You just don't want me, I know it.
Recently, I thought I'd cracked it
I was happier, than I could say
until the bloody barman told me
it's tomorrow, they've changed the day.
Tony Bradley
Christmas Wrapping - Tony Gardner
Just a warning to you, friends
When wrapping Christmas gifts.
Make sure youare relaxed and calm
And organised a bit.
What e'er you do, don't sip as you
Fold pretty paper over
Grandma's chocs, or Aunties book
Or brother Bill's pullover.
I know it's pretty thirsty work
And that whisky looks inviting
But best to wait til later
You don't need to get excited.
I never do, don't touch the stuff
Until the wrapping's done
Then with the gifts beneath the tree
I might just have a 'little' one
All done at last, I'll have a dram
Relax and settle down
Now where's that old remote control
It's nowhere to be found
If you unwrap your present
And are surprised to find
A scruffy old remote control
Please give it back.......It's Mine!
Tony Gardner
December 6th, 1989 - Kathy Figueroa
I can still remember
opening my studio door
and the shock of seeing the newspaper
in the hallway, on the floor
And what that unbidden issue
of the Toronto Star said -
fourteen women at Ecole Poly-technique
in Montreal massacred …shot dead
And I remember the fear
That slowly crept up my spine
As I looked at that awful
Early December headline
Was this surprise at my door a warning
some sort of indirect threat
that if you’re female, bright, and ambitious
this is what you might get?
As it turned out, it was left
by a man with a good intention
who wanted to apprise me of the news
not cause me apprehension
I felt compelled to write this
to mark the tragic date
when common human decency
was overruled by hate
When fourteen innocent lives
with so much potential were ended
by ignoble and evil actions
which can never be defended
Kathy Figueroa
opening my studio door
and the shock of seeing the newspaper
in the hallway, on the floor
And what that unbidden issue
of the Toronto Star said -
fourteen women at Ecole Poly-technique
in Montreal massacred …shot dead
And I remember the fear
That slowly crept up my spine
As I looked at that awful
Early December headline
Was this surprise at my door a warning
some sort of indirect threat
that if you’re female, bright, and ambitious
this is what you might get?
As it turned out, it was left
by a man with a good intention
who wanted to apprise me of the news
not cause me apprehension
I felt compelled to write this
to mark the tragic date
when common human decency
was overruled by hate
When fourteen innocent lives
with so much potential were ended
by ignoble and evil actions
which can never be defended
Kathy Figueroa
Pirates - Trudie Shannon
The pirates have disembarked,
Have left their decks swabbed clean
And their treasure hidden.
Disguised as tourists
They amble lazy around the streets
Given away only by the thud of a wooden leg
Or the clink of a cutlass
Hidden in a shopping bag.
Trudie Shannon
Have left their decks swabbed clean
And their treasure hidden.
Disguised as tourists
They amble lazy around the streets
Given away only by the thud of a wooden leg
Or the clink of a cutlass
Hidden in a shopping bag.
Trudie Shannon
Commuting - Stephen A. Roberts
To Town; from Town,
every day
the metal river ebbs and flows
crawling along by the sea.
Bumper to bumper
suspended in transit
this sluggish gyre churns out
a stream of empty thoughts.
Watching the grey rollers and breakers,
I wait for the steel tide to take me
and spew me, lifeless
on to the tarmacked beach.
Stephen A. Roberts
Balance - Diane Scantlebury
In her head’s the sound of waves,
As they lash relentlessly
Against the land,
Each spitting their foam
Onto the beach,
To dribble between the grains of sand,
And across the blank canvas of that sand,
A single track
Of footsteps become imprinted,
There to be eroded
On the next tide,
Their existence lost or barely hinted,
In her head’s the sound of trees,
As buffeted by the wind
Their leaves dance and rustle,
While birds cling to the swaying platforms
Of the branches,
A brief respite as on their forages they hustle,
And from within the shelter of those leaves,
The tiny aviators face their daily challenge,
Then hurl themselves headlong
Towards the sand,
Where survival or death
Hang in the balance.
Diane Scantlebury
As they lash relentlessly
Against the land,
Each spitting their foam
Onto the beach,
To dribble between the grains of sand,
And across the blank canvas of that sand,
A single track
Of footsteps become imprinted,
There to be eroded
On the next tide,
Their existence lost or barely hinted,
In her head’s the sound of trees,
As buffeted by the wind
Their leaves dance and rustle,
While birds cling to the swaying platforms
Of the branches,
A brief respite as on their forages they hustle,
And from within the shelter of those leaves,
The tiny aviators face their daily challenge,
Then hurl themselves headlong
Towards the sand,
Where survival or death
Hang in the balance.
