There’s the man they said was dead
He’s travelled so many miles
Glory shines above his head
His eyes sparkle as he smiles
He can see who we want to be
And who we really are
There’s the man who stays outside
The circle always seems to close
Once he tried to swallow his pride
But found his voice only froze
He can feel his wound will heal
But it will leave a scar
There’s the man who lost his mind
Now who is he trying to fool ?
Soon he’ll find he was blind
In a kind lesson that seems cruel
He does not know where to go
He’s already gone too far
There’s the man of destiny
Trying to make the connection
In the struggle to be free
And find a new direction
He won’t look above for any love
Or wish upon a star
There’s the man who never was
Did you hear him deny it ?
When asked to state his cause
He just remained so quiet
With no violence in the silence
There was only melodrama.
Lyndon Queripel
Amendment Not Required - Stephen A. Roberts
He could have been a hero
If he'd gone inside
To confront the shooter
But he'd have probably died
Check his job description
Does it say that he should die
In the line of duty
Or just keep watch outside?
But he could have been a hero
If he'd gone inside
Now he's just a zero
And he just wants to hide
He can only say he's sorry
"I shoulda gone inside"
To protect those children
Even if he died
Repeal the Second Amendment
Put the guns aside
Protect and serve those children
And no-one needs to die
Stephen A. Roberts
If he'd gone inside
To confront the shooter
But he'd have probably died
Check his job description
Does it say that he should die
In the line of duty
Or just keep watch outside?
But he could have been a hero
If he'd gone inside
Now he's just a zero
And he just wants to hide
He can only say he's sorry
"I shoulda gone inside"
To protect those children
Even if he died
Repeal the Second Amendment
Put the guns aside
Protect and serve those children
And no-one needs to die
Stephen A. Roberts
The Museum of Capitalism - Donald Keyman
They came from far and wide
to see the dream that died
the empty banking shells
above the Havelet swells
the tourist, eyes aghast
senses something has passed
he sees crumbling monuments to the greed
that replaced normal need
before the vision all turned sour
when its snake oil bitcoin power
turned everything to dust
because the value was less than cost
behind a street of dead boutiques
shining like valueless laliques
stand the rows of empty hutches
far beyond the proles' clutches
the lights are permanently dark
just like the silent data park
they are greeted by the guide
welcome to the museum, come inside
here capitalism is in the past
and the streets are clean at last
the squares and abandoned piers
have been washed with the donkey's tears
Donald Keyman
to see the dream that died
the empty banking shells
above the Havelet swells
the tourist, eyes aghast
senses something has passed
he sees crumbling monuments to the greed
that replaced normal need
before the vision all turned sour
when its snake oil bitcoin power
turned everything to dust
because the value was less than cost
behind a street of dead boutiques
shining like valueless laliques
stand the rows of empty hutches
far beyond the proles' clutches
the lights are permanently dark
just like the silent data park
they are greeted by the guide
welcome to the museum, come inside
here capitalism is in the past
and the streets are clean at last
the squares and abandoned piers
have been washed with the donkey's tears
Donald Keyman
Their Hands - Trudie Shannon
They walk away together.
And he takes her hand, small and beautiful
Into his own large and rough one.
His fingers are sturdy, hers like delicate dancers.
He has changed since she came
His edges are softer, he has vulnerability
Where there was philosophy and innate strength.
Her brightness has caught him unawares
Has infused him, without him realising it.
It is enough to make one smile.
They walk away together into the windswept darkness
And he takes her hand, that small birdlike hand
And when he holds it in his own
It is as if he truly holds a fledgling bird
With its heartbeat pulsing in his palm.
Trudie Shannon
And he takes her hand, small and beautiful
Into his own large and rough one.
His fingers are sturdy, hers like delicate dancers.
He has changed since she came
His edges are softer, he has vulnerability
Where there was philosophy and innate strength.
Her brightness has caught him unawares
Has infused him, without him realising it.
It is enough to make one smile.
They walk away together into the windswept darkness
And he takes her hand, that small birdlike hand
And when he holds it in his own
It is as if he truly holds a fledgling bird
With its heartbeat pulsing in his palm.
Trudie Shannon
Glorious - Kathy Figueroa
How glorious to be with you
To spend the passing years this way
For the life that you've shared with me
I’m feeling thankful every day
Your good character inspires me
To try to be the best I can
I’m filled with love and gratitude
For you, my most wonderful man
It was a hard, arduous path
That led me to this tranquil place
But I’d travel that route again
For your warm, passionate embrace
My lover, stalwart companion,
Sweet, cheerful, and cherished best friend
May our days be long and joyful
And this happiness never end
Kathy Figueroa
"Glorious" was published on February 1, 2018, in The Bancroft Times newspaper.
