Witches' Brew - Diane Scantlebury

Around a steaming cauldron
On their haunches they perch
Cackling, wizened faces smothered with woad,
As into the bubbling mix they toss
Dismembered newts and slimy toads,
And with bony fingers they scratch and claw
At the still pulsing entrails of a young jackdaw,
Licking their lips, they chomp their chops
As each wriggling morsel into the pot they plop,
Then rub their bloodied hands in glee
While the noxious ingredients
Slowly braise and stew,
To concoct their grisly witches' brew.

Diane Scantlebury

A Little War - Ian Duquemin

If you find... That you might need me girl
I'll come running to your cheating arms again
Oblivious, to all the hurt you'd cause me
I'm still stinging from those vast amounts of pain
When you hit me... Well, I deserved it
As I know I wasn't wild enough for you
Every punch... You aimed, and threw upon me
Were ones I guess, deserved and overdue
But baby, I still love you
And I know that deep inside, you love me too
If you need a little war, that some call loving, in your life
Then I'm here to do the best that I can do

Your gifts of scars and bruises, I still cherish
These wounds that time itself may never heal
They show me that our love, was more than heaven
As heaven is a thing you cannot feel
And here we are apart, but always joined in what we had
Like a never ending battle, that we share
The pain in which we suffer, tells the story of our past
And that story tells how much we really care
So baby, I still love you
And I know that deep inside, you love me too
If you need a little war, that some call loving, in your life
Then I'm here to do the best that I can do

Ian Duquemin

Watchtowers - Richard Fleming

Around the coast, grey watchtowers stand.
Our island heritage, some say,
while others fail to understand
why they remain here to this day
and have not been bulldozed to dust
through pragmatism or disgust.

What strange attachment do they feel,
the offspring of the Occupied,
to symbols of Germanic zeal
and ruthless power misapplied?
Those former times are past and gone.
Beyond these shores the world speeds on.

Richard Fleming

Under The Bridge - Lyndon Queripel

It’s all water under the bridge
Just listen for a sigh
As it washes and rushes by

It’s all water under the bridge
And clouds across the sky
Where time just seems to fly

It’s all water under the bridge
You’ve no tears left to cry
Like a river that’s just run dry

Lyndon Queripel

Piper - Oscar Milde

That bloody Mayor, he promised me
three bags of silver, newly minted,
and maybe willing girls, he hinted,
if I would only guarantee
to rid the Town of rats, posthaste.
He said the word “Rats” with distaste.

I played my pipe: a tempting tune
of sharpish sharps and flattish flats
that has a certain way with rats.
Hypnotic notes: no rat’s immune,
those furry critters bobbed and swayed
and when I played they all obeyed

and followed me along the bank
into the water, flowing fast.
I drowned them all down to the last
and waited till each damn rat sank
then went right back to see the Mayor.
The wretched rascal wasn’t there.

He’d fled and taken all the cash.
The Council said, Can’t help ya, bud.
I swore I’d pay them back in blood.
They threatened me with fists and lash
so I pulled out my pipe again
and played a new tune tinged with pain.

This time it was the kids, not rats,
that followed to my piping notes:
wild laughter sprang from childish throats.
I stole them all, those little brats.
I led them off. Hid them away.
You hire the Piper, best to pay.

Oscar Milde

Last Tuesday 1942 - Tony Gardner

Hans was here last Tuesday
He came in to talk with me
He spoke about his mother
Back on the farm in Germany
I saw a tear as he talked of home
And sipped his warm, weak tea.

He told of his life before the hate
And the madness caught alight
How as a bewildered sixteen-year-old
He was called from the farm to fight
After a while he left for the cliffs
Of Torteval last Tuesday night.

Early on Wednesday morning
I heard the English bombers fly
I heard their deadly discharge
Hit the cliffs, and all the sky
Was bright with those fatal flashes
Which ask not "Who?" or "Why?"

Hans was here last Tuesday
Where is his spirit now ?
I hope his gentle country soul
Is back behind his plough
Back on his farm in a peaceful world
Where the war can't touch him now.

Tony Gardner

Thirsty Work - Joan Etoile

It's thirsty work this poetry
and I forgot to ask
if it was ok to take a nip
from my trusty old hip-flask

I couldn't wait for the interval
I was parched, dry as a bone
Dylan Thomas lives in me
and makes me drink alone

I'm sorry that I caused a fuss
and my drinking was not condoned
I see it was poems that they meant
when they said bring your own

Joan Etoile

The Chair - Diane Scantlebury

Look past the chair
And see the man,
With no functioning legs
He can’t stand,
Don’t assume just because
There’s no mobility,
That he has no brain
Or little ability,

See the man
Don’t look at the chair,
Or walk past and ignore him
Don’t pretend he’s not there,
The man is intelligent
Although his limbs may be weak,
That man has a tongue
And is able to speak.

Diane Scantlebury

String Of Cowboys - Tony Bradley

I can’t concentrate this morning, on my work, my poetry
There’s 4 cowboy builders, banging next door
I’m going round, with Harry, and one-eyed Bert
I’ve got some rope, we’ll string up all four.

Tony Bradley