Diane Scantlebury
Long Time Passes - Lyndon Queripel
I’m sure I’ve seen your face before
But your name has slipped my mind
So I’m going to look in my book
Just to see what I can find
I’m sure I’ve seen your face before
But I can’t remember when
I try to free my memory
Every now and then
Long time passes
But I’d never forget if we met
Long time passes
You bet I’m not out of debt yet
I’m sure I’ve seen your face before
Now I don’t mean to stare
A shadow cast from the past
When the Sun was there to share
I’m sure I’ve seen your face before
It’s another mystery
Make no mistake I give and take
But you won’t remember me.
Lyndon Queripel
But your name has slipped my mind
So I’m going to look in my book
Just to see what I can find
I’m sure I’ve seen your face before
But I can’t remember when
I try to free my memory
Every now and then
Long time passes
But I’d never forget if we met
Long time passes
You bet I’m not out of debt yet
I’m sure I’ve seen your face before
Now I don’t mean to stare
A shadow cast from the past
When the Sun was there to share
I’m sure I’ve seen your face before
It’s another mystery
Make no mistake I give and take
But you won’t remember me.
Lyndon Queripel
Burning Questions - Edgar Allan Poet
I am a maid, Your Worships, please:
not wicked, me, I meant no harm.
I beg you now, upon my knees
to please desist, it hurts my arm.
You are strong men while I am weak.
Undo the rope and let me speak.
Last Friday night, I heard a cry:
it was my friend: her name you know.
She is the witch, not I, not I.
We went, by moonlight, to and fro.
She bade me cast aside my frock
to frolic on the Catioroc
and though we danced without our clothes,
I did not meet the Devil there.
From that bleak hill no fiend arose
to ravish me or kiss my hair.
Please, not the fire! Here are the names!
Sweet neighbours, do not fan those flames.
Edgar Allan Poet
Lovers - Richard Fleming
Once they were lovers, now they meet
by chance,
a lifetime later
in a busy street.
They greet each other cautiously,
embrace, but tentatively.
One glance
is all it takes
to remind him
how the world had once seemed
limitless
with her in it.
While she, acutely conscious
that she only dressed to shop,
feels suddenly complete again
and prays that time might stop.
Richard Fleming
by chance,
a lifetime later
in a busy street.
They greet each other cautiously,
embrace, but tentatively.
One glance
is all it takes
to remind him
how the world had once seemed
limitless
with her in it.
While she, acutely conscious
that she only dressed to shop,
feels suddenly complete again
and prays that time might stop.
Richard Fleming
Drifting Poet - Ian Duquemin
If it wasn't for your kindness
He would be a drifting poet
Who might sing a song of sadness
To whoever wants to hear it
And his words would flow like water
That would trickle through their ears
Where each drop that they were hearing
Would amount to all his tears
As every poet's heart is hurting
It's the way that God desires them
To break the hearts of others
So that he can overcome them
Leaving scars that have some meaning
From a time when they were broken
And the only cure they needed
Were the gentle words once spoken
By the healing sound of thunder
Or the silence of a whisper
From the voice that serves to call you
If he had become that drifter
But he stayed within your comfort
Like a child that needs affection
Contented in your arms
As though he longed for your protection
It was you who gave him shelter
Sowed the thoughts of Inspiration
So that every word he'd spoken
Was a breath of aspiration
If it wasn't for your kindness
Then I wonder where he'd go?
Well I've never been a poet
So I guess we'll never know
Ian Duquemin
He would be a drifting poet
Who might sing a song of sadness
To whoever wants to hear it
And his words would flow like water
That would trickle through their ears
Where each drop that they were hearing
Would amount to all his tears
As every poet's heart is hurting
It's the way that God desires them
To break the hearts of others
So that he can overcome them
Leaving scars that have some meaning
From a time when they were broken
And the only cure they needed
Were the gentle words once spoken
By the healing sound of thunder
Or the silence of a whisper
From the voice that serves to call you
If he had become that drifter
But he stayed within your comfort
Like a child that needs affection
Contented in your arms
As though he longed for your protection
It was you who gave him shelter
Sowed the thoughts of Inspiration
So that every word he'd spoken
Was a breath of aspiration
If it wasn't for your kindness
Then I wonder where he'd go?
Well I've never been a poet
So I guess we'll never know
Ian Duquemin
Paintings and Flowers - Nicholas Rowe
I saw your paintings, and your flowers,
and I remembered when,
for just a second,
I had not lost hope.
When my long closed eyes
felt a hint of light,
when I felt at long last
my dreams could take flight,
no longer trapped in the past,
with me shrinking behind my disguise.
At times I feel I cannot cope,
yet I have always known, when troubles beckoned,
fresh hopes would follow them.
~
And I am lost
in the beauty
of the paintings
and the flowers.
~
Raindrops on petals, and
art in rusting metals,
fields bursting with colours, and
pictures of never heard album covers,
urban streets, and
tempting retreats,
solitary blooms, and
graffiti ravaged rooms,
the detail of an insect’s eyes, and
infinity found in starry skies,
peaceful scenes of quiet seas, and
poplars leaning in a breeze,
an instant of a bird in flight, and
eternity captured in the camera’s light.
