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

The King Is Dead; Long Live the King! - Chris Hudson

Just be, live, carry on, receive and give.
Is madness a reason for not knowing?
When confusion recedes like the tide
Clinging to patterns of behaviour outworn
Writing words in the shifting sands of illusion
A piece of paper signed; a life designed
Designated defunct, side by side with
The official, sponsored madness we call government
Feeble minded rulers whose lifestyle stinks
Never ending staircase of bureaucratic ink
Winks and nods, favours, bet on the odds
Never thinking, just follow orders, procedures
You ‘ordure’ to impress the boss, he couldn’t give a toss
For you or your reports, the can’ts and oughts.
We seem to have a communication problem, the system and
I try to reason but you just throw it back in my face
Or is it the dust from the last rebel you ate?
Non conformism isn’t just a game,
I’m clinging to my reasons, whilst you just moan and complain
That I can’t follow orders; well I don’t command nor obey
Try to prise my fingers from my grip on reality
What’s the future for this society, when abusers like you
Are ripping apart democracy?

Chris Hudson

Coxswain of the Cockpit - Vic Gamble

In 2006 Vic wrote about a Canadian pilot (Flight Lieutenant John Walton Saville), who died when the Typhoon he was flying was shot down in Havelet Bay, on the 5th June 1944. Flight Lieutenant Saville was on a bombing raid tasked with destroying the German Freya radar installation on Fort George. The raid was a vital part of the Allied preparations for D-Day.

Unfortunately a plaque dedicated to Flight Lieutenant Saville was recently defiled by vandals, this prompted Vic to submit his poem.

Coxswain of the Cockpit

I have little doubt those young men thought it
momentary mischief,
stuck like rats and rabbits in airfield quarters,
about to half their life spans
& styles. I have no doubt
these young men bolstered themselves
to a frazzle with jokes cocktailed
by companionship,celibacy
and the silver screen of uncertain catastrophe…..

The Canadian was used to bigger spheres
of landscapes,
he had reject-seated his checked shirt
and Mountie mentality
for war zones not yet described,
not even half-truthed,
not even lied.

A five hundred pounder
the bigger hamburger,
not fried over Hamburg,
but rather on German radar, bleep,bleep,bleeping
on portend pleasant heights
of Guernsey...bleep, bleeping
like a bomb not yet unleashed,
though still spinning out an angst of cogwheeled anger.

And when duty called,
he dropped her,
heavy metal spilling down
in sentenced siren silence;
a snake screeching out of her lair
to thud silent, like a passive pledge,a pawky dream,
like a sleeping beauty kiss.

And he, the Canadian,stuttering,shot full of holes
his last icons banging though his brain,
splashed suddenly into waters
rolling out & across
his newly bequeathed blue sea-lady
of Havelet Bay.

Every worm turns,
at every turn it worms back,
a sly freeloader from history’s hold…...
and down in the blue blackout of breaking waters
the instant sadness will be known to all,
except perhaps that quiet Canadian,
once proud pilot,
now coxswain of the cockpit.

Vic Gamble

Bleak Thoughts For A Bleak Generation - Stephen A. Roberts

An eternal scream, ragged, raw
rises from the very floor
a despairing roar of misery
from the echo chamber
of history

Where now is the god you trust
in his house, or somehow lost -
a bullet fired into his head
a bullet
in the temple, dead

Kneel for worship,
kneel for death
the dividing line was never less
in this wholly,
unholy mess

Will you live to carry on
caring for the blinded son,
or perish in the next pogrom -
as others die in ecstasy
cursing your apostasy?

Will someone, somewhere
drop the Bomb,
let Mankind
what he has become...?

Stephen A. Roberts

Media Propaganda - Ian Duquemin

Call me a fool but I don't understand
I wonder if someone might lend me a hand
Can anyone out there please kindly explain
Convince me that others are feeling my pain
I turn on the news and I'm filled with a rage
In newspapers "death" highlights each page
An advert on tv shows children in need
The next promotes football a sport rife with greed
Wars they are fought with no outcome in sight
This god and that god "You all can't be right"
Maybe you all need to live your own lives
And not play this game in which no one survives
I am sick to the stomach of seeing such hate
I guess that a time-out has been called too late
I can't close my eyes and pretend I don't see
Surely others feel similar to me!
A feeling so helpless and one of concern
The fact is that man is too stupid to learn!
His days are numbered, his ending is nigh
And he is too dumb to know why!

Ian Duquemin

If I Had A Son - Alex Jones

If I had a son
I'd love him with my life -
I'd stretch the boundaries of my own health
just to keep him from strife.

If he was ever upset,
I'd comfort and scare away his fears,
I'd cuddle his little body
and love away his tears.

