Monumental Blunderings - Donald Keyman


In the land of monumental blunders, we need more public art
to celebrate our illustrious past, but really, where to start?
A donkey in the harbour? well yes I thought it wrong,
though the way they park the Condor, it wouldn't have lasted long.

I've looked all over Europe, and great statues I have seen
some so fine and noble, and others a bit obscene
in Jersey they've a monument, of people dancing free;
the silent Guernsey obelisk gives the finger, doncha see?

There's a big fish, up in Belfast, made of toilet tiles
it is a bit bizarre, but it raises many smiles
Edinburgh has Greyfriars Bobby, he moves the crowd to tears;
So what fantastic gewgaw could ideally grace our piers?

What about a massive chancre, cast in solid bronze?
(ignore the spider lovers, who would say that it was wrong)
Perhaps a bust of Len and Enid, or a lifelike Stone de Croze
Or maybe a popular deputy, in suitably statesmanlike pose?

Google "famous Guernsey people", and it will tell you this -
The most renowned donkey was a chap called Roy Dotrice
But delve a little deeper, there's Sir Isaac, famous for war
and his brother Daniel, who stayed to practise law

If we widen our net still further, to those from overseas
inevitably we find that author, of "Toilers of the Sea"
another statue of Hugo? well I know that he's the best
but surely now it must be time, to give the guy a rest?

There has to be a figure, who would justify the work
Calm down, hold your horses, I don't mean Maurice Kirk -
No this guy was a local legend, he was permanently peed
Yes - let's have a colossal statue - of the actor Olly Reed!

Donald Keyman

PS
I don't really care what they do it, it'll brighten up our day
as long as this poor ol' taxpayer doesn't have to pay...

 

Open Mic Monday 26th June 2017

Open Mic Evening - Monday 26th June 2017

20:00 hrs - 22:00 hrs
La Villette Hotel, St. Martin, Guernsey
The 'Non-compulsory' theme is; 'Rubber'
There guest musicians are; 'Polly & James'

Kingfisher - Trudie Shannon

The kingfisher,
A blur of iridescent blue and orange,
Hovered like some predatory humming bird
A hands breadth above the slow incoming tide,
Which swirled itself into eddies, a dancer searching for space.
And the kingfisher, seemingly caught in some invisible net
Or maybe just encapsulated in a bubble of air,
Was as still as fluttering wings allow.
And I was its witness, land heavy and in awe.
It’s departure was swift as if some careless hand had burst the bubble.
Falling like a stone, plunging fearlessly out of the air
And into the water, to emerge seconds later, a silver fish in its beak,
Water droplets falling from its feathers like luminescent rain.
Then it was gone, a blur of iridescent blue and orange
And I, its witness remained land heavy and in awe.

Trudie Shannon

Shattered Dream - Lyndon Queripel

You danced on the water
With lightning in your eyes
Raindrops in your heart
And thunder in the skies

You played on your harp
An angel without a prayer
Love was all around you
And electric filled the air

Your mouth was so dry
When at last you awoke
You held a broken mirror
In the coloured smoke

Sparks were still flying
In the wind of the storm
And you were all alone
No one to keep you warm

You reached out your hand
To touch the fading beam
Just left in the shadows
Of a shattered dream.

Lyndon Queripel

Guernsey Lily - Richard Fleming

Guernsey Lily
Unite our people
Elevate us
Return our sons
Nerine
Sarniensis
Eternal
You are our symbol
Lily of the ocean
Island beauty
Let us endure as
You have endured

Richard Fleming

Gardens, . . . and memories - Tony Bradley

I love to look at your beautiful garden
I had one too, with rockeries, borders, and lawn
the morning dew, the birdsong, and the flowers
like sparkling jewels, in the glistening dawn.

I've had to forsake my garden now
I couldn't still manage it, so I couldn't stay
my old bones, and eyesight, have let me down,
but nothing can take my memories away.

Tony Bradley

Twilight - Tony Gardner

Sitting here in endless twilight
Smokey dreams stroll through my mind
From below the cliff I fell from
I remember sweeter times
When we'd live in endless sunshine
When the nights would never end
All we looked for was each other
Every minute was our friend
Then like snow when warmer days come
Watched you melting fast away
Left me mourning, like the night bird
Weeping in the silver-gray.

Tony Gardner

Guernsey Buses - Anon


Up and down the roads of Guernsey
we sit, happy, on the bus.
Cars are swerving into hedges ...
they are terrified of us.

