The Food Diary - Janet

Let's go down to McDonald's.
Get a breakfast takeaway.
It's got tomato in it.
So, that's one of my five a day.

For a snack, maybe something light
A sausage roll or Cornish pasty.
I'll add a bit of salad
then the calories won't be nasty.

For lunch I fancy battered fish
with a bag of golden chips.
If we eat them standing up, they
won't end up on our hips.

Perhaps a pizza would be good.
Deep pan and extra cheesy.
Though when I take a great big bite
my chin gets really greasy.

I'm sure afternoon tea will be the thing.
Two scones and clotted cream.
Topped with a dollop of fruity jam.
Part of my health regime.

For dinner we'll have an Indian curry and
Peshwari naan, would be nice.
To make it extra healthy
We'll have unsalted basmati rice.

So, before we head off to bed.
Hot chocolate to help us sleep.
As we've been really good today
we'll have two biscuits as a treat!


The Two Hardest Words - Rod Ferbrache

There are words in our language that are hard to pronounce,
There are some which are harder to spell
And some so familiar they roll off the tongue,
Words that we know so well
We have words that describe the way that we feel
To explain just the person we are.
Phrases sum up our opinion of folk,
That express to them that we care.

Descriptions are used to tell of a scene
That we visited when abroad.
We excitedly tell of a bargain we had
Buying something we could afford
Then we give reasons of why we did this,
Or our actions caused us to do that.
It might be a jumper we liked the look of,
Or for a wedding we purchased a hat.

Can we remember a day go by
When never a word that we spoke?
Silence for us is unnatural and strange,
For we're generally socially folk.
Yet sometimes we hear of people we know
Who have fallen out with each other?
It's sometimes between brothers and sisters,
Or worse, between father and mother.

Some words were spoken that cut to the quick,
That once uttered could not be retrieved.
A rift was created, an unbridgeable gap,
At least that's the lie they believed.
Years go by not a word was spoken,
The distance between them grows
In fact it is possible so long has time past,
If you ask, nobody knows -
The reason behind the silence
Why one does not speak to the other
The matter could so easily be solved,
But nobody seems to bother.

As I said at the start we have different words,
Some seem so hard to tell
But it isn't always the length of the words,
Or the fact that we cannot spell.
There comes a time when we refuse to admit
That we are in the wrong.
We only need to speak two words,
Yet it seems to take so long.

You see, those two little words are the hardest two words,
And by some are never spoken
And because these two words are the hardest two words
Many relationships remain broken.
What are those two words? The hardest two words?
Do we really need to worry?
Well yes, we do, for those two little words
Are just simply "I'm sorry".

Rod Ferbrache

Be Like a Robin - Diane Scantlebury

Bold little robin
Puff up your chest,
Be proud of the red badge of honour
That emblazons your breast,
Even in weather inclement
You never stop,
Through rain, sleet or snow
You’ll skip and you’ll hop,

Brave little robin
When times are harsh,
You’ll not abandon the land
Like the swallow,
Your stoic example
Is one we should follow,

When all seems lost
And love has grown cold,
Keep hope in your heart
And like the robin be bold,
At life’s high hurdles
We may falter and fall,
But think of the robin
The bravest of all,

In the face of adversity
Learn how to fly,
Cling firm to opportunity
Don’t let it pass by,
Even if life proves hard
And your wits test,
Be like a robin
Be bold, be brave,
Puff up your chest!

Diane Scantlebury

The Carousel Horse - Judith Anne Finetti

On a wet Easter Monday morning
Pasquetta in Italy- but nothing special over here
Down at a nearly deserted Longue Hougue
Rusty the carousel rocking horse sat forlorn and abandoned
He had obviously been well loved by generations of children
Judging by his flaky metal exterior
Especially where children had spurred him on
To go faster and faster

Quickly placed in the back of the car
And once home sneaked in through the front door

Then two weeks of careful restoration work with loving care
No quick paint spray job for Rusty
Tempting as this may have seemed
Each detail of his noble head picked out and preserved

The two youngest grandchildren were entranced
And with seven grandchildren on board the chance of great grandchildren can`t be far off-
God willing, when they are ready

Had it been a week day Rusty would have already been bundled into a lorry for swift destruction

What luck that boredom and the now daily round of recycling
Took over and he found a new and permanent home

