.
People who stray within our fence
are made to stay to settle scores.
We bury them beneath the floors
like treasure. Then we burn incense
and pray and wait for them to die.

Richard Fleming

Laced With Arsenic - Vic Gamble

These old wasted women
behind the dapple of lacehole curtains
sucking in the gossip
with perfect pulse
of piranha …...

careful Eugene
you have been seen
and the hot wire is buzzing
from lace to lace
in the metal grindings
of their see-saw tongues.

They slipper shuffle,
like carrion birds on a dead rat,
each vein and artery decimated,
like rancid rats on the gangrene of garbage
each gnaw is anticipated,
but it is, after all,
their private over-excitable art
of self preservation.

These wasted old ladies
with no hope for a new & healing skin,
each one at their personal station of the cross,
unsure if their Jesus
knows of their worst
& sinful sin.

...and lace flutters, whilst they,
like a butterfly still trapped,
unfocused by its
fluttering vision,
inwardly watch their own weak strength
being sapped.

Vic Gamble

Bad Taste - Lester Queripel

If you give bad taste an inch it will take a mile.
It will spread like a cancer through every new born child.
The same goes for apathy.
We don’t want it in our society.
Don’t allow it to be set free.
There’s a better future for you and me.
The same goes for bad language, it gets worse every day.
We have to get it under control it won’t just go away.
Standards have dropped to an all time low.
There’s no one else for them to go.
There’s far too much anger, there’s far too much aggression.
There’s far too much violence and too much information.
There’s a lack of responsibility and a lack of respect.
The reason of course is because of years of neglect.
It’s time to re-educate, rebuild and reclaim.
Before bad taste screams ‘victory’ and wins this awful game.
Let’s put bad taste in its rightful place.
We don’t want it upfront and in our face.
Let’s bury it six feet under the ground.
Then we wouldn’t have to have it around.

Lester Queripel

A Poet, Still? - Stephen A. Roberts

It has been announced
the former Poet Laureate, Sir Andrew Motion,
will be judging Guernsey's International Poetry Competition 2014 -
"Poems on the Move".

Sir Andrew Motion!
Poet Motion!
Poetry in motion!

How many times has he heard that pun,
the pun that launched a thousand rejection slips…
on so many different types of stationery:

Stationary - in Motion's hand.

Stephen A. Roberts

Crashed - Ian De La Mare

Like the surf of a wave it hit me,
I was so prepared to part,
Take stock and reflect upon ,
Our affair,
So intense,
Now gone,
As you cried,
My heart forward rolled,
The aftershock passed,
My old friend the cynic
Raised a cheery glass
To liberty and freedom?
Freedom to be lonely,
To please myself again,
But my first night without you,
In 504 
Business class,
Quite by chance,
I fly away,
In more pain, than I can bear.

Ian De La Mare

Second Skin - Chris Hudson

Before I cast off my second skin
And let the silky darkness in
Turn off the light
And into night
Spill the day’s noise and din.

I close my eyes
Turn to the skies

I say no prayer- for the world is my prayer
I turn off the radio
Now it has nothing to say to me
I think: this day has passed in a riotous racket
Like an express train passing
It makes a lot of noise
And passes by purposelessly
In an insane journey from one place
To another exactly the same

But now I hear a different sound
The sun is rising in the East
I have not eaten, and know I am alive.

Christopher J Hudson

Fish Wife - Diane Scantlebury

I once saw a woman on a crowded train
Unleash a tirade upon her husband,
And as he sat with head to his chest bowed low
I thought,
What right did she have to inflict such pain?
What could such a public display of ugliness gain?
Did a trauma past, a twisted seed sow?
To allow resentment and such bitterness to grow?

When the carpet of your time
Is almost worn threadbare,
To vent your disappointments and displeasure
On others hardly seems fair,
As I age I’d hate to become a garrulous fish wife
Like some around who quarrel, snarl and spit at life,
Instead I’d hope to be in tune with nature’s beauty
Be calm and tranquil, open to its clarity,
Treat loved ones, even if they annoy, with charity.

Diane Scantlebury

Humpty Dumpty - Sally Forth

He never had much luck with pets
but spent a fortune at the vets
to almost rid his cat of fleas
before it perished from disease.

He never had much luck in love:
would go to nightclubs, push and shove
to get close to his heart’s desire,
then find a man in girl’s attire.

He never had much luck at all
and tumbled one day from a wall.
He never was the same again
despite King’s Horses and King’s Men.

Sally Forth

Easter Tidings Rising - Vic Gamble

the catch-22 is that they issue
terrorist commands in gasping Gaelic
and religion in loose lineage of Latin,
yet not a broth of a man in the pub understands
the lilt of either language.

angry fists crush upon wooden tables
and wild shakes the froth
of Guinness
like gray tiredness of after-party jelly.

outside the spare air is groaning,
but it is only the copper of the storm,
while inside,sun ablaze, the boys are in short shape
for the shortcomings of the revolution.