We mount pavements ... it’s exciting.
Pavement users go quite pale.
Cyclists tumble from their cycles.
We leave chaos in our trail.

Look, we nearly smacked a jogger
but he had amazing luck ...
leapt aside before we hit him,
disappeared beneath a truck.

Did you see that silly driver
crash into a granite wall?
Our bus-driver kept his cool and
how we giggled, one and all.

Hikers, bikers, how they fear us:
big as dinosaurs we are.
Round blind corners with abandon ...
this ain’t transport, this is war.

All our cheery little faces,
through the windows, grin and smirk
as we flatten finance workers ...
our bus-driver’s gone berserk.

Up the Val de Terres we trundle ...
starting, stopping, setting down,
letting traffic jams behind us
form a tailback into Town.

Such a thrill to ride on buses.
Cats and donkeys go to ground.
Seagulls take avoiding action.
All of this for just a pound!

Anon

Who Cares? - Diane Scantlebury

You can always tell
The crazy ones,
They have an air
A vacant stare,
They drift along,
Without a care,

You can always spot
The cocky ones,
They jog along
Their shirts undone,
They have an air,
They don’t care,

You’ll always know
The happy ones,
They always smile
Stop to chat for a while,
They have an air,
Because they care.

Diane Scantlebury

Bus Pass - Lester Queripel

I’ve not yet reached my pension age.
but I’m not far off that stage.
I know I don’t need to worry or fuss.
because I’ll get a free pass for the bus.

I can ride around to my heart's content.
not a penny of my own money will need to be spent.
every single second on the bus will be free.
but it’s a shame they don’t give you a cup of tea.

but I’ve never been one to complain.
I’ll happily ride round again and again.
although I hope I can wait in a bus shelter.
I don’t want to wait in the rain.

and why do they call it a bus shelter?
it’s there to shelter people not the bus.
but like I said I won’t cause any fuss.
I’ll be happy just to ride for free on the bus.

Lester Queripel

Secret Cabaret - Ian Duquemin

In this secret cabaret
Sheets in twisted disarray
Hair disheveled, skin unclean
The mirrors misted ghostly sheen
Amidst this den of tortured lies
Still echoing perverted cries
Bodies stretched now lying still
Contented with unholy fill
Sweat drips cold on hot licked flesh
The sins which neither shall confess
Heartbeats simmer, silence loud
No love in here allowed
In the shadows candles dance
Ignited by a spirit trance
One which holds no bounds of sleep
Enticing those to fall in deep
In an act of mortal whim
Where every bent and splintered limb
Shall blindly fall undignified
And keep their shame inside

Ian Duquemin

Juneau, Alaska - Kathy Figueroa


Juneau city
Views are pretty
Streets are gritty
Tramps want spare change

Ravens chatter
Footsteps patter
Workmen clatter
Some sights are strange

A port of call
For one and all
With mountains tall
A snow-capped range

A kind greeting
Pleasant meeting
Make time fleeting
At gold rock grange

Kathy Figueroa

Too Much Chocolate - John Carré Buchanan

Last week we heard a distant roar
that drifted on the air,
it crept ever closer
and bought with it despair.

The pillars are still falling
and all around us now
the constant whine of chainsaw
lays our forest bare.

You'll turn it into pasture
or cover it in palm.
Drag away the timber
to turn into a barn.

In places you'll plant cocoa,
where it shouldn't really grow
and it will leach the soil
and the insects they will go.

Then the birds that feed upon them
and the plants they pollinate
will vanish in a moment
from the hell that you'll create.

This Easter as you celebrate
the life that was reborn,
remember us, I beg,
for you decimate our forest
for a f***ing chocolate egg.

John Carré Buchanan

Epitaphs - Sally Forth

The things we do leave their mark:
pale scars, cave drawings, photographs,
imprints in clay, shadows on glass,
echoes, verses. The list goes on.

The things we fail to do, it seems:
missed opportunities, lost dreams,
choices avoided, moments gone,
hours not grasped, days allowed to pass,
that failure to ignite the spark.
With these we shape our epitaphs.

Sally Forth

Room At The Top - Lyndon Queripel

And as you leave, close the door
I don't want to breathe anymore
Stale air coming up the stair
All the way from the thirteenth floor

And as I sit staring at the ceiling
I don't fit, I've lost the feeling
All alone with the telephone
Off the hook to look more appealing

And even though I'm not to blame
I don't even know my neighbour's name
And for a while though I try to smile
My face just grows tired of the game.