~
And I am lifting in the wind, with the birds in the air,
slowly drifting, I let go, I am free of my care,
swirling through the colours as the land beneath me passes,
twirling with the swallows over fields of waving grasses,
turning to the treetops that look tiny from so high,
churning through the troubled air and spinning through the sky.
~
I cannot change the winds that blow,
to where they take me, I cannot know,
music seeps into my mind,
my worries now lie far behind.
~
I accept control
is beyond my powers.
~
And I dissolve
in the world
through the paintings
and the flowers.
Nicholas Rowe
Up The Creek, Again - Tony Bradley
The salty spray of Spring tides wafts in through my boarded window
my feet start to itch, my wander-lust, I have the verve to voyage
I’ll build a boat, but first I must plan the materials I need
into my bedroom, where I used to sleep, for I must rummage, and forage.
In here, my ‘man-cave,’ my own testament to Easter Island,
abandoned adventures, fallen Idols, forsaken sheets and spars,
I will construct a rugged little vessel
and slip off, come April, to follow the stars.
My ‘Sea Urchin’ measures a fathom, it’s all I could fathom
it’s not for fame, it’s adventure I seek
that wind’s got stronger, whipping up the waves
we never quite made it, to Tamerton Creek.
Tony Bradley
my feet start to itch, my wander-lust, I have the verve to voyage
I’ll build a boat, but first I must plan the materials I need
into my bedroom, where I used to sleep, for I must rummage, and forage.
In here, my ‘man-cave,’ my own testament to Easter Island,
abandoned adventures, fallen Idols, forsaken sheets and spars,
I will construct a rugged little vessel
and slip off, come April, to follow the stars.
My ‘Sea Urchin’ measures a fathom, it’s all I could fathom
it’s not for fame, it’s adventure I seek
that wind’s got stronger, whipping up the waves
we never quite made it, to Tamerton Creek.
Tony Bradley
Another Woman - Trudie Shannon
She approaches me, wobbling a little
Upon her high stiletto heels.
Her face has been painted as though
She wears another’s portrait upon the surface of her skin.
Her eyebrows arc like adulterated rainbows
Their lids a convolution of colour.
Her hair is dyed chic, sculpted to the contours of her cheeks
Her lips are engorged with botox
And aflame with fire red.
She approaches me
The older, indistinct, grey haired woman at a cafe table.
We are strangers but it seems she is drawn to me
On request, she takes a seat beside me
And offers me her name
And I gift her with mine.
She speaks haltingly as if a butterfly
Were trapped in her mouth
And says
I would be authentic, be who I am fearlessly
But I am too scared to be seen and
She hangs her head in inverted shame.
I order her a cup of coffee
Ask her to look at me
And when she does, I smile
And look directly into her eyes.
Trudie Shannon
Letting Go - Becky Hall
fingers curled tight
to the memory
replayed in cinematic glory
on the reels of my mind
each time escalating
in volume and colour.
Interpretation of intention is the key
unlock the meaning
block pre-conceived ideas
rewind.
listen
drop the barricade
allow a different viewpoint
swallow
lick your wounds
loosen your grip
replay
new angle.
Becky Hall
to the memory
replayed in cinematic glory
on the reels of my mind
each time escalating
in volume and colour.
Interpretation of intention is the key
unlock the meaning
block pre-conceived ideas
rewind.
listen
drop the barricade
allow a different viewpoint
swallow
lick your wounds
loosen your grip
replay
new angle.
Becky Hall
King of the Pond - Tony Gardner
King of our pond is a fish called 'Spot'
He's white with a blob of red on his Nutt.
He chases the others with sex on his mind
He's the randiest fish that you ever could find.
He chases the newts, and worries the frogs
Eats all the spawn with 'gobble, gobble gobs'
He has dozens of offspring, but it's sad to tell you
That he chases them all, and eats some of them too.
So it's easy to look at our nice placid pool
Lillies abloom on the surface so cool
But 'neath quiet ripples is played a cruel game
Where King Spot rules in his ruthless domain.
Tony Gardner
Today Was The First Day Of The Rest Of My Life - Lyndon Queripel
Well, first of all I woke up late
I’m usually out by half past eight
The thought of work depressed me so
I decided that I would not go
Tossing and turning in my bed
I tried to go back to sleep instead
My eyes were tired, burning red
And there was an aching in my head
It was afternoon when I got up
And put some coffee in a cup
When I looked around in dismay
To find there was no milk today
The bread was in a stale state
And way past its sell by date
I turned on the t.v,the news of course
Yet another war, more military force
Followed by the weather forecast
The Sun would shine but wouldn’t last
Then I had to switch it off fast
Next was a party political broadcast
Thought I had some mail for a minute
But there was only a bill in it
I tuned the radio, forget the D.J’s name
It’s funny how they all sound the same
“The Top Ten Countdown” said the voice
Well one man’s music is another man’s noise
The telephone rang and I answered
“Sorry, wrong number.” is all I heard
So I looked out the window and the door
Nothing seemed any different than before
I read the paper, who’s wed, bred and dead
Then feeling rather tired I went back to bed.