The Dublin Times
runs a headline on the Pope’s latest decree
of Easter tidings;
bodies, it says,
will rise whole on the day of judiciary judgement
crushing all but daisies before them,
and though I will still have my balls,
and you the heat of your thighs, my love,
there will be no sex in heaven…..
though, he says, this Pope,
we will still be happy,
but somehow I doubt that.
But we will keep an open face
and good mind
for he is not the first Pope to be fallible…..
did not the last one die?

the catch-22 is that I am trained to shoot
who passes upon my own green land,
hidden here in the haze of moon
surviving by the rhythm of my enemies march,
knowing that when I splice his open wound
I shall retch at the sight of his cascading blood…….
perhaps the Pope has a take on that,
somehow I doubt it.

I know he is so busy assuring us
carnal knowledge is taboo in the afterlife
he has forgotten to wonder about
why we needed to die
in the first place.

Vic Gamble

Touched by an Angel - Lester Queripel

Touched by an Angel.
She touched me with love.
Touched by an Angel.
From the heavens above.
She touched me deeply, she touched my skin.
She touched me without, she touched me within.
With healing hands that know the value of compassion.
Gentle hands that can feel the heat of passion.
Soothing hands to take away my pain.
She came in with the sunshine and dispelled the rain.
She walked with the rhythm of a dancer.
She moved with the prowl of a panther.
With a dignity refined and a pride majestic.
When she smiled at me the connection was electric.
When she laughed it resonated with my soul.
When she held my hand I didn’t want to let go.
She has a spirit that burns with an eternal flame.
She took away the guilt, she took away the blame.
Touched by an Angel.
From the heavens above.
Touched by an Angel.
She touched me with love.

Lester Queripel

The Social Departing of Steven Nobody - Ian Duquemin

Dear Facebook friends...
I am saying goodbye
I hate living this life and I've decided to die
I don't have to tell you... but do feel the need
As it's you that will help me succeed 

Dear Steven...
I hope that you're feeling ok
Maybe you're having a bad day today
You just need to "turn off", give Facebook a break
Before you make a mistake

Dear Susan...
You don't even know who I am
Don't try to pretend that you might give a damn
We've not even spoken... And never have met
And if we did you'd despise me I'd bet

Dear Steven...
Susan was trying to be nice
I hope with this comment you will take my advice 
And try to calm down... Maybe swallow a pill
Try to relax... And just chill

Dear Colin...
I've taken the advice that you gave
It might be too late but I'll try to behave 
I've taken a pill... A whole bottle in fact
So I'm feeling a little bit whacked

Dear Steven...
I don't know the reason or why
But to write on your wall you've decided to die
Is really quite strange and a little... Un-cool
And probably breaks Facebook rule

Dear Andrew...
I don't really care what you say, oh...
And stop sending invites for games that you play
This isn't a game... It is very damned real
And none of you know how I feel

Dear Steven...
Andrew was being sincere 
And Colin and Susan expressing their fear
We worry for you by the things that you say
So I hope you don't mind if I pray

Dear Robert...
Pray if you really believe
But this is the last post that you will receive
These words are a blur and my breathing is slow
I will log out on life now and................

Dear no one...
The spirit of Steven has passed
This lonely recluse without pain at long last
Slumped over an iPad... A sad tragic end
As he died with not one real friend

Ian Duquemin

The Fallen - Richard Fleming

He does not lie in foreign fields.

No unmarked grave or simple cross,
in distant lands, conceals his bones.

Life is this soldier’s albatross.

Drink’s a temptation and he yields:
booze brings oblivion.

The stones
fly up to meet him.

It’s absurd
that he should brave a war yet fall,
unmourned, in some civilian street,
dead to the world,
dead drunk,

He lies in vomit, vision blurred,
used, decommissioned, obsolete.

Richard Fleming

River-Tubing - Fred Williamson

Peaceful freedom,
Messing about on the river,
River tubing, a lazy watery day,
At first going the wrong way,

I need a helping hand,
I am not making any ground,
Just spinning, around and round,
Doing dog-paddle,
A splashing water sound,

Let the current take you.

It was decided, time to take a rest,
On one small sandy river island,
We heard birdsong and crickets.
If we had a tent, we could free camp,
Short stop: a group photo shot.

Tubing with the river flow,
Passing fishermen and boats,
And other islands, not remote.

Let the current take you.

Fred Williamson

The Last Living Rose - Chris Hudson

God bless...
Beautiful England
As the last living Rose
Quivers in your hand.

The grey and the damp and the filthiness of ages
Through the stinking alleys where drunken beatings rages
Past where the Thames river does flow, glistening silver and gold
That for vain dreams and frippery was hastily pawned and sold

Night falls and moon does rise on silky sliding river
Moon sliver in the moving sky watches ocean’s shimmer
The fields of corn are ripe in beautiful England
As the last living rose quivers in your hand.

Our forefathers planned we’d never be enslaved in this land
Under yoke of foreign oppression, by another’s hand
Will our blood rise up, brothers, and cast off our shackles?
Or tolerate and suffice in merely raising of our hackles?

God Bless Beautiful England
As the last living Rose quivers in your hand

The chain that binds us is the boundless winding ocean
This thread that runs through us like a fuse to an explosion
Like Hugo in his exile across the waters there that pour
Yet conversely my blood my DNA not of these shores

I live and die forever through all England’s merry lands
My undaunted never failing love for you will always stand
God Bless Beautiful England
As the last living Rose quivers in your hand.