Upon the loneliest of days,
I'd mess around, tickle,
make him smile -

I'd run along beside him,
even if it was for the longest mile.

And in the darkest of nights,
I'd show him the sparkling Moon,
the glowing Mars -

I'd shower him with my undying love,
and thrust him to the stars.

Alex Jones

Buy Local - Lester Queripel

Support it or lose it
You have the power to choose it
Buy local or it’s bye bye local

Lester Queripel

Free App - Diane Scantlebury

Tweet me, never meet me
Face to face,
Only witter on twitter
Hash tag,
Befriend me on Facebook
I’ll find you,
Google earth search
Then stalk you,
Because I know where you live,

I could view you
On YouTube,
Like or dislike you,
Comment without contact
Criticise with no comeback,
Reject you on Tinder
Destroy your self esteem,

No law to stop me
I could hack into,
Hijack your life,
Create an avatar entity
Assume your identity,
Because mine’s so boring
And shallow,
And I’ve downloaded the free app.

Diane Scantlebury

Red Sun Falling - Fred Williamson

A twilight dawning, brings a red sunrise,
Before my eyes,
Becomes so bright,
A white golden light.

An evening sunset west,
Shining across the river Mekong,
A red sunbeam, looking its best,

Red sun falling,
Behind the cloud sinking fast,
Like a deflating red balloon,
Darkness comes so soon,
Showing in the sky, an orange moon.

Fred Williamson

It's Time To Look At Ourselves - Lester Queripel and Fred Williamson

It’s time to observe how much we use.
Do you consider the environment or do you abuse?
Do you take for granted.........the seeds that others have planted?
The big companies are also to blame.
We are just little pawns in their game.
They produce items that are too expensive to repair.
So we have to buy ‘new’ and they don’t actually care.
Because they get a bigger share.
Then our ‘broken technology’ gets buried in the ground.
In hundreds of years it will all be found.
Then questions will be asked about this ‘materialistic grave’.
How much we took and how much we gave.
All ‘take’ and no ‘give’ is such an easy way to live.
But however you put it, whatever you say.
We have to address the won’t just go away!
We have to take care of Mother Earth.
It was she who gave us our birth.
Let’s not throw it all back in her face.
If we do, we’ll be a human disgrace.
So if you want to prove you really care.
Then take responsibility and become more aware.
Look at yourself and the way you behave.
It’s wake up time, it’s time to be brave.
We have got an earth to save.

Lester Queripel and Fred Williamson

The Joys Of Having A Mobile Phone - Elizabeth Fisher

She was sitting alone
In a coffee shop that she had found
Stirring her brown sugar cube in her cappuccino round and around.

Will he?
Won't h?
Will he?
Won't he?
Were the words spinning in her head.
She was remembering
Every single word that he said.

Her thoughts were interrupted abruptly
By the ringing tone on her mobile phone.

She was startled and opened her bag
Her head began to sag.
She spoke softly and then she switched it off abruptly.

She sat and smiled and starred ahead.
Thank goodness her mobile hadn't gone dead

Suddenly from nowhere
Two figures appeared before her and sat down.
The two girls that she had gone out with last night in the town.

Well------ did he?
Didn't he?
They spouted.

HE DID!! she shouted.

Elizabeth Fisher

GAZA Palestine ~ July 24th 2014 - Aindre Reece-Sheerin

It matters perhaps in insignificance, that this was once your land or, that it became mine but now you want it back.

It matters to some even less, that you are prepared not only to take it bit by bit - but to kill and maim

It matters so little that you see my children as terrorists and legitimate targets as they, like me, fight for freedom from oppression

It matters of such little consequence that many, many countries and forms of media see me and mine as the aggressors in this

It matters like I do not exist that I have little or no access to even the basics of life like water and sanitation, let alone fresh food

It matters not on the world stage that you are doing to me what the Nazis and the 3rd Reich did to your ancestors and indeed even perhaps some of you in my living memory

It Matters, Though, that you Laugh and, that you Applaud and you Justify the shredding of my babies and,

It Matters that you wish to Erase the future of my bloodline and my Race

Aindre Reece-Sheerin

Birds - Judith Anne Finetti

Birds - the dinosaurs who took to the skies and survived
From their dawn chorus,
Earlier and earlier in the morning in early summer
Yes 4.40 am is early for me!