Lyndon Queripel
I’m usually out by half past eight
The thought of work depressed me so
I decided that I would not go
Tossing and turning in my bed
I tried to go back to sleep instead
My eyes were tired, burning red
And there was an aching in my head
It was afternoon when I got up
And put some coffee in a cup
When I looked around in dismay
To find there was no milk today
The bread was in a stale state
And way past its sell by date
I turned on the t.v,the news of course
Yet another war, more military force
Followed by the weather forecast
The Sun would shine but wouldn’t last
Then I had to switch it off fast
Next was a party political broadcast
Thought I had some mail for a minute
But there was only a bill in it
I tuned the radio, forget the D.J’s name
It’s funny how they all sound the same
“The Top Ten Countdown” said the voice
Well one man’s music is another man’s noise
The telephone rang and I answered
“Sorry, wrong number.” is all I heard
So I looked out the window and the door
Nothing seemed any different than before
I read the paper, who’s wed, bred and dead
Then feeling rather tired I went back to bed.
Lyndon Queripel
Exit Strategy - Stephen A. Roberts
Hark, do I hear a robot talking?
No it's only Stephen Hawking
Telling us that we're all doomed
Spinning round in space, marooned
We've outgrown Earth and scraped it bare
So it's time to find a new home out there
Sail away from our plastic oceans
Microbeaded by our bodily lotions
We need to go into a new Ark two by two
But it will be only for the chosen few
They'll boldly blast off into the night
And leave this broken world to its plight
Traveling into the dark beyond Mars
To a brand new Eden in the stars
Sounds like a journey with no crisps or beer
So I think on balance I'll stay here
I'll wait with you in the dying light
We can watch the sunset as the animals fight
Stephen A. Roberts
No it's only Stephen Hawking
Telling us that we're all doomed
Spinning round in space, marooned
We've outgrown Earth and scraped it bare
So it's time to find a new home out there
Sail away from our plastic oceans
Microbeaded by our bodily lotions
We need to go into a new Ark two by two
But it will be only for the chosen few
They'll boldly blast off into the night
And leave this broken world to its plight
Traveling into the dark beyond Mars
To a brand new Eden in the stars
Sounds like a journey with no crisps or beer
So I think on balance I'll stay here
I'll wait with you in the dying light
We can watch the sunset as the animals fight
Stephen A. Roberts
Envy - Oscar Milde
I don’t know why I envy him.
I think that he should envy me.
He may attend a fancy gym,
look GQ cool, write poetry,
play the guitar, be tall and slim,
and get in smart night-clubs for free,
but, to my mind, he’s really dim,
the fool behaves impulsively,
goes off to Paris on a whim
and never hints at taking me.
He thinks me dull, he calls me prim,
he’s puzzled by my secrecy.
I may be short and hardly trim
but I’m a billionaire, you see.
Oscar Milde
I think that he should envy me.
He may attend a fancy gym,
look GQ cool, write poetry,
play the guitar, be tall and slim,
and get in smart night-clubs for free,
but, to my mind, he’s really dim,
the fool behaves impulsively,
goes off to Paris on a whim
and never hints at taking me.
He thinks me dull, he calls me prim,
he’s puzzled by my secrecy.
I may be short and hardly trim
but I’m a billionaire, you see.
Oscar Milde
Dog Days - Richard Fleming
Days gallop by, months, years, so fast
that panic of a sort sets in:
you feel that all the dreams you had
have slipped away, it’s all too late,
so when the scent of what’s escaped
drifts on the wind, your nostrils twitch
and, disregarding all the rules,
you follow it in hot pursuit.
In consequence, lives are destroyed:
homes, futures, harmony and hearts.
Too late, for what you lost, you yearn.
Old dogs, new tricks? They never learn.
Richard Fleming
It's just a Flat Cap - Kriss Lee
It's just a flat cap
Seen on stages worldwide
worn with aplomb and pride
Rakishly clamped down
Atop a head of aging curls
It's just a flat cap
Worn by my Grandad
Saw action through two wars
Still on his head at the end
Went with him to the grave
It's just a flat cap
Worn by the conductor
On the southbound train
Sweat stains in the band
Smuts stuck to the peak
It's just a flat cap
Worn for such comic effect
Peak aimed skywards
Cockeyed angle on his head
Mr Grimsdale, yelled out loud
It's just a flat cap
But more than that
It's a symbol of hard graft
A metaphor for common man
A hat worn on all occasions
It's just a flat cap
I said as I left it on my head
But we're having Sex she said!