Christopher J. Hudson

Jagged Glass - Diane Scantlebury

Fragrant creatures wafting past
Busy bar with harassed staff,
Eyes glazed and bald pates shining
Downing pints and shots
Unsteady drunks whining,
At thrills from an oversized widescreen
The footy fans sigh and roar,
Inebriated a punter staggers
His drink tumbles,
Spills onto the sticky floor,
With a shoulder shrug and unseeing eyes
He lurches, uncaring through the open door,
Jagged glass shards,
Now the only remnants of lost dregs
And wasted lives of those, who like him,
Have slipped and gone before.

Diane Scantlebury

Guernsey Barn (dance) - Vic Gamble

Dandy air strolled,
his rude way in.
long leg flimsy,
slimline stalked,
danced her dance
& spun wind caught
toppled out those whiffle
popsy steps,
of a shy girl cornered
    in a Camelot.
with past suns,
now cataleptic cold;
wands of moon,
transfusing filters
on his wings of silver white
of fading light,
for his buzzing
      season’s old.
And unsure as dice
like Lancelots,
will chance a lot
      to bossa-nova
by the cracklight.

Vic Gamble

UFO - Lester Queripel

We heard a noise, it was an eerie sound
We were too frightened to turn around
But we knew we had to look
A split second was all it took
And there it was................hovering
About twenty feet off of the ground
Making a soft kind of whirring sound
We tried to speak but couldn’t
Tried to move our legs but they wouldn’t
We were hypnotised
We thought our eyes were playing tricks
Then in a flash it was gone
Into the night at the speed of light
I turned to you and you turned to me
Did you see what I could see?
No doubt about it………..that was a U.F.O
But where do they go?
And what was it doing here?
I didn’t really feel any fear............did you?
I wanted to speak but just couldn’t do.
Why didn’t they stay?
Why did they have to go away?
I hope they come back one day
They might even come back and take us away
Now that would be fun

Lester Queripel

Spider Season - Joan Etoile

It's the season of the spider
The crawling has begun
Navigating dewdrops, they
Journey from the Sun

They scuttle through the kitchen
Towards the Aga's warm embrace
Where Stroobs the cat is lounging
Contentment on his face

The spiders think they're safe there
And start to spin their web
But their time is borrowed
In the tabby's lair they're dead

Before they've time to scarper
He flicks them on their back
Eight legs cannot save them, as
They're eaten with an 'ack ack ack'

Joan Etoile

Summer's Dream - Julian Clarke

You came to me on a sweet summer's dream
Passing through worlds of magic and men,
A dragonfly guarded the gate between
You’d sing and dance in this beautiful glen.

Now most of us find it hard to conceive
Of the parallel world of our ancient way,
Listen so hard and you must believe
Open your eyes let your mind run away.

Do not be fooled by her beauty and charm
Her pretty little nose and delicate wings,
Her mystical magic may well do you harm
If you don’t respect all of Nature's things.

You came to me on a sweet summer's dream
Passing through worlds of magic and men,
I wonder if you will come here again,         
To sing and dance in this beautiful glen.

Julian Clarke

Unsung - Stephen A. Roberts

A dry notice
inside the back page,
summarised her as
a "spinster without issue",
a pencil rubbing, found in
the bottom of a drawer,
a faded graphite stain
that once held the light
amongst other possessions
and curling artefacts,
pointing to her time
spent as a young girl
cycling on the biscuit lanes
near the littoral.

years later, as a woman
of resolve, she was
plunged into
a secret world
of grim adventure,
finding love where it
had been banished
in a time of violence.
perhaps peacetime was tranquil,
boring even
and she rested on laurels
kept hidden from view,
by our definition unfulfilled;

Stephen A. Roberts

Creeper - Christopher J. Hudson

Avoiding askance!
Avoiding askance!
How we avoid
The responsibilities set upon us
Sneaking up on our consciences
And whispering, “It’s okay, no one noticed.”
So we junk them
And we pile them in a pit
In our deepest darkest mind
But the rubbish
Builds up
Behind closed doors
Which bursting
EXPLODE forth and drown us
In a tide of our own vomit
What our minds could not accept
And we are carried away
On a tide of our own madness
Our everyday insanity
Paradoxes unresolved
Frustration released, anger and pain
Burying forever vestiges of humanity
Pre supposed towards insane thoughts already
Now, chaos is totality is life.

Christopher J. Hudson

Barfly - John E Blaise

Change the world whilst sitting on a stool,
Authority on life, but everybody’s fool
Sitting in the same spot every day,
Always an opinion, something to say.

Listened to, smiled at, abused or ignored,
Most too polite to say they are bored
By the barfly the authority on life
Bet he has a long suffering wife.

Ultra confident on home ground
Talking loudly to everyone around
Over and over again in case something is missed,
Trouble is he’s always pissed.