Judith Anne Finetti

Tantrums - Ian Duquemin

"Begone" said the wind to the leaves on the tree
"That rustling of yours, it is bothering me"
The leaves spiralled down to the soil on the ground
Scattered on earth, they danced without sound
"Begone" said the wind to the branches of the tree
"That creaking you make, it is bothering me"
The branches broke down and they cracked and they groaned
Falling to earth they collided and moaned
"Begone" said the wind to the grandest of tree
"You could not stand my rage or the tantrums of me"
The tree stood its ground and it's roots bedded in
The wind could not penetrate the rough rugged skin
"Begone" said the tree to the wind overhead
The wind not amused at the words that were said
It ran out of puff... as the tree stood up tall
Defying the wind... and refusing to fall

Ian Duquemin

Potion of Mystery - Marcus Buchanan

“We’re here today to make a broil,
A potion that will make blood boil.
Pour the heat from a dragon’s fire,
Pour into it your heart’s desire.
Add the spike off a dragon’s back,
To make a brew that will, human, crack.
Throw in the string of a dragon’s heart,
Add an external body part.
Melt the bud of a dragon’s tongue,
Then plop in some dragon’s dung.
After all this is complete,
Cook at two, eight, six degrees heat."

Marcus Buchanan

To The Hardware Store I Go - Kathy Figueroa

Hie! Hie! To the
Hardware store I go
I'm on a treasure hunt
For the plumbing gizmo
Neither rain, nor snow
Or scorching sun
Will halt my urgent quest
I'm on a mission
An emergency run
Because leaky taps
.. I detest
"No more, no more
No more water
On the floor"
This has become my chant
I can fix that leaking
Washing machine tap
And won't accept
That I can't
Plumbing is not an
Unfathomable mystery
Though, at first glance
It might appear a muddle
With the help of the mighty
Unseen Powers That Be
My washing machine
Will no longer stand
In a puddle
And dauntless
Shall I remain
Neither faltering
Nor succumbing
To repose
If, next, a leak
Appears to come from
The washing machine hose
With a wrench, a gizmo
(And plumber's tape)
I shall conquer
..And know the thrill
Of victory, sweet
And when I walk
Across the kitchen floor
I won't get
Water on my feet

Kathy Figueroa

The Turning of the Tide - Chris Hudson

The Turning of the Tide
Lady Luck, she’s a whore
Learn to live and lick the wounds
Self-inflicted that you adore ~
Pick at the scab that which heals
To deaden the pain which anneals
Kneel before the law you abhor
Love is foresworn, pre-warned
Born high upon th’encroaching storm
Spread butterfly-fragile wings
Sighs, to search, for a sign, for a cry
Cry out! Widdershins against the sun
Against the new dawn, don’t open up your eyes
You’ll die at the sight of all the lies
You gave birth to, forgetting yourself
Can this be the worst punishment
Yet it is a cure so sure
I may yet have to endure
Seismological collapse, fusion of synapse
Mind’s eclipse, soul’s elided elipse
A murmur, a lost and distant glimmer
Puddles ripple in a muddened glass
A distant shimmer across deserts dry and vast
A concataclysmic charisma
Crush, lies bopped pyramid, Crash!
Across the earth a wide gash
Mother’s spilt milk and spat across from grave’s edge
Insane the grey, reveals, opens, dances again
Succumbing to overt battle-craft
The awful author another bare-faced liar
Selling his wares, open warefare, blood tears and fire!

Weapons of vengeance, murder
Machines of catastrophe, mindlessly real,
Contusion of lesioned thought
Numbing waves of despair, broadcast telepathically
Seasonality sensually turning raw passion
Will immobilised, bogged down and in retreat
Hear the drum’s beat! Swallow your poison neat!
Distil the sweet nectar of oblivion!
Throw away, drop that bomb!
Destroy the evidence, drop LSD and detonate me
That meet you ate was your
Reason to abhore and hate
Now you have your plaister, to smother and whisper
To you all your ghosts meander and wonder
Amongst the monuments no teddy to cuddle and console
Sprawling in your weary bolt-hole
Counting-up all the spoil of your lusty toil
Man made good! Beat that bad blood!
Still wishing you had the oil
To lubricate the wheels that make the deals
To extract more from your soul
Never be weary, or pleasure stint
It’s part time, time to unwind
Time to pour a blessed libation
Thanks to the Magick that has led
To friends both near and far
Pass me a jar, and Cheers!
To you all a toast
And to the one I love the most.