Lyndon Queripel

I got POEMS, me - Tony Bradley

I have an affliction, it's not hereditary
I got POEMS, me, they're coming out my ears
it started when I was a nipper
so I suppose it's been a few years .

Throughout Medical History, other people have had POEMS
Wordsworth, Shelley, Milligan, McGough
Doctors can't help you, with sick-notes & tablets
it's not like syphilis, . . . or 'flu, . . or a cough.

These POEMS can fester into Fame or Fortune
those malignant growths would really mess up my 'ed
if they're diagnosed for me, on top of these POEMS
I just hope they'll stay small, 'till after I'm dead .

Tony Bradley

New Neighbour - Trudie Shannon

You are stranger to me than stranger alone.
Stranger because my image of you
Was conjured from disparate sounds
That emanate from the walls that stand between us.

Footsteps, a cough.
Water running, door slamming.
A muffled voice.
A squeaking tap.
The swish of a hand through water.
Creaking floorboards.
Humming.
Early morning baths.
Foot shuffle.
Singing.

All came together to paint my portrait of you.

Female, thirty something, neat and tidy.

But today as I drank tea beside my window
I happened to see your shaded form through the hedge
That separates our gardens,
Saw you, as you left your house,
Slamming the door shut behind you.
And I saw the distinct figure
Of a young man in a hoodie,
Shoulders hunched, hands pocketed!

From a series of disparate sounds
That emanate from the walls that stand between us.
I have made a stranger,
Stranger than merely stranger alone.

Trudie Shannon

Crooked - Tony Gardner


A crooked little man with his crooked little wife
Lived a little crooked but a happy sort of life
Laughing at the troubles that his crooked life threw up
Ignoring Life's ill temper like a happy little pup

This crooked little man with his crooked little wife
Smiled at every trouble, and sneered at every strife
They grew stronger with each hardship, with each adversity
And vowed to make the best of it than give in to misery

Twisted roads before him fell straight with common sense
And balanced all the bad times Fate often would dispense
Though seldom down that crooked road he glimpsed Luck's golden smile
The crooked man, his crooked wife seemed happy all the while

Tony Gardner

Missing My Mum - Diane Scantlebury

We never quite got on
My mum and I,
For I was always
A daddy’s girl,
But I miss her most
On Mother’s day,
She was the grit
In our family pearl,

She’d make us wait
Hours and hours
While she prepared,
The tastiest food
There ever could be,
For our mother lived
In her own world and had
No idea of time you see,

Mum never left the house
Without a scarf or bright red lippy,
And we couldn’t go out
Without hair combed or teeth done,
Sometimes she could be
A hideous tyrant,
But underneath it all she’d
A wicked sense of fun,

Pity we never quite got on
My mum and I,
But I loved her a lot
As you can tell,
And secretly I have to giggle
When I know,
Up in heaven
She’s giving them hell!

Diane Scantlebury

Borneo, Nature Boy, the Enigma - Bryant Doyle

I'm 66, but still confused
exactly who, or what I am
sometimes I'm brave, as any lion
but often I'm gentle, as a lamb.

I like doing women's hair, and flower-arranging
cage-fighting, and racing cars
I did architecture, and demolition
I've got qualifications, and lots of scars.

I'm Nature Boy, all animals like me
I've got up to some very weird things
I've rounded up loose horses, sheep and cattle
I never get dog or flea-bites, or insect stings.

I'd be happy living rough
in a tent, a den, or a shed
I live in a nice little cottage
I got no woman, so I got no bed.

Bryant Doyle

Song Of The Sioux - Richard Fleming


Once there were men and buffalo
that nourished us, that fed the tribe.
The land and all it could bestow
was ours. The Elders now describe
it as a Paradise on earth,
harmonious, our place of birth,
before the white men came to kill
our buffalo then break our will.

We dwelt in tribes, our rivalry
divided us: such was our plight
when faced with well-armed cavalry
our indecision, like a blight,
unmanned us, so our young men died,
our old men raged, our women cried,
while they, that force none could withstand,
came, massacred, then stole our land.

In retrospect, I see it clear,
we lived in childlike ignorance.
The world had changed but we, I fear,
refused to see the evidence
while, all the time, approaching fast,
the railroad with its piercing blast:
the Future coming, smokey-haired,
to catch us only half prepared.