John E Blaise

Hoping For a Fish Supper - Diane Scantlebury

A solitary seagull stalked us
As we sat on a bench by the sea wall,
We were eating our fish and chips
Wrestling with the paper in the wind,
He kept his beady eye on us
Trying to intimidate us with his steely gaze,
Throwing his head back from time to time
And caw, cawing as if to say
“Toss me a chip, you can spare it”,
This was a defiant, needy, greedy one,
Not for him patiently lounging on the sand
With the rest of the flock,
Waiting for the tide to come in
And the cockles to pop to the surface,
No, he was a harasser,
Bold, up front and optimistic,
He’d glance over again in our direction
Hoping we’d be generous and give in,
Hoping for a fish supper,
But we were hungry and had eaten the lot
So he flew off,
Finally leaving us in peace
To wipe our greasy fingers,
And fold up our ketchup smudged chip papers.

Diane Scantlebury

And Sharp As Any Star – Vic Gamble

This sour old priest faced man
still has his hair,still has fledgling feathered hair.

Licking & drooling over his landscapes
of bad molars, he
evaporates into mooching, moaning
tired senseless of all his tiresome over-tested genuflections.

droll & drone,
saliva sponging vinegar,
reflexes refluent…..
and sharp as any star, his razor.

the hand hamstrung
by quirky shakes,
the bathwater a liquid bier, (an unholy crib)
his chest catching breath
like a child’s sad, soiled bib….
and sharp as any star, his razor.

Outclassed by age
he has become as quiet
as the crucifix pearl strung
around an old toothless
dead nun’s neck.
And this sour old priest faced man
permanently scars himself and slips, as sloth,
into the paen of red.

Already twisting in water,
slow stride down,
as sharp as any star, his razor.

…..bursts of shine, blood mists to rust,
old priest faced man sours through twilight
and into the bloodless gingerness
of brown.

...and sharp as any star, his razor
falls deeper, deeper hell bound down.

Vic Gamble

The Power of the Arts ( a worldwide romance) - Lester Queripel and Fred Williamson

Every culture has its own musical band
To build bridges between people throughout the land
We speak different languages but we all understand
We dance in rhythm, all holding hands

I’ve just heard a song that resonates with my soul
Jazz, jive, reggae, rock n roll
It was the perfect song, rich in melody
It was all about the world living in harmony

I’ve just read a poem that touched my very spirit
I could relate, and resound, with everything in it
I felt uplifted; the words jumped off the page
The drama; the theatre; the whole world is a stage

I’ve just read a book recommended by a friend
It was so good I never wanted it to end
It will be a best seller if we give it a chance
Uniting the world in a worldwide romance

A producer and a director, will put it on the screen
To produce a film called ‘Follow that dream’
It’ll be all about ‘connecting’ and setting people free
Won’t that be a wonderful journey!

The power of the arts goes beyond pleasure
The power of the arts is beyond measure
The power of the arts has a language of its own
Everyone is invited; ‘Come on in friends……you’re home’

Lester Queripel and Fred Williamson

Tide Line - John Buchanan

The granite bears a tide line,
black as black can be,
as if some dirty giant
took a bath in the sea
and left a scummy tide line
on the lichen covered rocks.
But, if you look closely,
take off your shoes and socks
and scramble on the foreshore
you're in for quite a shock.
For here in this narrow band
twixt lichen and the sea
limpets and anemones cling
like jewels for all to see,
and in the little rock pools
amidst the coloured weed
guppies, shrimps and little crabs
take shelter from the sea.
Yes the granite bears a tide line
as black as black can be,
a line which hides great beauty
the treasures of the sea.

John Buchanan

Loose Feathers - Fred Williamson

Loose feathers birds in nest,
Mother feeds them she knows best.
A chorus of chicks twitter and tweet,
Young bird song sound so sweet.

With new feathers and learning flight,
Spread and flap wings with all their might.
Young birds almost grown,
From the nest will soon have flown.

To build a nest of twigs and straw,
And raise young ones of their own.
With loose feathers,
To keep them warm.

Fred Williamson

Erased - Ian Duquemin

The Visitor...

He looked into my eyes
Like he searched my very soul
I could feel him inside me
Rummaging through my darkness...
Searching for himself
Age had come too early
And distinguished he was not
His expression stayed unknowing
He never showed his smile...
The smile that had turned the head of many a girl
In a past forgotten time

The Patient...

Who is this visiting stranger?
The one with the similar face
Un-nerving every nerve within
With his all too worrying gaze
Here... a bed, a room, a nurse
Are the only things that make any sense
The stranger's voice with its volume low
Hums a monotonous tone
Who is this man that speaks in tongues?
The visitor, the spectre, the ghost
Who kisses my forehead before he leaves...
And calls himself ... My brother

Ian Duquemin

Of Charming Monsters - Chris Hudson

Who am I?
I am the sun that shines on everyone
Lights you up from tip to toe
Tell you things, perhaps
You’d rather not know.