Chris Hudson

No Ordinary Day - Janet

This was no ordinary day
when clear blue sky was turned to grey.
As heaven prepared its gift for man
on this saturated land.
Rivers rose ‘til they could take no more,
burst green banks and spilled their store.
For this, no Disney April shower
delighting Bambi’s fluorescent flowers.
No place of beauty here to see,
just a grim reality, that
green and pleasant land was lost
as in grey water it was washed.
Nimbus clouds relentless poured
unwelcome gifts through their front door.
Then swept into their homes unsought
careless of the chaos brought.
While rain fell incessant down.
Helpless Man watched his home drown.


Tears …The Souls Rain - Rod Ferbrache

Image Source: Rod Ferbrache

It says in Psalm 34 “The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Therefore none of our tears are wasted or overlooked.

The young married couple had dreamt of the day
When a daughter or son would be born.
At last the time came for the wife to give birth
Though the labour was long, and she worn.
Nothing could stop the joy in their hearts,
As she held the young babe to her breast,
A tear trickled down the young father’s cheek,
As he looked at the infant at rest.
So innocent there, untouched by the world,
With a peace that nothing could shake.
He was choked with emotion, full of pride too,
That he felt his heart would break.

The child quickly grew, and to school she did go,
Her lessons she learnt with ease,
A good sense of humour, well liked in the class,
A person who loved a good tease.
In no time at all university loomed,
With all of the study that meant,
She excelled in her work, a degree was attained,
A career in medicine spent.
As her parents watched on graduation day
Their daughter walk forward so meek,
Their eyes filled with water, a lump in their throats,
And tears trickled down both their cheeks.

One day she arrived at the family home
With a young man they never had seen,
“I’d like you to meet my husband to be”,
She said in a voice so keen.
Dad looked at Mum, Mum spluttered out loud,
“We really had no idea”.
“Oh mummy, we’re headlong in love, you see,
You really have nothing to fear!”
The church was arranged, the outfits bought,
The wedding day quickly arrived.
What a picture she made, their own little girl
Was now somebody else’s bride.
Once again they felt that that tear trickling down,
As they let their daughter go.
On the way home, it struck them so hard,
The trickle turned into a flow.

The parents had brought up their girl in the Lord,
She walked with Him close to her side.
But with pressures of family, career, and time,
She gradually started to slide.
At first, - wasn’t much, just her prayer time got dropped
In an effort to fit it all in.
But before very long, she was staying out late,
And then a young man led her to sin.
How it broke the hearts of her parents close by,
As they saw all their dreams disappear.
It wasn’t for joy, pleasure, or pride
That they ended up shedding a tear.

Like the Prodigal son in the story of old,
‘Twas only when nothing remained
She came to her senses, returned to her home,
Begged forgiveness from those she had pained.
There were tears shed that night, for the lost had been found,
They were gripped in a tight embrace.
It mattered not what the neighbours thought,
Or to the family, had brought disgrace.
Their child was back home, to the ones who had loved,
Throughout this crisis and pain.
Tears were a symbol of the compassion they felt,
But their faces expressed all the strain.

Tears are the rain that waters the soul,
As it passes through seasons which change,
Some filled with such joy, inexpressibly good,
The thought of sorrow seems strange.
But all of us know from personal expense,
That grief comes to each one in turn.
Whether it be the loss of a son,
Or a difficult lesson to learn.
Perhaps it’s our way of coping with pain,
Or compassion, or being a friend.
It never hurts to show that we care,
If a few tears on our loved ones we spend.

When Lazarus died, and Jesus was told
His friend had passed away,
He didn’t pretend He was under control,
Or even call it a day.
He came to Bethany, to the home that He loved,
To the place He had eaten and slept.
It wasn’t the words that He spoke that day –
We remember just “That He Wept”.
He cried tears of sadness, just as we do,
There were times of passion He felt.
Remember that night in the garden alone,
There fell sweat drops of blood where He knelt.

The tears that you shed in secret,
The emotions that run so deep,
He sees every drop, He knows every heart,
And near to His side He will keep-
Those who are hurting, confused, at an end.
He promises always to stay-
Until the time comes, as He says in His Word,
“All tears will be wiped away."

