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

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