I reached for her and drew her close
OK she sighed, "You can leave your Cap on"
It's just a flat cap
Worn all day to keep me warm
But no matter where I go
At the end of the working day
Home is where I lay my Cap
It's just a flat cap
But famously on a workshy head
Provided much needed comedy
Lightening the days toils and woe
Trying all the time to hoodwink Flo
It's just a flat cap
With a peak and not a point
Nicely rounded to fit upon Oblio's head
But perfectly weighted too for flight
Allowing Oblio to win at Triangle Toss
It's just a flat cap
Hiding multi coloured hair
As I get older it might be more fair
If used it for another purpose too
In front of my ugly mug might be an idea
It's just a flat cap
It's something else too
If you're guilty of something bad
You insulted me, or maligned me
This is for you, try it on, if the Cap fits, wear it
Kriss Lee
Joy Rider - Diane Scantlebury
When I’ve got dementia
You’ll drive me around in your car,
I won’t have a clue where I am
Or who the hell you are,
It’ll be an adventure without memory
That’ll make me feel happy inside,
Tomorrow there’ll be no recollection
So for now I’ll enjoy the ride!
Diane Scantlebury
You’ll drive me around in your car,
I won’t have a clue where I am
Or who the hell you are,
It’ll be an adventure without memory
That’ll make me feel happy inside,
Tomorrow there’ll be no recollection
So for now I’ll enjoy the ride!
Diane Scantlebury
Jungle Fever - Bare Gyrls
In the jungle, dancing naked,
gorgeous lady, well-appointed.
She gyrates, cries Shake it! Shake it!
Wow, she must be double jointed.
Crouching in the jungle leafage,
I admire her wondrous cleavage.
She turns cartwheels, she’s amazing.
Swings from branches, does some high kicks.
She could sell me double-glazing,
win my heart and the Olympics
but it’s hopeless, don’t you see ...
Beauty’d scorn a beast like me.
Bare Gyrls
Gamblin' Man - Ian Duquemin
My father was a gamblin' man
A loser all his life
He sacrificed his children
Made a wreckage of his wife
Many men would make a stand
Accuse him of a cheat
But he was more dishonest
And a master of deceit
He'd gather up the money
It was time for him to leave
Concealed were the aces
He had hidden up his sleeve
My daddy was a drinkin' man
The money served him well
Every night intoxicated
Always raising hell
He drank his pockets empty
Not a penny to his name
And come this time tomorrow
It'll be the same again
He'll drink away the evening
On the money that he wins
Thinking that the alcohol
Will drown away his sins
My father didn't go to church
He'd never sung a hymn
He often said that Jesus Christ
Had turned his back on him
And when he saw his shadow
That was crawling on the ground
He swore it was the devil
Who was always hanging round
And so he'd throw another dice
To fill an empty purse
The money spent, another bar
To make him feel worse
My daddy was a gamblin' man
A drinker all his life
He let his children suffer
Made a widow of his wife
And when he died, a funeral
Of course the devil came
To stand beside the headstone
Cast a shadow on his name
But that was many years ago
And this story's at an end
So I'll play another poker hand
And drink to you my friend
Ian Duquemin
Train Of Thought - Tony Bradley
It seems these days, that my memory deserts me
half the stuff I thought, that I was taught
I’m left stranded, at the station, ‘cos my education
just left again, on the last train of thought.
Tony Bradley
half the stuff I thought, that I was taught
I’m left stranded, at the station, ‘cos my education
just left again, on the last train of thought.
Tony Bradley
Child Of The Highway - Lyndon Queripel
 |
| Image:Johannes Plenio from Pixabay |
I picked up my guitar
Put on my faded jeans
And headed down the road
To find what freedom means
I hadn’t gone very far
When I started looking back
At the fields where love had grown
And the harvest that turned black
Just like a wild flower
In a world of broken stone
I’m looking for some light
That I can call my own
But in this cold shadow
The sky is overcast
I’m haunted by my memories
And ghosts of the past
I’m a child of the highway
On the border I was born
It was on a stormy Monday
Just before the dawn
I looked into a mirror of magic
It was tragic as I saw through
Myself and every thing else
I once believed to be true
A distant star was shining
High over my destiny
But the closer I seemed to get
The further it seemed to be
I found an old newspaper
But there was no date
On the front page was a story
About me and my fate
Was this just a dream
There must be some mistake
No secret kept,I’ve overslept
But when will I awake ?
Lyndon Queripel
Haymaking - Tony Gardner
September, start of Autumn days
Lets in the busy harvest ways
And longer silver shadows cast
Our memories to harvests past
No combines, just the sibilant swish
Of blades when scythes and corn stalks kiss
And hay tossed high on horse drawn drays
And friendships forged in those warm days
And friendships sometimes grown to more
For Love in Summer seems so sure
It's sixty years ago today
We raked and tossed that new mown hay
It hasn't been a day too long
There's not a day I'd want to miss.