To spend the passing years this way
For the life that you've shared with me
I’m feeling thankful every day
Your good character inspires me
To try to be the best I can
I’m filled with love and gratitude
For you, my most wonderful man
It was a hard, arduous path
That led me to this tranquil place
But I’d travel that route again
For your warm, passionate embrace
My lover, stalwart companion,
Sweet, cheerful, and cherished best friend
May our days be long and joyful
And this happiness never end
Kathy Figueroa
"Glorious" was published on February 1, 2018, in The Bancroft Times newspaper.
Old Guernsey Boys - Diane Scantlebury
Old Guernsey boys how they reminisce,
About the women they’ve loved
And the girls they’ve kissed,
About summer romances and flirtations
That like the tides came and went,
In teenage haunts long gone
Their youth misspent,
Over a pint in the pub,
Old Guernsey boys how they reminisce
About the women they’ve loved
And the girls they could’ve kissed,
About youthful adventures past and long gone,
The triumph of their conquests
And opportunities missed.
Diane Scantlebury
About the women they’ve loved
And the girls they’ve kissed,
About summer romances and flirtations
That like the tides came and went,
In teenage haunts long gone
Their youth misspent,
Over a pint in the pub,
Old Guernsey boys how they reminisce
About the women they’ve loved
And the girls they could’ve kissed,
About youthful adventures past and long gone,
The triumph of their conquests
And opportunities missed.
Diane Scantlebury
Victor Hugo’s Parrot - Richard Fleming
The parrot of Victor Hugo
does not reside in a château,
instead he dwells in Guernsey air
and perches calmly on a chair,
immobile, quiet as a mouse,
in Le Salon of Hauteville House.
He knows he dare not interrupt
for Victor can be très abrupt.
He’s been as grumpy as a crab
while writing that Les Miserables.
But when work’s finished for the day,
Vic loves his petit perroquet.
Richard Fleming
does not reside in a château,
instead he dwells in Guernsey air
and perches calmly on a chair,
immobile, quiet as a mouse,
in Le Salon of Hauteville House.
He knows he dare not interrupt
for Victor can be très abrupt.
He’s been as grumpy as a crab
while writing that Les Miserables.
But when work’s finished for the day,
Vic loves his petit perroquet.
Richard Fleming
Gorse A-Popping - Tony Gardner
Mum's in the house and gossiping in Guernsey French with Gran
The water from the well is sweeter than I'll ever taste again
Around the back I sit and bask, in dripping July sun
Listening to the gorse pods, popping one by one.
I worry over Grammar school, and Linda's thoughts of me
The world is going crazy, all except when I can be
Where cloudlets smile, where bees buzz by, where joyful linnets sing
Where hay scent drifts in hot, dry air, where dry, brown gorse pods ping
It's Saturday, as usual Grandpa is "Au Travail "
And Mum and Gran are sitting on the old Green Bed as I
Am perched upon the granite steps behind the little cot
Absorbing sunshine, listening to the gorse go "pop-pop-pop"
The old Green Lane meanders up the verdant valley side
I see the meadows full of fragrant flowers, sweet and wild.
The skylark bursts his heart out, with a peerless, joyful song
Just asking how could anything in God's good world be wrong?
In Pleinmont's countryside we've found the everflowing cup
Gold flowers fade and leathern pods go pop....pop....pop.
Today I sit in Sussex fields, but Guernsey fills my mind
I listen to the popping gorse, evoking childhood times.
When Saturdays we'd ride our bikes or catch the old Grey Bus
For Torteval was always drawing back the likes of us
With roots deep in those valleys and those high cliffs by the sea
Where July gorse still pops, still calls, in dreams so real to me.
Tony Gardner
The water from the well is sweeter than I'll ever taste again
Around the back I sit and bask, in dripping July sun
Listening to the gorse pods, popping one by one.
I worry over Grammar school, and Linda's thoughts of me
The world is going crazy, all except when I can be
Where cloudlets smile, where bees buzz by, where joyful linnets sing
Where hay scent drifts in hot, dry air, where dry, brown gorse pods ping
It's Saturday, as usual Grandpa is "Au Travail "
And Mum and Gran are sitting on the old Green Bed as I
Am perched upon the granite steps behind the little cot
Absorbing sunshine, listening to the gorse go "pop-pop-pop"
The old Green Lane meanders up the verdant valley side
I see the meadows full of fragrant flowers, sweet and wild.
The skylark bursts his heart out, with a peerless, joyful song
Just asking how could anything in God's good world be wrong?
In Pleinmont's countryside we've found the everflowing cup
Gold flowers fade and leathern pods go pop....pop....pop.
Today I sit in Sussex fields, but Guernsey fills my mind
I listen to the popping gorse, evoking childhood times.
When Saturdays we'd ride our bikes or catch the old Grey Bus
For Torteval was always drawing back the likes of us
With roots deep in those valleys and those high cliffs by the sea
Where July gorse still pops, still calls, in dreams so real to me.
Tony Gardner
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