Finders Keepers - Lyndon Queripel

I found an old map of gold
That my greed could claim
Looking closely at the deed
I was able to read my name
But the last part was missing
It was a crying shame

Finders keepers, losers weepers game

I found a coat of colours
Lying in the midday mud
The buttons shone like diamonds
But it had a broken stud
So I tried it on for size
But the pockets were full of blood

Finders keepers, left after the flood

I found a box of silver
In a cellar of cold stone
I started to count my blessings
When the wind began to moan
It slammed the door so fast
Was locked in all alone

Finders keepers, misfortune unknown.

Lyndon Queripel

Over the Edge - Diane Scantlebury

Head first over the precipice she plunges,
Freefalling into a different age,
No safety harness to impede her progress,
As her life speeds past to another page,

No mayday calls or rescue boat launched to find her,
Nor helicopter circling to seek out where she’d be,
While over the edge she was falling, falling,
To drown in the depths of the aging sea,

At the edge there’d been no warning,
No easy route on which to stick,
So she’d trundled on through life oblivious
Of the inevitable path that time would pick,

Into the sea of age she was falling, falling,
Life passing before her in a flash,
No outstretched net below to catch her,
No one had pushed, there’d be no splash.

Diane Scantlebury

La Belle Etoile - Tony Bradley

In Spring, before twilight, I saw a star so bright
though so beautifully glinting, the orbit was wrong
I dreamt it was mine, in a warm silvery light
but the dream, and the star, didn't stay long.

The star captured me, but soon left, come the bright day
the pain of reality, stabbing me, like a knife
but it's up there, and although a distance away,
it's still brightening up my dull, little life.

Tony Bradley

The Peace Keeper - John Carré Buchanan

They trained him to kill.
To remove a face mask with his fingers,
slit a throat, sever a brain stem.
He can shoot centre mass,
advance with bayonet,
post a grenade,
take out a tank and make a bomb.
He's directed fire and lase'd targets.
They taught him to ambush
to advance under fire,
to suppress his own fear and press forward,
to fend for his mates - he will go it alone
and can kill with a shovel a stick or a stone.
His aggression's controlled, but
behind his tranquil eyes and square jaw
is a highly trained soldier ready for war.
Now he stands between combatants
capability checked,
the irony...
The rules of engagement in his pocket
and the blue beret on his head
make him the peace keeper.

John Carré Buchanan

Not That We Would Ever Dream Of Not - Ric Carter

You had canned laughter in your hair.
It accompanied everything you said,
drowning out the ends of your sentences,
your sentence ends.

I had had my sentence ends trimmed, tidied up so as
to cut down on my talking, which I told myself was
getting out of hand, and now I never got to the end of
sentences and no one understood what I was trying
to say.

I made phone calls and they came out garbled.
But I knew these were victorious conversations –
uselessly stupid, stupidly fruitless, fruitlessly weird,
weirdly important, dreams with dreamt-up punchlines,
mostly but not entirely jokeless.

Your hair laughed whenever you moved in your sleep,
soundtracking memories accumulated during the day –
our comedy situations that were awkwardly disastrous,
disastrously awkward, awkwardly disastrous,
disastrously awkward, ad infinitum, infinitum ad

Ric Carter

Vazon Strand - Steve Rowe

we would run
ancient heroes
on the long silver beach
chase wild water ’til midnight
on the shoreline of the reach
over timber
to the causeway
'neath the granite of the quay
over silence of the soft wet sand
to the edge of the sea

and some would seek fortunes
others wade in deep mud
or standing like a legion
with a banner under god
chant longing for the master
rave passion for the king
open up for the chalice
to wear the robe and the ring

and we were lit by the stars and the planets
looking for the holy grail
with your pale face staring
at the full moon's train
down on the vazon strand

we were cold on the monday
stony broke in the week
waiting long for the holy days
when we gathered to the street
and we were all fine companions
on the journey to the end
sea salt sailors
friends of friends of our friends

and I knew you when I met you
and I found you in the crowd
like an island in the moonlight
like a star above a crown
and we shared all our fortune
and buried all our tears
in the depths of the dunes
in the shadow of the pier

and we were lit by the stars and the planets
looking for the holy grail
with your pale face staring
at the full moon's train
down on the vazon strand

Steve Rowe

The Last Trump - Oscar Milde

(1 Corinthians 15:52 King James Bible.
In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye,
at the last trump we shall be changed ...)

Donald has a Trumpet
that he Trumpets on each day.

Observers fulminate and moan,
You ain’t supposed to blow your own!

But Donald doesn’t give a hoot
and blows it anyway.

When he’s not trumpeting, he Tweets
of fake-news-media-deceits
or, when he really gets upset,
issues his oft-repeated threat
to squash, demolish, wipe out, ruin,
that little nutter, Kim Jong Un.

With Armageddon coming fast
let’s hope Don’s Trump is not the Last.

Oscar Milde

Drowning - Trudie Shannon

He is drowning.
Little by little.
Hour by hour.
Day by day.
He begs no witnesses
Only the reflection
Of the man he once knew
To recognise him occasionally
From the surface of every other bottle.
He has cast himself out, is adrift
On a shattered amber sea, whiskey dreaming.
Outside it rains
And the river runs wild with white horses
And the dog pleads for exercise
And the cat chases windblown leaves
And half bottled, he sleeps
Slipping sideways, an indoor down and out
Fearful of living, angry at life.
Comatose in his leather armchair.
He is drowning.
Little by little.
Hour by hour.
Day by day.
Beside the garden gate
His woman bids farewell to silence, to loneliness.
Inside, he waits, little knowing
That Death will not succumb to bribery.

Trudie Shannon

ZOMBIEPHOBIA - Richard Fleming

Others, they call us The Undead
and everywhere we go, they flee;
if trapped, they shoot us in the head;
they simply cannot let us be.

For we can’t help the way we are:
with rotting skin and clothes not fresh.
It’s hardly our fault if we all
enjoy the taste of human flesh

and clump around on shaky legs
or claw at people that we meet,
so you should not discriminate
and keep your distance in the street.

We tore the postman limb from limb?
Hands up, we did that: a mistake.
But these things happen, life’s not fair.
We only kill when we’re awake.

So what, if we smell of the grave?
Most days we are polite and good.
We are not the repulsive bunch
portrayed on screen by Hollywood.

Okay, we ate your Mum and Dad,
and maybe others, quite a few,
but you must make allowances
for Zombie folk are people too.

Compassionate society
should make us welcome and be fair,
enjoy diversity, be cool.
Embrace a Zombie, show you care.

Richard Fleming