Richard Fleming

Busker - Marie O’Nette

In bowler hat, with shoulders bowed, he plays
a ukulele while he blows, with zest,
into a silver fife attached
to a wire harness nursing on his chest,
tunes to beguile the stream of passers-by.
Deep lines zig-zag across his leathered brow,
the threadbare coat is greasy, stained and patched,
his eyes, pale-blue, are watchful underneath
a hat-brim as he swings this way and that.
A small crowd gathers, children point and laugh.
A woman tourist takes a photograph.

Around his wrist a weathered leather strap
controls two tiny puppets at his feet
who prance with uncoordinated glee
as he, when younger, to the crazy beat
of frantic music, might have done
in streets like this, at closing-time, amok
with coursing blood, adrenaline and joy.
Beneath the town clock’s cold, unblinking eye,
the puppets twitch and jig for strings and fife.
No star, this man: he keeps the company of dolls.
Into his upturned cap the conscience-coinage falls.

Marie O’Nette

Some People Are So Poor, All They Have Is Money - Ian Duquemin

They can go on holidays
They can buy a house
Many have actually bought their spouse
They can purchase diamonds
Flaunt expensive rings
Drive the fastest cars,
Wear designer things
But they just want more
Like a junkie needs
And they will not stop till their greed succeeds
It's kind of sad
And yet it's also funny
That some people are so poor, all they have is their money

Ian Duquemin

Two Faced - Lester Queripel

I’ve got people asking me to be their friend on Facebook.

Yet when I see them on the street they don’t give me a second look.

What’s that all about?

Lester Queripel

Baby Boomers Are Aging - Kathy Figueroa

Baby boomers are aging
Sometimes, dementia takes hold
It isn’t a pleasant thing
But happens as folks get old

Personalities might change
This can cause consternation
When someone starts acting strange
It’s a bad situation

What is a person to do
When a friend becomes bonky?
Relationships get ruined
When things go weird and wonky

What if they behave in ways
Both hurtful and offensive?
It seems pointless - of no use
To even get defensive

You can’t suggest to someone
That they go and take a pill
If they’ve “gone off the deep end”
But, yet, you care for them, still

If they become deceitful
And deny the things they’ve done
What are you supposed to do
When you can’t just turn and run?

It’s a terrible disease
One that seems devoid of hope
So, until a cure is found
We’ll pray for the strength to cope

Kathy Figueroa

Baby Boomers Are Aging was published in the February 23, 2017 issue of The Bancroft Times newspaper.

Last Hope - Julian Clarke

The visions are clouded for the cynics of mankind who blindly believe it best not to believe.
But Layla’s last hope for her sick one lay in the palms of a pagan priestess.
And so the priestess cast a circle upon the ground and with eyes closed she rode the latitudes of time.
From all points of the compass winds were weaving weighing mystic chants from the shaman of nations to dance in spiritual trance.
With karma gathered and harnessed in heart the priestess returned to her natural awareness.
Her rainbow gown laced in white flowed silently while hands circled the air as she sang incantations with spiritual care.
Layla wore tears on her cheeks that rolled to the earth as she wept with joy at the breath of her daughter’s soulful re-birth.

Julian Clarke

The Nerve - Philip M Gale

Have you got the nerve
to take it all the way
make it work when all goes bad
fight another day.

Then rise above the odds
to do your given best
battle on against the pain
without a day of rest.

Can you hold your nerve
when they destroy all your trust
turn the other cheek
still love life when love is lost.

Can you look at danger
stare it in the face
have you got the nerve
to join the human race.

Philip M Gale

Trash Ethics - Donald Keyman

We're sending the tip of our refuse iceberg
To the land of Lindgren, Larsson and Strindberg
Yes, thank you Sweden, especially for Abba
Please take these pots from a rusting old crabber

So put out your bags, pile them up on the corner
They're all being sent to their own personal sauna
We're sending our empties, wine, spirits and beer
Crushed and shipped like a flatpack from IKEA

Mamma Mia! it's Swedish, our trash is now sexy
Who wants to dump it on boring old Jersey?
But, can you imagine Bergman and Garbo
Raking through Guernsey's rubbishy cargo?

