Empty Nest - John Carré Buchanan

And now they've gone.
Where the stairs thundered,
silence.
Where guitars or music blared,
quiet.
The chatter at the table,
gone.
Excited voices through ceilings,
hushed.
The summons from the kitchen
not needed.
The slammed door,
the morning rush,
the toilet flush,
stilled.
I sit and wonder
the cacophony of
twenty one years
gone.

John Carré Buchanan

Den - Adam Clayton

we built a bunker together
using pegs, ormer shells and sheets
it withstood some rainy weather
and kept us our heads from the heat

we summoned a furry demon
collected his dreams in a hat
plugged our ears ‘gainst his sermon
and scared away the neighbour’s cat

feeling protected and safe there
we gave up on our weekend plans
went only far as the kitchen
to get apples and cakes and flans

no matter the sun went down then
we fell straight to sleep in our den
peace pervaded; we were both brave
in this makeshift cotton-shell cave

Adam Clayton

Song Of The Christmas Turkey - Richard Fleming

We have grown fat, my friends and I,
and although some birdbrains say
these gifts of food Men bring us
must be treated with suspicion,
this I doubt.
I feed on corn aplenty and rejoice,
grow plumply satisfied and portly stout.
My fellows fast become inflated too:
such fine birds with no work at all to do.

I call the doubters paranoid and mock
their pessimistic attitudes and gloom.
Another feast arrives, I gulp it down
then gobble thankful sounds
and strut about.
We grow each day more pillowy and sleek.
Our future is assured, our species blessed.
This is the life, I think, no need to fear:
December is the season of Good Cheer.

Richard Fleming

SAT.NATIVITY - Richard Fleming

Once, Three Wise Men went on a quest
to seek and find the Christ-Child, blessed,
they took with them the new “must have”,
a camel-friendly, cool Sat.Nav.

A Guiding Star said travel East
and, as its radiance increased,
they harkened to this Bright Informer
and muttered, “Guys, we’re getting warmer!”

But hark! The Sat.Nav disagreed:
due North was what it guaranteed.
So off they trekked on camel-back.
(Alas, they were on the wrong track.)

They’d brought, as gifts, diamonds and fur
(sadly, no Frankincense and Myrrh)
and fancy jewellery, gold-plated,
to clothe the Christ-Child when located.

Instead of East, they galloped North
and that is why these three, henceforth,
the Sat.Nav-trusting Un-wise Men,
were simply never seen again.

Richard Fleming

A Christmas Note - Ian Duquemin

Dear Santa

There's just one thing I ask of you
I do not have a list
My presents, could you share them out
To those you somehow missed
I'm not at all ungrateful
And I hope you understand
But could you just divert your route
And not the one you've planned
I have a friend that says
That she does not believe in you
She doesn't get a single thing
So how can you be true?
It isn't fair you miss her
As she does her best like me
So could you leave a little gift
Beneath her Christmas tree
I know that many get too much
But one would be just fine
And if you haven't brought enough
Then give her one of mine
That's all I ask this Christmas
And I hope you find the way
To bring a little joy to her
This coming Christmas day

Ian Duquemin

Siren’s Call - Ross Attwood

When the ocean gets rough it's like your love
A thousand kisses breaking on my bones
When it stills I'm filled with fear, maybe now you don't want me near
If I could drown in you please keep me down
The dry earth has broken this man

An ancient mariner of sinful desire
Your siren’s song has quenched these fires
Take me where you will on your waves
Don't wash me up on beaches or in caves.

Ross Attwood

Wondrously Bright - Kathy Figueroa

The future of humanity
Could be wondrously bright indeed,
If only the many warnings
We'd try to understand and heed.

If we'd raise our voices in song,
Instead of conflict, strife, and war,
We could become like the angels...
How the human spirit would soar!

Kathy Figueroa

Wondrously Bright was published on October 9, 2014, in The Bancroft Times newspaper.

Imelda - Ian Duquemin

It once was told a house was built upon a silent hill, and stood there in the shadows now for many, many years
It's true to say that many often passed the door that filled them with an inner dread that preyed upon their deepest, darkest fears
But long ago this very place was home to sweet Imelda, who would run around its structure through the dark and empty halls
It's said she had a gift, and she would see them as they freely moved around the house, then disappear behind the solid walls
No one ever visited, and as the seasons hurried by, a lonely woman lived within this dark and damp abode
And with the passing years, the cracks and peeling paint were of an age in which this shadowed home of hers was miserably showed
When passers by came close they'd hear the sobbing of Imelda, that would break the heart of any living thing that came to care
But all would keep their distance, as the fear was overwhelming... Imelda had her demons who were locked away in there
The voices that were heard were incoherent in a whisper, like the wind that sent a frozen finger running down a spine
The sun would never shine upon the broken tiled rooftop, and the passers by would see this as a supernatural sign
So poor Imelda passed away and no one mourned her sorry soul, but still her sobs are heard as though she never really died
And to this day not one has ever had the nerve to turn the handle of the creaking door of hers and visit her inside

Ian Duquemin

2017 - Richard Fleming

The television screen displays
a demagogue, with bloody hands,
demanding flesh; a nation, crazed
with twisted zeal, that owns a bomb;
the voice of reason, gentle words
of sanity drowned out by guns
whose bullets scream: I will be heard.

I will be heard: a billion tongues
shout out, a billion keyboards spit
pollution in a billion ears
until that billion multiplies.
What room is there for reason when
unreason is normality?
What place is there for hope or love?

Here amidst chaos, love remains
the seed that hopeful men must plant
to cultivate in fertile soil,
if fertile soil may yet be found.
There, it may germinate and bloom,
a small, resistant splash of light,
to guide us through encroaching night.

Richard Fleming