From the Pied Wagtail who had a quick shower in our pool in Italy
One very hot morning
To the beautiful Buzzard who nearly hit my bonnet in deepest France on the drive down
Instruct your sat nav to avoid motorways at all costs
And you will really see nature
Navigatore -sounds so much better in Italian

Also the Hoopoe swooping through our garden
Again and again to feed her young
With her pink stripes and crest on her head
You would swear she belonged to the parrot family

Yes the bird world has so much to offer
And not forgetting the ubiquitous common Mallard with her brood
Who is prepared to stop the busy traffic to guide her ducklings
Across many a busy road to safety

And growing up by the sea
We cannot forget the vast variety of sea birds native to Guernsey
From the Brent geese who take refuge faithfully
Every winter at Bordeaux
To the Oyster Catchers with their wonderful cry across the bay
And not forgetting the little Turnstones who potter around the Bridge
Between our feet
Gradually extending their scavenging area from the beach to the
Crumbs on the pavement that the young drop as they stroll by
Grazing on the hoof

And finally the Egret who regularly forages at low tide
Largely unnoticed by passers by
I could go on and on

Judith Anne Finetti

Drifting - Joan Raleigh

Old Bill had a fright one day
while fishing out on his boat.
He fell asleep as usual
wrapped up in his duffle coat.

The sun was shining and the sea
lapped dreamily on the planking;
and although Bill had two rods out,
it seemed the fish weren’t biting.

Now up the Banks just off the Point,
the tidal flow’s deceptive,
especially when a fog comes down
and your mind is less than active!

The boat had all the usual gear,
radar and auto-steering.
All other boats had motored home,
but Billy was blissfully sleeping.

The fog was dense as Billy’s brain
and the current surruptitious.
He didn’t feel the movement, so
the signs were non-auspicious.

He past Fermain away to port
and drifted past the harbour mouth.
The Salerie slid swiftly to his stern,
soon Paradis was to his south.

Then a siren suddenly rent his dreams …
He awoke at the Platte Fougere.
Said Bill “I’ve not a clue where I’m to,
I’m lost, neither here nor there.

But if I set a course on auto,
and head sou-west somewhere,
with luck I’ll hit old L’ancresse beach,
and caw dammee … I’m staying there!”

Joan Raleigh

As I Look Back - Janet

As I look back on days gone by.
No nimbus clouds spoilt
clear blue skies.
Raindrops fell at night, unseen,
to water earth and
keep gardens green.
The wind blew softly, just a breeze
warm and sultry
through the trees.
On the beach our skin was bronzed.
No overcoats
‘til autumn comes.
Days so long and I can dream
the golden taste
of rich ice cream.
The evening sun kept us warm
until the early
hours of dawn.
As I look back in time.
Who knows?
Perhaps these specs
are tinted rose.

Janet Le Pelley

The Proseman’s Guide to Writing Poetry - Chris Hudson

All lines should rhyme
Because when reading it
This saves a lot of time!

Topics should be warm and cosy
So we all know exactly what is meant
Nothing to bend th’enraptured will
But stifle with sentiment.

Jokes too are okay
As long as they
Don’t break societal convention
Preconceived clichés are so much more apt
To gain the audience’s attention

A poem can show wit and be apposite
But not be improprietous;
Indecorous behaviour
Is reserved for rioters

Whilst it is absolutely forbidden to assume
Any stance of politics or philosophy
(That is best left to the bedroom!)

To win one’s audience to one’s side
One must make no comment absurd nor snide
But levelling all experience at root
And aphorisms twee to boot

The concept of the poem should be endlessly brewed
And any fortitude or boldness eschewed
Every word pored over in minutest detail for all to see
The dead idea thence pinned to a tree

Nothing free or frivolous should blight the page
Lest the dear reader fly in a rage

With sentiments barren and mundane ideas
Nothing original should blight one’s ears

No idolatrous ideas, or tales of woe
Nor bravely how we bashed the foe

But metaphors bland and senseless dross
Lest our pals think us incongruous
Respect your reader and try to ease
Areas where he has sensibilities

The poet may pull his hair out in writing verse and rhyme
But the reader does not always have the time
To decode scrawlings of trenchant pus
These kinds of poems will not liberate us!

Christopher J. Hudson

Requiem For Dead Alcoholic - Vic Gamble

With head well rigged
from bar port calls
he stumbles into yet another,
supping dregs of drams
and shit-faced flagons,
gormless in his gossamer,
a freebooter without plans.
And when they tired of him
they threw him out
into the sick-bay of the gutter,
where he churned and choked
in his own choice of vomit
and a slurred blasphemy
of mutter.

In the sweet bloom of morning,
while there was still a lacehole sky,
the cop turned him
with his bully stick;
his dead mouth open like a yawn
and a counterblast of emptiness
entreated in his eyes.
And nailed, like blue tattoo
the last words of his life
hung infinite in the air,
“Fuck it, Jesus, fuck it”.

It was as if
a beggar had been there.

Vic Gamble

Halfway to Four - Stephen A. Roberts

Jim T introduced Nicole to us a while back with a dark tale of murder (Click Here), in which it was teasingly hinted that there were 3 other guilty secrets to be revealed.