Our life's been like a Linnet's song
And started with a harvest kiss.
Haymaking - Tony Gardner
Listen - Richard Fleming
Listen
to the children cry.
Hear their words of exhortation.
Listen
to the children cry.
Hear their words of accusation.
Black, poisoned streams, polluted seas,
bleak deserts where once were lush plains,
species extinct, no beasts, no bees:
all this for quick financial gains.
No grass, no flowers, no forest trees,
just unforgiving acid rains.
Our ill-tempered abdication of all responsibility validates their accusation of our culpability.
Though time is short we have a chance
to change, to redirect our powers.
Our standard stance, indifference,
is challenged as the planet sours,
for every child’s inheritance
is compromised: the fault is ours.
Listen
to the children cry
Hear their words of consternation.
Listen
to the children cry.
Hear their words of desperation.
Richard Fleming
to the children cry.
Hear their words of exhortation.
Listen
to the children cry.
Hear their words of accusation.
Black, poisoned streams, polluted seas,
bleak deserts where once were lush plains,
species extinct, no beasts, no bees:
all this for quick financial gains.
No grass, no flowers, no forest trees,
just unforgiving acid rains.
Our ill-tempered abdication of all responsibility validates their accusation of our culpability.
Though time is short we have a chance
to change, to redirect our powers.
Our standard stance, indifference,
is challenged as the planet sours,
for every child’s inheritance
is compromised: the fault is ours.
Listen
to the children cry
Hear their words of consternation.
Listen
to the children cry.
Hear their words of desperation.
Richard Fleming
Hello - Kriss Lee
 | |
|
I say hello to you every day
But you no longer reply
That breaks my fragile heart
And I just sit and cry
I say hello to you every day
And talk about the fools we were
How sadly now it's gone away
The memories now all become a blur
I say hello to you every day
And talk about so many things
I tell you what I'm doing now
And open up with all my feelings
I say hello to you every day
With almost a nonchalance
But my breath hitches and stutters
As yet again there's no response
I say hello to you every day
With an aching deep in my heart
Knowing no answer will come
So long it's been this way, now we're apart
I say hello to you every day
But there’s no reply, all I hear is Myself
With these trembling old hands
I replace your Urn upon the shelf
Kriss Lee
Land’s End - Diane Scantlebury
Never to tire of a view
That wouldn’t my eyes offend,
Where green grass meets sky blue
At land and journey’s end,
The trees’ branches half clothed in leaf
Stir in the wind and bend,
Some storm cracked and broken
That nature couldn’t mend,
Here birds alight, rest and call
And to their mate shrill messages send,
How could I tire of a view that changes?
As each season descends,
Where grey granite rock meets green sea
At land and journey’s end.
Diane Scantlebury
That wouldn’t my eyes offend,
Where green grass meets sky blue
At land and journey’s end,
The trees’ branches half clothed in leaf
Stir in the wind and bend,
Some storm cracked and broken
That nature couldn’t mend,
Here birds alight, rest and call
And to their mate shrill messages send,
How could I tire of a view that changes?
As each season descends,
Where grey granite rock meets green sea
At land and journey’s end.
Diane Scantlebury
Cheese - Gordon Zola
Roquefort, Camembert and Brie
are perfect nourishment for me.
The names themselves are poetry:
a wholly wholesome trinity.
Cholesterol, we all agree,
invades each vein or artery
and too much fat will guarantee
a waist-size notching fifty-three,
a lifetime of obesity,
a loss of spontaneity,
I’ll end up slumped on the settee,
cheesed-off with dire daytime TV
but dammit, what will be will be ...
Feed me another wedge of Brie!
Gordon Zola
are perfect nourishment for me.
The names themselves are poetry:
a wholly wholesome trinity.
Cholesterol, we all agree,
invades each vein or artery
and too much fat will guarantee
a waist-size notching fifty-three,
a lifetime of obesity,
a loss of spontaneity,
I’ll end up slumped on the settee,
cheesed-off with dire daytime TV
but dammit, what will be will be ...
Feed me another wedge of Brie!
Gordon Zola
An Old Wives Tale? - Trudie Shannon
She tells me that for those with fragile hearts
It is best to stay indoors
When the cold wind blows hard.
She says it’s medically proven.
There are testimonies.
She says it’s wise to keep feet warm and slipper shod,
Wiser to merely observe through tight shut windows,
While the wind runs wild
Lifting hats off heads and tiles off roofs.
Wrenching branches from ancient trees
Casting giant waves to crash mightily
Upon unprotected shores.
She tells me this as we stand together,
Watching through her tight shut windows,
As flurries of leaves skitter and swirl
And birds fly backwards going forwards.
I see that her feet are encased in warm slippers,
And her hand rests lightly upon her breast
Where her fingertips can just feel the metal disc of her pacemaker.
Trudie Shannon
It is best to stay indoors
When the cold wind blows hard.