Rod Ferbrache

Little Shoes - Diane Scantlebury

The world’s a fascinating
And wondrous place
When you wear little shoes,
Your eyes grow wide
And fill with tears
If mummy’s hand you lose,
Everything’s new and shiny bright
A smile or a hug
Can put all woes right,
Stairs are one more challenge
Over which you can triumph,
Stars are jewels in the sky
All grownups are giants,
No language is required
A mere finger point is good,
Every murmur or gurgle
Can be understood,
No need to walk
When you’ve got tired feet,
You can sit cosy on mummy’s lap
If you’re too small for the seat,
A story or sock puppet
Will keep you amused,
How wonderful the world is
When you wear little shoes.

Diane Scantlebury

Her Eyes - Shannon Shell

A story of a child who cannot grow up.
But her eyes show her age and shows her story.
Her mind; surrounded by questions she won’t dare answer.
Her eyes; full of emotion, pain, anger.
Her voice; she cannot speak, not a word will escape.

Her mind because of what she thinks.
Her eyes because of what she sees.
Her throat is dry and sore of what she keeps locked inside.
“Never a word” she reminds herself.

Her eyes tell you the pain her lips won’t say.
If her eyes could speak they’d be sore with the frightened words.
Her eyes tell a long unspeakable story that only she knows the truth.
She’s the author of her eyes; she will write what she sees, describing with every last fibre.

Shannon Shell

Play Your Fiddle Paddy - Jenny Hamon

Dust off your fiddle Paddy
And wear your emerald green
To the Ceili at the pub
Where the shamrock will be seen

Your reputation Paddy
Means they come from wide and far
To listen to your music
And leave a pint upon the bar

Cos any Irish eejit
Will know what is the craic
When Paddy plays his fiddle
In the little room at the back

So play your fiddle Paddy
With all your strength and might
For tonight we will celebrate
On this St Patrick’s night

Jenny Hamon

If Your Thoughts Drift - Kathy Figueroa

If your thoughts drift
To dragons and
Wizards and things
Like enchanted forests
And magic rings
Or a flying horse
With feathered wings
That can run like the wind
And then soar...

If you sit on a rock
Sometimes and stare
At the top of a hill
That looks awfully bare
And you think it
Would look better
With a castle there
Otherwise the view
Is just a bore...

If you're weary of
Watching leaves move
In the breeze
And you find that
You're having fantasies
About seeing
A tyrannosaur
Emerge from the trees
And then roar...

Well, it can be said
With certainty
That you have
And creativity
Maybe even
Artistic ability
So why not
Express yourself?
Because that's what
Art is for...

Kathy Figueroa

Poetic Licence - Lyndon Queripel

I suppose
The cons and prose
Of writing a poem
Without rhyme
Is to commit
Without force of habit
Pen to paper
And words in time
Although I understand
The theory freehand
To perfect the practising
Is another thing.

Lyndon Queripel

I Have Seen My True Soul - Chris Hudson

I have seen my true soul:
It is neither young nor old
Neither rich nor poor
Neither a believer nor an atheist
Neither law abiding nor an anarchist
Neither slovenly nor yet eager
Love neither man nor woman
Neither alone nor in company
Is neither still nor in motion
It neither senses nor thinks
It neither eats nor drinks
Is neither inside nor out
It is neither everything, nor yet, nothing

I have seen my true soul.

Chris Hudson

Writer’s Block - Ros Willard

I sit, pen poised above a blank page
but no words come.

I am sure they will flow again
when I have inspiration,
when I am less tired,
less stressed,
have more time,
when I win the Premium Bonds,
when the interest rates go up, go down,
when the Saints go marching in,
when the lion lies down with the lamb
and the waters cover the sea,
when bluebirds sing over the white cliffs of Dover,
when Jupiter is in alignment with Mars,
when the cow jumps over the moon,
when it’s winter, summer,
when it rains cats and dogs,
when Hell freezes over,
when I’ve climbed Mount Kenya,
Mount Fuji, the Matterhorn,
when I’ve seen Vesuvius erupt,
when I’ve bathed in the Ganges,
swum with dolphins
and sailed on the Nile,
when I fall in love,
out of love,
suffer the pangs of unrequited love.

In the meantime I sit,
pen poised above a blank page.

Ros Willard

The Right Book - John E Blaise

Fruit of flowers for the sick
Smell the freshness, deliver them quick.
An apple a day, go and pray,
For health not wealth.
I hope your God listens,
As the gold cross glistens.
In the dark, dank, empty church,
Long abandoned by lost souls.
In search of redemption or attention,
To the plight of the terminally ill.
Ferociously searching or fighting for the will,
To go forward into the fray,
Or to pause on ‘all souls day’,
If your denomination allows you
The freedom to pursue your own mind,
You have to be kind to be cruel.
You know there is only one golden rule,
It’s written so clearly, no need to look
You just have to find the right book.