Forgive me Jim for taking it upon myself to provide one of them. Now only 2 remaining...

Halfway to Four

I bumped into him a few weeks after
Nicole's funeral
I sort of remember him being there
in the background,
in fact it occurred to me that
I had seen him before, somewhere
just out of my vision,
a grey-shape mystery man
from a Cold War spy film.

But he was no spook;
he was a scruffy individual
a proto-punk with drainpipe jeans
and naturally spiky hair -
we started to hang out and
listen to the New York Dolls,
Lou Reed and early Bowie,
drinking cheap spirits and
whatever else we could score.

One day, he looked at me and said:
I saw you set the fire
maybe she deserved it.
I then realised where I'd seen him
this shadow, this
uninvited understudy,
rider of a beat-up Kawasaki
that had seen better days -
in need of maintenance...

it was no wonder
the brakes failed.

How many guilty secrets can you keep?
I'm halfway to four now.

Stephen A. Roberts

After Reading About Diogenes Of Sinope - Adam Clayton

When you're in the sun
All things eternal
Come to your fingertips
As light dances on the air
You understand something
Fractured and fragmentary
It lies out refracted
Bearing cryptic truth

You carry these wonders
As you wander
You carry a heat
That cooks up a thunder
You could collapse
Your world forever unknown
As sunlight warms your toes
As shadows and fixations
Put on dancing shows
You cannot bring the day to close

Adam Clayton

Leeds 81 - Ian Duquemin

You never showed yourself to me...
But you may have passed me by!
Did I witness hatred in your soul?
See death within your eye!
I'd walked the many backstreets
Passed the red walls smoked in black
It never crossed my mind
That you might stab me in the back!
A kind of strange distraction
Just a twist to show you can
That maybe out of boredom
You would choose to kill a man
You wandered unknown freely
You were hunted high and low
Posters pleaded "FIND HIM"
And the search for you did grow
I strolled the streets at night time
My eyes watched out for you
Could I be the destined one
That stopped the things you do
I'd see you there about your work
And take a brick in hand
Then bash that brick upon your head
Above you proudly stand
I'd witness rage below you
From a horror scene of hate
Could I have been her hero?
If I'd not have come too late
But then the papers showed us
That the monster had been caught
You looked nothing like a demon
Or the devil I had sought
In fact you looked pathetic
Just a man beneath a beard
I'd imagined Mr Hyde
At least somebody weird!
Is that why you defected?
Did you need to be a name?
Did your god do all the killing?
And leave you to take the blame!
Or did you just find power
In the softness under touch?
And find that you enjoyed it far too much!

Ian Duquemin

Letter Home - Richard Fleming

The trenches are awash with mud.
We share this hell with rats and dead
while mortar shells scream overhead
and all the world is choked with blood.

We came as boys: some never aged
but died with childhood in their eyes.
Should we grow old, their fearful cries
will haunt us. So, like scapegoats caged
before a hungry tiger’s eye,
we wait for them, the bloody foe,
to charge with bayonets and know
what we must do, but never why.

This futile madness makes me weep.
Such sacrifice for little gain.
Fear only quelled by fearful pain.
Let death be but an endless sleep.

Richard Fleming

Recycling The Mind - Lester Queripel

The third of a lifetime
Held here in my hand
The third of a lifetime
Slipping into sand
Down through the ages
Now the dreams have passed
Tantric moon through the hour glass
If only it could speak, and tell us why
Instead of just hanging in the sky
If the moon could talk
And the sun could always shine
Past generations had more knowledge and time
The stories they could tell
To illuminate your mind
In stead of leaving the past behind.

Lester Queripel

My Garden - Diane Scantlebury

Mine is a beautiful garden,
Where nature’s had free reign
To run its course,
Not groomed or manicured
But borderline scruffy,
Weeds and perennials rub shoulders
And have learned to coexist
In their own defined harmony,

Birds adore it,
Swoop and chirp happily,
Or peck at the barely tamed lawn
Still strewn with grass cuttings,
Trees split and stooping
From winter’s gales
Seem to have sprung back to life,
Where their branches
Have touched the earth,

Mine is a natural garden,
Full of butterflies and bees
Creeping, crawling and stinging things,
Maybe too overgrown
For prim suburban taste,
But it suits me.

Diane Scantlebury

Loving Days - Fred Williamson

One day at a time you love your day
One day at a time I love mine
I love your days
Your doings
Your ways
I love your smile, your face, your grace
Loving days are in place
Loving days in your space

I love your connection
Your attraction
Your complexion
Your affection

You love your day
I love mine
One day at a time
Loving days are in place
Loving days in your space
What more can I say?

Fred Williamson

Blog Archive