Who am I?
I am the water’s flow
The rivers, rain and sea
All things come together
And mingle in me
Life giving waters, soul so blue
You come to me and make me
I understand and come to you
Gently, quietly, whispering your name

Who am I?
All four corners meet in me
I’m not chained but neither am I free
My number is two which makes up three
Who am I? Riddle-de-dee

Christopher J Hudson

Sorry John - John E Blaise

Grey, thin, drinks tonic water mixed with Gin.
Toothless, not bearded or a hag, walks with a wooden stick,
Winks an eye surrounded by wrinkled skin,
Try to imagine her first romance,
Love making between silk sheets,
Steamy passion behind closed doors,
Groaning and moaning through the floors.
Imagine, Imagine, Imagine.
Frail, once a plump woman,
Now a skeleton, dressed for dinner,
I see her wearing a shroud
Followed around by a dark shadow
Has nothing left to say or discuss
I don’t believe in Jesus

John E Blaise

Urban Child - Diane Scantlebury

I played in the streets of London
An urban child in a happy place,
Where houses were tall
With linoleum floors and dank basements,
And racism could hide its ugly face,

On sunny days after school
We’d skip and hop over pavement cracks,
While the landlady polished the door,
Waiting for dad to ride home on his bike
I was unaware then that we were poor,

Every Saturday there’d be a wedding or a dance,
Mum in her stilettos
Dad in his starched, white shirt and shiny suit,
Blue beat and calypso music
Would spill out into the inky night,
They’d celebrate
But long for their Caribbean roots,

With the luxury of innocence
I can look back on my early London days,
Invited to work, but not welcome
It must’ve been hard for dad and mum,
To keep my life full of love and laughter,
While they toiled hard
To escape from the slum,

For what they achieved I’m grateful
And will be eternally glad,
For isn’t it the dream and hope
Of our immigrant parents to give their children,
A better chance in life
Than they’d had?

Diane Scantlebury

Vegetable Patch - Vic Gamble

religion shits openly
on everything….but
there is always somebody
strolling behind the ass
  (dear God for thy name)
scooping up to feed
their dear little vegetable patch,
their not quite fertile
vegetable brain.

Vic Gamble

The Earth Is Crying - Lester Queripel

Can you feel the earth crying?
Can you see it dying?
Can you hear nature's plea….....for help?
Society’s greed
The rush to feed
The stomach is already bloated
It has got to stop!
The earth has had enough
There is no time to listen to excuses my friends
Time is running out
So fight for your right to be protected
By the politicians that you, the people, have elected

Lester Queripel

Apocalypse - Richard Fleming

The Fall-Out Shelter queue winds on
and slowly on, then out of sight.
We clutch our tickets, move along:
in twos, a crocodile, polite;
a flock, a never-ending throng,
bent-shouldered, stricken, pale and drawn.
All but our clothes and one small bag,
is lost, abandoned any how.
The future is relinquished too:
we live in the rude present now.
We leave behind all that we knew:
possessions, symbols, honour, flag.
The soldiers, at the Shelter gate,
are brusque beneath the moving lens
of cameras that seem alive.
We enter, gather in our pens,
like bees within a buzzing hive,
to wait, survive and procreate.

Richard Fleming

All Because... - Janet

The plates moved.
The cups danced.
The saucers flew.
The bowls jumped.
The glasses rang.
The spoons rattled.
The vase rocked.
The doors banged.
The house shook.
The earth grumbled, all because
The plates moved.


Guernsey Poets is back!

Fellow poets,

The Guernsey Poets blog is back!

Please note that there have been some minor changes to the way the blog operates.

The submissions email address has changed to

A new ratings system has been introduced for the reader. Underneath each poem you will find a selection of feedback options. Feel free to tick whichever option matches your feeling about the poem.

Comments will no longer be accepted or published by the blog.

Life Line - Guernsey Poet

I have some good news for you all;

I have been contacted by a friend who has offered to take over the running of the Guernsey Poets Blog.

In order for this to happen a number of changes will need to be made to the blog, not least a new email address for submissions. It will take a while to set things up so please bear with us.

I would like to thank you all for the many messages of thanks and support I have had during the last week, they are very much appreciated.

Please watch this space for further details.

John Buchanan

On Returning - Ian Duquemin

He took a seat... Searched for a view
Rubbed the ink of an old tattoo
Around him bodies, twist and turn
Show hints of some concern

The carriage rife with their infection
Glove covers mouth for his protection
The smell of leather fills his nose
Apprehension... Grows

Wheels on track... Accelerated
Life outside looks... Complicated
Hoarder shoppers leaden bound
Take home the trash they've found

Enter tunnel centuries old
A life of darkness, black and cold
In this void built to conceal
Seemed to him... More real

Metal scraped from underneath
Like black board nails or grinding teeth
Shivers on his spinal track
Rode pulses up his back

The rigid seat began to hurt
He wrote upon the windows dirt
"If this ride should never end...
Farewell to you my friend"

He placed his forehead on the glass
Watched the sheep and cattle pass
He wondered if they knew their fate...
Was meat upon a plate

A passing train attacks his heart
Faces gaze from feet apart
Frame by frame like animation
Headed towards THEIR destination

He dreamed he was a saboteur
But what was he? Except a blur
Who knows not where or who he is
Upon this rail of his

He sees a boy who smiles his way
The only smile he's seen today
The child holds up a hand of harm
Shows words cut deeply in his palm

The man jolts forward in his chair
The boy reached out and said "Beware"
And cuts he could now comprehend, read...
"Farewell to you my friend"

Ian Duquemin

About A Bunion - Kathy Figueroa

I thought I’d pen a poem
All about a “bunion,”
But t’would be easier
To versify “onion.”
They’ve something in common
Though, and I’ll tell you why:
Both “bunions” and “onions”
Are bound to make you cry.