John E Blaise

It's Up hill All The Way - Joan Raleigh

With apologies to Christina Rossetti.

It's Up hill All The Way - Joan Raleigh

Is the road "no entry" all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the journey from town take the whole long day?
Not far off it, my friend.

But is there, somewhere, a short cut to take,
to reach home when the slow, dark hours entwine?
May not a diversion be a mistake?
You cannot ignore that sign.

Shall I meet a queue at a traffic light,
those who have gone before?
Then can I hoot, or brake when just in sight?
They'll not keep you forevermore.

Shall I find comfort, at least by mid week?
On radio you shall hear the sum.
Does the chance of an open road still look bleak?
Yea, join the club, old chum.

Joan Raleigh

In the Company Of Madness - Diane Scantlebury

The human mind
Is the strangest thing,
I have just spent an evening
In the company of madness,
Switching and turning
This way, then that,
One minute sensible
The next unreasonable,

Insanity is selfish
Bringing those who care
To guilt and anger,
But this is pointless,
Because as soon as spoken
Things are forgotten,

Childlike the crazy one
Incites others to reaction,
For at that moment
They are the centre of attention,
Reasoning is futile
As there is no reason,
Fighting and feuding is futile
And can have no function,
For in the company of madness
All is nonsense.

Diane Scantlebury

I’m on The Jeremy Kyle Diet - Jenny Hamon

I’ve invented my own diet
To make me fit and lean
It’s not so much a diet
More an exercise regime

The timing is important
But rather than run a mile
I sit upon my exercise bike
And cycle to Jeremy Kyle

It means that I can exercise
While watching people row
It makes me cycle faster
But really I don’t know how

Maybe it’s all the arguing
Makes me pedal until I’ve won
Cos if I cycle hard enough
I can clock up half a ton

I mean five hundred calories
Watching Jeremy I can burn
Although the programme shocks me
With the rubbish it can churn

But never mind the content
The programme lasts an hour
I push myself into a sweat
And then I have a shower

Jenny Hamon

David And Goliath - Richard Fleming

When giants come with shaking fists
we quake with fear; prepare for tears.
We rarely dare withstand their guns.

Some call for help. It never comes.
Some call to God. He seldom hears.
We wonder if a God exists.

When Putin’s tanks, clanking, clinking,
like giants, rattle into sight,
let’s hope Ukraine’s a David, game,

with slingshot and amazing aim
to slay Goliath, win the fight
but that, I fear, is wishful thinking.

Richard Fleming

Deadwood City - Stephen A. Roberts

Image Source: Stephen A Roberts

Readers might like to try reading this piece of doggone doggerel in the voice of a grizzled old-timer from the American Old West…

Deadwood City - Stephen A Roberts

They're looking for a new Sheriff, down in Deadwood City
The old one bit the dust, some folk say it's a pity
Most of 'em reckon he was gunned down in the saloon
But cruel rumour says he was run outta town by goons

Y'see, they didn't like the way that Deadwood was run
The money, the drinking, the gambling, the fun
and they're still not sure if, or how, he bent the rules
(to stop poor ole Deadwood being run by fools)

Down the tumbleweed main street, townsfolk cower in fright
Behind Deadwood's facade the deputies are ready to fight
They're cowhands and rustlers, around here, the Law
But some of them know they're not quick on the draw

In Deadwood's last chance saloon, they circle the bar
Poker faced and gimlet-eyed, to play for the Star
Cards close to their chest they won't show their hand
But they all realise that it's Deadwood's last stand

Word reaches the gulch that the top job is free
There's a gunslinger out there with a proud legacy
A man with no name, the name they won't speak
Who knows Deadwood won't live if it's run by the meek

He polishes his spurs and his old tarnished badge
Maybe he can run Deadwood like he used to run Dodge
They thought he was done, but he won't stay down
He saddles up his horse and trots into Town...