Donald Keyman

Young Smokers - Diane Scantlebury

As he gazed up from his buggy with wondrous eyes,
A plume of mushroom shaped smoke
Hovered darkly above his head,
Poisonous fumes from the glowing stick
His mother clenched between her lips,
He marvelled as she exhaled,
Every puff obscuring her face
In a peek-a-boo game he’d played before,
She’d reappear suddenly with a throaty cough
Then bend and sweep him up,
Pressing his face into the familiar
Acrid perfume of her jumper,
He was too young to have a choice
Or to know that her selfish habit,
Would eventually cause
His untimely death.

Diane Scantlebury

Anyone For Tennis? - Oscar Milde

We hit words to and fro,
employing power and back-swing,
serve and volley,
determined, each, to score points off the other.
We both started out with Love
but now it’s six-two, six-three
and the neighbours are complaining
about the racquet.

Oscar Milde

Valentine - Tony Bradley

My beautiful Valentine, all life now has reason
this was destined, from the day of my birth
the sight of you has set my soul on fire
never has such beauty graced this Earth.

Never could you love me, such barriers between us
born different times, and places, worlds apart
but you're in my heart, and I'm going to love you
the rest of my days, with all my heart.

Tony Bradley

No Strings Attached - Lyndon Queripel

Is there anyone else
Besides myself
Just living in hope
Who'd like to know
When you've reached
The end of your rope
Where is there
Left to go?

Lyndon Queripel

No Smoke Without Fire - Joan Etoile

Some people burn with indignation
While others do it without consideration
Creating bonfires almost all the time
Ignoring the wind and washing lines

Setting fire to tyres and fridges
Yes people know how to burn their bridges
With all the neighbours and other folk
They watch their friendships go up in smoke

Now deputies have got all fired up
Some want the pyromania stopped
But others want a free for all
To turn Guernsey into a fireball

To justify all this hot air
They've invented a pollution scare
The waste strategy's hidden agenda
To stop us combusting all our timber

If the amendments come into law
Let's save up all our plastic doors
To burn 'em legal on a fine weekday
This coming Easter on Good Friday!

Joan Etoile

Farewell - Ian Duquemin

"I'll not come to your room" she said
"I'll not come through your door
I'll not be made a fool again
Or treated like a whore"

Said I "But I do love you and if you should come to me
I'll hold you tightly in my arms and treat you tenderly"

"I'll not lay in your bed" said she
"I shall not comfort thee
No longer will I wake with you
Alone then you shall be"

Said I "But in the morning I shall whisper in your ear
And tell you all the lovely things that you have longed to hear"

"I'll not believe a word" she said
"You'll use me as before
And come the morning with the sun
Not want me anymore"

Said I "Tomorrow my ship sails and I may not return
Of all the women left behind it's you that I shall yearn"

"I'll say farewell to you" said she
"And leave you with this kiss
So over seas and under stars
You can then reminisce"

Ian Duquemin

Early Days - Tony Gardner

We rushed off from school to where the Cradle Rock waited
And spent all the summers on that beautiful beach
Ran down where the Water Lane's wild stream was singing
Sometimes down the hill, where the buttercups bleached

The red of the Campion that filled all the meadow
While the stream whispered musically running on through
Onward we strode past the car park and tea room
To at last where the water was salty and blue

Mrs Cooke at the top with her big pile of deck chairs
With always a smile and a word of Hello
Shall we go down the Slip side or Step side
We must have a swim, where ever we go

There were always us locals, and usually some tourists
Who had no idea where the Men's Gully lay
Or the Castle Rock, too, or where we could catch Caboos
They only wanted to sunbathe all day

As kids in those days, never thinking or knowing
The value of all that was all ours for free
Today on some foreign shore, my mind is knowing
The worth of a Guernsey upbringing to me.

Tony Gardner

Random Guy - Stephen A. Roberts


In the pub I was approached, by some random guy
He smiled and said: "I would like to punch you, right in the eye"
I said "Hold on, I don't know you, what's the reason why?"
He said "it's nothing personal, you're just some random guy"

I waited for the moment when fists would start to fly
But persisted in my efforts to calm this angry guy
I said "Have you no friends, a shoulder on which to cry?"
He said "every mate abandoned me, I do not know for why..."