Kathy Figueroa

I Feel Like A Stranger In My Own Home - Lester Queripel

The culture and traditions of Guernsey are being taken from us.
We are rapidly losing our identity.
Losing everything that makes us proud to be Guernsey.
Some of us are too blind to see.
Some are simply demoralised.
Others are ‘too busy’ to realise.
But it’s being taken from us in front of our eyes.
It’s disappearing into the pages of history.
And one day soon our grandchildren will see.
They will struggle to understand.
How could anyone destroy such a beautiful land?
When that day comes I will be ashamed.
For I am part of the generation that will be ‘blamed’.
Islanders lost their lives in the last world war.
They couldn’t have given anymore.
They couldn’t have given anymore than they gave.
If they could see the island now they’d cry in the grave.
So our culture and our traditions die.
Just to become like anywhere else in the world?
We’ve been given something we never asked for.
Why couldn’t they leave us alone?
It’s all such a tragic syndrome.
I’m starting to feel like a stranger in my own home.

Lester Queripel

Sold the Gold - Diane Scantlebury

I have sold all your gold,
The baubles and rings
The frivolous things,
You gave me in happier times,
Or maybe they were gifts of guilt
A salve for your conscience,
Diamonds and pearls to distract me,

I have sold all your gold,
Because material things
The glittering bangles and beads,
Have no worth or meaning
Without love or sincerity,
And can’t cover or disguise
Deception and lies,
Did you think I could be bought so easily?

I have sold all your gold,
To pay the bills
Not for pleasure or thrills,
Because you left me nothing
Only shiny, superficial trinkets,
A wounded heart,
And empty promises.

Diane Scantlebury

My Comfort Zone - Janet

It’s safe here in my cocoon.
No reason to fear
the great unknown.
No need to drown
in the sea of doubt.
No locked door
to keep me out.
Won’t put my head
above the parapet.
There’s nothing here
I will forget.
No challenge for me
that I might fail.
Nothing to make me
weep or wail.
I’m safe in here
but, so alone.
Hidden away in
my comfort zone.


Street Man - John E Blaise

He’s stretched out amongst broken bin sacks
Waiting for early morning collection.
Lost, dazed, incoherent, vomit on his mac,
Fumbling round his makeshift bed with some affection
You could plant seeds under his dirty finger nails,
Never been manicured just torn and split
Ragged trousers smothered in shit.
A spiritual man in more ways than one
Waiting for the next drink to come
Broken home, abused as a child,
Smashed windows, always wild
Borstal care, corrective institutions
Prison punishment, no method in the madness
Whole life filled with utter sadness.
At last he waits with a tinder dry throat
Steals his first drink from a passing milk float
Stretches, staggers, belches and gives a yawn
City street cleaners tell him it’s dawn,
Walks past every hostel, way past salvation
Heads towards warmth, the underground station
Sits in a corner away from public eyes,
Eats from a discarded bag of French fries
Searches for cardboard to build his new home
In the crowded city, he’s always alone.

John E Blaise

Bring Down The Pyramid - Fred Williamson

Wake up you ba ba sheep
Come out of your blinkered sleep
Protest march the street
Stop listening to the lies and old blarney
Start a barney
Start the fight, it is your right
Come out of the den
Escape from the pen
Follow the wise men
Too long we have been salt and peppered
Turn away from the shepherd
Join the like minded
Who are awake and not blinded
Stop being suppressed
Under house arrest
Instead of being manhandled
Slowly strangled
Mangle the triangle
Let’s not allow ourselves to be fleeced
Let’s share the golden fleece
Bring down the pyramid and live in peace

Fred Williamson

Travellers - Chris Hudson

Time bends
Around a miniscule finger
Dimensions bend, for the clock is round
Here we are outside time
It passes us by, a cold, hard strip, interspersed with cat’s eyes
To think is to progress, travel is relative to your state of mind
They pass us by, here by the road side
But the road was only in your mind
You overlooked the most important thing
We are here, we always have been
To travel is to live
Here we are living
By the side of the road.

Christopher J. Hudson

Lament Of The Farmhand (1937) - Vic Gamble

forever the coffin passes by,
cheap oak through the penumbra of the pantry,
my only child, cold as slab,
coiled just out of foetus,
cramped in this unworkable well
of unweaned wood……

in the wheat field the pay-man pays the wages
& seed-shot girls giggle,
all as high as kites
on poor money, dreaming
cheap reams of cloth and ribbons.

I know the cider will be stream chilled,
will be roughly poured
& bread as speckled as wild egg, eaten:
gossip will rise, retouched, above the low grass of ground,
but not a pinch of them will see
her coffin passing by….

these endless summer days
leave me cold
as fisherman’s prodded bait….
and where is child, where is laughter
and daughter
in this fashioned seam
of hosanna, of human patching.

Vic Gamble

Electric Chair - Stephen A. Roberts

I'm sweating in the electric chair -
Nervous in the fluorescent glare.
You are white-coated with a clinical air;
I can sense your rustling outerwear.