Stephen A. Roberts

Lord when did you know? - Rod Ferbrache

Image Source: Rod Ferbrache

It was a question that entered my head that was the inspiration for this poem.
I thought, "I wonder at what point our Lord knew He was going to die for His world?"
And then a whole lot of other questions followed;

Lord when did you know? - Rod Ferbrache

As You brought into being this world of ours
The seas and the earth, birds, animals, flowers,
How far did You look down the road of time?
When you fashioned each leaf of the very first vine.
What did You think as the stars shone above?
Was the moon created simply for love?
And did the sun shine just to give off its heat?
Is the reason for animals just for their meat?
As I look at creation, it’s not answers I find,
Things didn’t evolve; they were part of a plan,
Right there in Genesis, the redemption of man

When You made that first tree did your eye shed a tear?
Did You see the time when your Son would hang there?
Were You tempted to make the bark of soft wood –
To ease His pain just as a father would?
As You added the thorns to the desert bush
Did You think of the time the soldiers would push –
Them into the brow of your precious Son?
Did You ever regret just what You had done?
When You laid the foundations with iron ore
Could You see the nails, which in His hands tore?
Was it painful to You, could Your tender heart feel
The stab of the spear with its tip of steel?

At the beginning of time when You made all these things
Did You stop to consider the pain it would bring,
Why was manmade, if You knew he would slay –
The dear Son of God, some dark evil day.
As You fashioned each stone as though it was hewn,
When did You realise it was for a tomb?
When You planted that garden for man to dwell,
Did You think of Gethsemane, and the road to Hell –
That Jesus would enter to take my place,
To carry my shame, to bear my disgrace?

For You gave the thorns, the nails and the tree,
And left them with man knowing how they would be –
Used as instruments to kill your Son.
But yet, as I ponder it, Your will was done.
You loved us completely, You could not forego
The work of creation if You, we would know.
I can’t understand such love, so great.
A love so much greater than a world full of hate.
A Creator who saw before time began
Exactly the way the gulf to span
Between Him and I, the gain the loss,
For without a tree there could be no Cross,
Without a Cross no forgiveness of sin,
But because of the Cross, I have Him within.

Rod Ferbrache

I See My True Love Everywhere - Chris Hudson

To be insured against the contingencies of fate
A discourse where half the answers come too late
Their leavened bread was eating you whole
From out of time’s mists the church bells toll

Assigned the mysteries of pagan festival
I was escorted from the Great Hall
Where I had been told histories of old
With a fired heart and a spirit bold

On many roads I travelled far
Many stories unravelled, Nature’s wounds I felt, my scar
At the pacing of impatient feet,
As the breeze of Time blows through my hair
Rushing to meet my Maker, meet
I dance the reels without a care
I wonder where shall we meet, oh where?

Chris Hudson

The “Peter” Limericks - Ros Willard

There was a philander, Peter,
whose girlfriends were Joan, Pam and Rita.
His wife got annoyed,
a hit man employed,
now Peter’s no longer a cheater.


In a draughty stone castle Sir Peter
could not find so much as one heater,
so to keep out the cold
in a building so old
he drank Plymouth Gin by the litre.


There was a young cannibal, Peter,
who married a girl called Conchita.
He loved her big eyes,
her lips and firm thighs.
In fact, it was hard not to eat ‘er.

Ros Willard

It's Time To Clear Out The Attic - Janet

It's time to clear out the attic.
So much clutter's been hidden away.
Held just in case it was needed
kept safe for another day.
Take a deep breath and imagine
a neat and well ordered place.
Not a scrambled array of memories
with nothing in the right place.
A cobwebbed corner of photographs
of faces whose lights are now stars.
I'll look at them now and again
and send them a kiss from afar.
There's a box of half finished projects
that were good thoughts at the time.
Better let go and discard them
so new ideas come to mind.
The suitcase that stands in the centre
hastily packed, filled with fears.
Open the lock and release them
throw away all the bad years.
There's room for the things I will keep now.
The memories too precious to go.
I'll keep them safe and protect them
with love and warmth they will glow.
So, all is straight and in order.
Only the best left behind.
Now I can lie here contented
clear in the attic of my mind.


Competition Winner - February 2014
What We Did - Stephen A. Roberts

When they ask us what we did -
Will we tell them that we hid?

From questions, answers, truth and lies
From the bullets, from the knives -
From the unseeing stares of wives;
Keening over shattered lives.

If you peel back the mind of Man -
(Like a rusting Cola can)...
You'll see the brain is set to repeat
Every victory, and defeat
That same old slew of broken dreams,
A widescreen view of silent screams.

So when they bring us all to book,
They'll know exactly where to look -
And when they ask us what we did,
We will tell them that we hid.

Stephen A. Roberts

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