She says it’s medically proven.
There are testimonies.
She says it’s wise to keep feet warm and slipper shod,
Wiser to merely observe through tight shut windows,
While the wind runs wild
Lifting hats off heads and tiles off roofs.
Wrenching branches from ancient trees
Casting giant waves to crash mightily
Upon unprotected shores.
She tells me this as we stand together,
Watching through her tight shut windows,
As flurries of leaves skitter and swirl
And birds fly backwards going forwards.
I see that her feet are encased in warm slippers,
And her hand rests lightly upon her breast
Where her fingertips can just feel the metal disc of her pacemaker.
Trudie Shannon
If It Moves - Edgar Allan Poet
Something’s moving in the dark.
I’m sure I saw a shadow there.
Why does the dog refuse to bark
and cower there behind the chair?
There’s someone outside near the tree:
a trespasser, it seems to me.
His outline is misshapen, grim,
inhuman almost, to my mind.
Won’t you go out and challenge him?
No, stay, I won’t be left behind.
Lord help us now, I hear you groan:
no signal on the telephone.
The door is strong, the windows too
and yet I cannot help but scream
when his warped face comes into view:
a creature from an ugly dream
He glares in at us through the glass
We find ourselves at an impasse.
The door is smashed. He’s broken in.
He’s fury-faced and murder-eyed
We cannot flee to save our skin
for we are frail and terrified.
He snarls. I see his fangs and snout.
I feel his breath. The lights go out ...
Edgar Allan Poet
I’m sure I saw a shadow there.
Why does the dog refuse to bark
and cower there behind the chair?
There’s someone outside near the tree:
a trespasser, it seems to me.
His outline is misshapen, grim,
inhuman almost, to my mind.
Won’t you go out and challenge him?
No, stay, I won’t be left behind.
Lord help us now, I hear you groan:
no signal on the telephone.
The door is strong, the windows too
and yet I cannot help but scream
when his warped face comes into view:
a creature from an ugly dream
He glares in at us through the glass
We find ourselves at an impasse.
The door is smashed. He’s broken in.
He’s fury-faced and murder-eyed
We cannot flee to save our skin
for we are frail and terrified.
He snarls. I see his fangs and snout.
I feel his breath. The lights go out ...
Edgar Allan Poet
Over The Hill? - Oscar Milde
Hippies get old but somehow they don’t change.
Kaftans and funny beads remain the thing
and tie-dye shirts, of course, but in’t it strange
they never took to lycra or to bling.
Despite a lifetime living without meat,
preferring pulses to a juicy steak,
they don’t look fit, instead they look dead beat
and slouch around with every joint an ache.
The other sort of joints have done them in,
their lungs went all to pieces long ago
and at the Vale Earth Fair, to their chagrin,
their progress up the hill is really slow.
Without a fancy stairlift it’s no good:
the hill up to Vale Castle’s far too steep.
The young ones point and laugh, it’s very rude.
Harsh words can make an ancient Hippy weep.
One told me that he thinks enough’s enough.
He won’t be trekking up there any more.
Each time he climbs the hill he’s out of puff
and can’t remember what he came up for.
Oscar Milde
Kaftans and funny beads remain the thing
and tie-dye shirts, of course, but in’t it strange
they never took to lycra or to bling.
Despite a lifetime living without meat,
preferring pulses to a juicy steak,
they don’t look fit, instead they look dead beat
and slouch around with every joint an ache.
The other sort of joints have done them in,
their lungs went all to pieces long ago
and at the Vale Earth Fair, to their chagrin,
their progress up the hill is really slow.
Without a fancy stairlift it’s no good:
the hill up to Vale Castle’s far too steep.
The young ones point and laugh, it’s very rude.
Harsh words can make an ancient Hippy weep.
One told me that he thinks enough’s enough.
He won’t be trekking up there any more.
Each time he climbs the hill he’s out of puff
and can’t remember what he came up for.
Oscar Milde
Forever Alone - Ian Duquemin
I fell through the branches
And crashed to the ground
Kids in their laughter
All gathered around
I stood in their shadow
And brushed off the pain
I looked up at that tree
And then climbed it again
I laid in the long grass
And stared at the sky
I watched as the birds flew
Thought 'Why couldn't I?'
I ran through the Green Fields
My arms reaching high
But my wings they were broken
Unable to fly
I sat by the sea shore
And buried my feet
I breathed in the air
Of the shimmering heat
I noticed a ship
And waved it goodbye
With a feeling of sadness
I didn't know why
Those days I remember
From when I was young
The freedom I dreamed of
Were feelings so strong
But I was born on an island
Not much of a home
A castaway always
Forever alone
Ian Duquemin
And crashed to the ground
Kids in their laughter
All gathered around
I stood in their shadow
And brushed off the pain
I looked up at that tree
And then climbed it again
I laid in the long grass
And stared at the sky
I watched as the birds flew
Thought 'Why couldn't I?'