A soothing voice above the distant hum:
"Soon be over, this won't take long,
we'll fix the damage that you've done
Starting off with this injection."

My mouth is dry, my lips are numb
like an appointment, the time has come -
The room it swims and the clock strikes one...
"Did you see the film Marathon Man?"

Yes, I'm sweating in the electric chair -
At the Dentist's - hah! - got you there!

(Say aaaarrrgggghhhhh!)

Stephen A. Roberts

The Dilemma - Ian Duquemin

The gun lay loaded on the table
Its metal held a dull patina
Atmosphere lies heavy, on...
His agonised demeanour

Betrayal fills his angry thoughts
His finger spins the barrel blue
Hatred soaks his bleeding heart
The guns position - 10 to 2

Pointing at a photograph
The weapon aims towards her eyes
Those very eyes that sought another
Held so many lies

Returning to his grand finale
Voices scream from deep inside
"Do it" call the shrieking demons
"DO IT" they all cried

He holds the gun and lifts it slowly
Places it beneath his chin
"Pull it" shout the silent screamers
Taunting from within

Sweat rolls down like oily paint
That follows contours on his face
His fingers strangle, sticky handle
Time tilts him from grace

Eyes slammed shut and hands-a-trembling
Deathly silence hangs on air
Accelerated moments pass
He slumps back in his chair

Heartbeat rate now that of clock
Slows down with time and moving hand
Today was not the day for weeping...
Or the day he'd planned

Ian Duquemin

Come Up To Maynooth - Kathy Figueroa

I’m at the top of a big hill today,
Where the eagles soar and wild critters play,
Basking in sunshine, right next to the sky,
In Hastings Highlands, fifteen hundred feet high.

The air is pristine and the view is fine;
The hillsides are covered with birch and pine.
A valley is nice, so’s a sandy bay,
But on this big hill is where I’d like to stay.

There are many small galleries to see,
With beautiful paintings and pottery.
Butter tarts, chocolates, and fudge, sublime…
Come up to the hills and you’ll have a sweet time!

The Farmers’ Market is full of great things,
Like fine crocheted scarves, soaps, and silver rings.
The civic spirit is beyond compare
At “Maynooth Madness” events and the Fall Fair!

So, if you feel a need to get away
And are looking for a quaint place to stay;
When city life gets too loud and uncouth,
Just head for the hills and come up to Maynooth!

Kathy Figueroa

The Last Adventurer - Adrian Bott

No heavy seas delayed him, but traffic, trains and fog.
No weeks in icy darkness, finger-cutting salt spray but the busy lights of road and rail and terminal bobbed round him.
A short trip this, a day adventure and he returns clutching contracts, contacts, linking networks and a good deal hauled in.
Later, on his desk the catch of scattered cards flash with owners’ details, corners sharp and fresh;
Their embossed letters soon tapped safely into reports and notes and action plans.

An ocean past on creaking deck, numb red hands finished packing the icy flapping harvest;
Raw hands that now long for healing sun and warm days at Cobo.
The Adventurer dreams as the boat groans homewards.

In Spring he had started building.
Fresh wood sawn and dragged over grass, hammered and glazed; they worked as a team.
Gently pushing in the glass he balanced on high white timbers and surveyed the fields to Town and back to choppy West coast.
He recalls the careless moment as the pane slipped and red drops fell from his palm anointing the sawdust, bread-crumb fresh, below his dangling legs.
He gazes at his hand and with a mild Norman oath presses his mark on the gable.
What he has built will now provide for his family but there is one last adventure where black sea and sky meet.

Tap, tap – the money has moved, the deal is done and the Adventurer reclines.
The towering Sunday supplements slip and scatter on foreign marble floor.
Startled, he looks out from the conservatory down smooth striped grass to the paddock and beyond,
Where a sea of brambles are tugging down a skeleton of tired, paint-flecked bones;
Frozen across a sea of years, the fog bank swallows the laden keel.

Adrian Bott

My Starlight Angel - Lester Queripel

My Starlight Angel came down from above.
She brought with her an abundance of love.
She spread it around for everyone to share.
You really missed out if you weren’t there.
She took my hand and we walked toward the light.
My eyes were blessed with a wondrous sight.
The sun was rising with a golden glow.
There was nowhere else I wanted to go.
“All this” she said “Is untouched by human hand.
This is natures’ wonderland.”
She pointed at the river, crystal clear.
She said “Now listen and tell me what you hear”
I could hear a bird singing in a tree.
I was in awe of everything around me.
A beautiful rainbow arched colours across the sky.
Fluffy white clouds drifted on by.
The sun grew stronger illuminating the day.
All sorts of animals began to play.
They are no longer in fear, but safe to roam.
Secure and safe and in their natural home.
“The water is so clear” I said “I think I’ll put my feet in”
She smiled at me and said “What about a swim!”
The water was cooling and we laughed as we swam.
We swam to a rock that formed a natural dam.
Resting awhile, we gazed at the landscape.
“I can’t believe it” I said, “It’s too much to take”
She said “Come here anytime you feel in need of sanctuary”
I sighed and replied “This is truly the place for me”

Lester Queripel

Dance in the Blood - Diane Scantlebury

Dance is in her blood
She glows with every shine,
The sweat trickles down her back
As her feet keep perfect mambo time,
Dance is in her soul
As she pirouettes with grace,
Every move etched in the expression
Of her radiant, ecstatic face,
Dance is in her heart
As it races with a rhythm that never falters,
To each beat strong and clear
That no care in her world can alter.