So we teamed up, became firm friends, I cannot think of why
Drinking buddies, thick as thieves, with a love of whisky 'n dry
We ran as fast as hunting dogs, under every kind of sky
Then we'd go to bars and pick a fight; with some other random guy

Stephen A. Roberts

Garden Diary - Richard Fleming

Old Sion Chapel wall is high:
the ladder feels precarious.
Up here, I combat vertigo,
fix nesting boxes to hard stone
with fingers, winter-wounded-cold,
claw hammer, last year’s rusty nails.
Below, the bird-table is strung
with nuts in cages, fatballs, seeds.
The Parish beech trees all seem dead,
my garden tools are stained with rust.
Wood-smoke, soft dew, birdsong, light,
this mellow January day,
awake my hibernating heart
as, high above, jet trails on blue
chalk out simple geometry.
The hours hang in the chill air.
Damp earth within the Chapel yard
smells like dank cemetery soil
that sucks away without return.

Today I knelt to plant small bulbs,
each squat shape pressed into the loam
like buttons on a telephone:
their planting, one long number dialled.
Down wires of weeks, green life will hum,
till springtime, when these mended hands
may pluck, from softly yielding ground,
bright blooms like syllables of sound.

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 http://redhandwriter.blogspot.com

Dry January - Diane Scantlebury

Missing the booze,
Eating out, without a doubt
Not quite the same,
Missing the booze,
The vision blurred,
Sentences slurred,
Reality’s too plain,

Missing the wine,
The aroma, the grapey taste
Flavours so sublime,
Missing the fizz,
The Prosecco hiss,
The tingle on tongue,
When the night’s still young,

Missing the Friday crawl,
Ritual drowning of sorrows,
Blinding headaches tomorrow,
The parched throat,
The red eye,
Life’s too bleak
When January’s dry.

Diane Scantlebury

Ask Uncle Sam - Lester Queripel

How is the world with you?
Does the joy outweigh the pain?
Are you getting more sunshine than rain?
Are you on a mission?
Or do you follow the old tradition?

Do you complain and look for someone else to blame?
Or is your loss someone else’s gain?
Is there something you’d like to rearrange or exchange?

Are you in a jam?
Have you got a future plan?
How many decades does it span?
Do you relate to your fellow man?
Have you had a word with Uncle Sam?
Perhaps you should when you can.

Lester Queripel

The Chingats (One of Daddy's bedtime stories) - Tony Bradley

When my Dad was fifteen he joined the Navy
he'd lied when they asked what year he was born
he told us they weren't bothered, 'cos World War Two had started
and Belfast held no future, so bleak and forlorn.

He came out with seven medals, and a machete, engraved
on the blade, his initials, and rating number
he told my brother and I, it had been in its scabbard
since Burma, '42, when he was much younger.

He told us about the evil Japs, the terrible things they did
(it probably helped bad memories to fade)
but he told us too, about the 'chingats'
the bravest friends he'd ever made.

They were local, jungle fighters, skinny
so tiny, seven stone, wringing wet
but men with more loyalty, pride and dignity
and unwavering courage, he's never met.

He said they'd saved his mates many times
they'd stand and fight, to the last man
the Marines were braver, with them alongside
if the Japs saw any Chingats, they turned and ran.

Tony Bradley

That Place We Don’t Speak Of …. - Trudie Shannon

I wake up I hear a noise.
I wonder Is it Father Christmas?
Is it his sleigh crunching on the sand?
Is it his reindeer hooves drumming?
But it isn’t.
The night was so cold and I had no blanket.
Mumma said. stay close darling, I’ll keep you warm.
But she didn’t and I was still cold.
Mumma is cold now too, very cold.
I try to wake her, Mumma, Mumma, wake up,
It’s Christmas, perhaps we have food today?
Can I have milk today Mumma?
Milk on Christmas Day Mumma, Mumma?
That noise again, that noise again Mumma, Mumma
Barrel bomb Mumma barrel bomb Mumma
Wake up Mumma
But she doesn’t, Mumma doesn’t wake up
And I am cold and Mumma is so cold.
I put my hand in the red stuff on her skin
It is sticky and cold
The explosion, the metal bees buzzing so close, so close
Not Father Christmas
Not his sleigh, not his reindeer
Barrel bomb…..
Mumma, Mumma
Oh Mumma ……………

Trudie Shannon

New Years Grieve - Ian Duquemin

Let us see what this year will bring
Once the skies catch fire and the church bells ring
When the clocks strike 12 (Bring out your dead)
And the ache subsides in your weary head
Will the angels grant all those desperate wishes?
Will the world be cured from those drunken kisses?
Or simply remain in its sorry state...
And the next New Year be a bit too late!

Ian Duquemin

Time Out - Lyndon Queripel

I say the World can't come to an end today
It's already tomorrow in another part anyway.

Lyndon Queripel

Blog Archive