Diane Scantlebury

Islands Of Cloud - Fred Williamson

On the horizon,
As far as the eye can see,
Cotton wool clouds above the sea,
Grey and white float in the breeze,
A forest of cotton wool trees.

Once in a while do hide the sun,
Against a backdrop of blue.
Above the skyline islands of cloud,
Look down on the sea,
And a land of green.

Where the sunset sinks,
The trees of cloud,
Are fringed with gold.
Shining, a single silver star,
Final sunset red.

Fred Williamson

Inside - Lester Queripel and Fred Williamson

I live in a world of wonder
Where music would always play
Herald in the dawn,
Of a brand new day
The mediaus and leglines
The natural energy of earth
The synergy of chemistry
Relating to our worth

Where wealth cannot be measured
By a weight of gold
Never to suffer pain
Or ever to grow old
To walk the land with head held high
With dignity purpose and pride
To be valued for who you are
And for what you are inside.

Lester Queripel and Fred Williamson

A Cordon Of Love - Aindre Reece-Sheerin

Let me not show my Dishonesty
or worse still portray my Brute stupidity as something else
Forgive my Cowardess, my Inability to speak out and up for you
Don’t let the Light show all my Flaws and leave me Compromised

Instead let me love in freedom and not find in the other
my beloved, all that I know exists within me
with exception my Cordon of love.
Allow me to throw round you and protect you

Should I locate with you the perfection I seek
and surely know that does not exist within me
but look with love to nature and nurture,
that which I need to survive

Will my innate laziness, finally give up
and allow me to fight for what I believe in;
this zone of positivity, the circle of protection,
this triangle, where all points lead to us

It is within my union with my beloved
that I feel fulfilled, that I am whole.
This cordon of love that I have thrown
creates the circle, the zone, the triangle

Aindre Reece-Sheerin

Oasis at the heart of Amazon - Judith Anne Finetti

Back in that lazy window between the Christmas hurly burly
And the rush of the New Year
My magpie eye alighted on the bling purple watch
I had been searching for all year.
A bargain at only six pounds sterling

Days later I excitedly opened the little box
But alas it didn`t start!
Also the purple wristband was far too large
In my haste I agreed to an instant refund
And its return to a drop off centre in the UK

But on the other side of the world in India
First Vignesh, then Manipal and finally Rishabh
Rushed to my rescue by e mail
Problem solved at the Bridge
Battery supplied for £4 and the strap adjusted for £1
All was resolved in one afternoon
My guys confirmed that they had reversed my refund
And refunded me my expenses
So my lovely piece of bling nearly paid for itself

And the moral of this little story is
Just be nice when you make a complaint
And Customer Service really does still exist

Judith Anne Finetti

Jargon - Janet

When the ideas frisbee goes
sailing through the air.
Just like a large flip chart
a new language does appear.

Lets take this offline, drill down
and have facetime.
If we put some feelers out.
We can piggy back this time.

If it all goes Pete Tong.
Just pick the low hanging fruit.
We can have a blame storm,
come up with a scapegoat.

Lets cascade this to the coal face.
Touch base and then deep dive.
Come up with a ball park figure
and I think we can survive.

Before it finally hits the fan.
Have a head count freeze, I hear.
Start doing more hot desking.
No one will know who’s here.

It’ll be like grabbing water
and feel as if we're sinking.
But, we can move forward
with a little blue sky thinking.

Let’s put it on the back burner,
be upbeat, think outside the box.
Up skill and get more wiggle room.
Start wearing Simpsons socks.

So when the ideas frisbee
lands firmly on your lap.
Don’t look down and think this
is just a load of …….rubbish.

Just send it through the air and say
“Let us not pretend.
Just break through the glass ceiling
we need plain speaking in the end!"


A Night at the Bar - Joan Raleigh

Straddled across my usual stool
in the Excelsior bar one night,
I watched the punters coming through,
male, moneyed, right for a bite.

Pete at the bar’s the prevalent pimp;
gives me a nod when he sees a full roll.
Then leaves me be if business is good,
(and if I come up with a cut ... arsehole!)

Playing the game as long as I have
when your instinct is right you can tell.
I can easily see a potentiality,
and their choice of tipple as well!

The guy with the cocktail could be good
but he plays for the other side;
And a treble whisky has got to be risky
in the one that’s a bit cross-eyed.

I thought ‘my luck’s in!’ with the next one in,
(a pigeon ready for plucking!)
Till a blowsy cow joined him at the bar ...
I swear that’s ‘Cliquot’ they’re drinking!

But when a good night works out right
and sex is with cognac in the sack!
I’ve got to admit, the graft’s pretty good,
so until I’m too ripe, I’ll be back!

Joan Raleigh

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