I ran through the Green Fields
My arms reaching high
But my wings they were broken
Unable to fly
I sat by the sea shore
And buried my feet
I breathed in the air
Of the shimmering heat
I noticed a ship
And waved it goodbye
With a feeling of sadness
I didn't know why
Those days I remember
From when I was young
The freedom I dreamed of
Were feelings so strong
But I was born on an island
Not much of a home
A castaway always
Forever alone
Ian Duquemin
Checking out the Family Tree (Gardner, Le Sauvage, Le Patourel, De La Mare) - Tony Gardner
I wondered where I came from
So I searched my Family Tree
It led down different pathways
And I chose Le Patourel, me
I found branches peopled
By Douzainiers and parish men
And of sailors, maybe pirates
Whose fortunes prospered when
The privateers ruled all the seas
And somehow Piracy was right
The King had said the prize goes
To the strongest in the fight
I left them fighting mercenaries
While I edged along the tree
Through mists of years, of Time
Til on a branch regrettably
I saw a far-off cousin burn
In flames and agony
Called a Witch in ignorance
And tortured cruelly
Now we live an enlightened Life
Our freedoms all hard won
We owe it all to battles fought
By those long dead and gone.
Tony Gardner
So I searched my Family Tree
It led down different pathways
And I chose Le Patourel, me
I found branches peopled
By Douzainiers and parish men
And of sailors, maybe pirates
Whose fortunes prospered when
The privateers ruled all the seas
And somehow Piracy was right
The King had said the prize goes
To the strongest in the fight
I left them fighting mercenaries
While I edged along the tree
Through mists of years, of Time
Til on a branch regrettably
I saw a far-off cousin burn
In flames and agony
Called a Witch in ignorance
And tortured cruelly
Now we live an enlightened Life
Our freedoms all hard won
We owe it all to battles fought
By those long dead and gone.
Tony Gardner
Zero Carbon Journey - Stephen A. Roberts
The new Saviour is here:
a girl child this time
was it prophesied?
For I have not seen it
in the runes
or written in the scrolls
scriptures or tablets.
That she would sail a boat
across America's moat
to save the World
so you won't have to.
Stephen A. Roberts
a girl child this time
was it prophesied?
For I have not seen it
in the runes
or written in the scrolls
scriptures or tablets.
That she would sail a boat
across America's moat
to save the World
so you won't have to.
Stephen A. Roberts
Open Mic - Richard Fleming
At Open Mic on Monday night
the theme was ‘Leave’ but still they came
in ones and twos, all burning bright
with sheafs of poems, no two the same.
Yes, Fifty Shades of Po-e-tray
few rhymed, but that’s the modern way.
Some read with breathless, high-pitched squeaks
or mumbled incoherently.
Some had perfected their techniques
and read with verve and energy.
We listened, then, with faces, stern,
stepped to the mic to take our turn.
Some read from pages, some from screens.
Some poems were fun, some poems were sad.
A few were clearly in-betweens.
Some were unquestionably mad
but then, of course, most poets are
madder than average, by far.
We heard short poems and poems, too long:
the latter made us stretch and yawn.
Now and again we had a song
then all at once our time was gone.
The readings stopped. Now I could cough,
sup up my drink and bugger off.
Richard Fleming
the theme was ‘Leave’ but still they came
in ones and twos, all burning bright
with sheafs of poems, no two the same.
Yes, Fifty Shades of Po-e-tray
few rhymed, but that’s the modern way.
Some read with breathless, high-pitched squeaks
or mumbled incoherently.
Some had perfected their techniques
and read with verve and energy.
We listened, then, with faces, stern,
stepped to the mic to take our turn.
Some read from pages, some from screens.
Some poems were fun, some poems were sad.
A few were clearly in-betweens.
Some were unquestionably mad
but then, of course, most poets are
madder than average, by far.
We heard short poems and poems, too long:
the latter made us stretch and yawn.
Now and again we had a song
then all at once our time was gone.
The readings stopped. Now I could cough,
sup up my drink and bugger off.
Richard Fleming
Sail Away - Tony Bradley
Growing up in hard stuff can distort your life
you respond to things, with a glare, and a growl
but it can be so different . . if you rise above it
and try to smile, instead of scowl.
You didn’t choose the boat you came in
so that Ferryman, you don’t have to pay
set your own course, build your own boat
leave the hardship . . . just sail away . .
Tony Bradley
you respond to things, with a glare, and a growl
but it can be so different . . if you rise above it
and try to smile, instead of scowl.
You didn’t choose the boat you came in
so that Ferryman, you don’t have to pay
set your own course, build your own boat
leave the hardship . . . just sail away . .
Tony Bradley
Spritual Ritual - Lyndon Queripel
Did you burn out in the fire
When the flames got too high
Did you lose your shroud of cloud
When you touched the sky
Was your temple made of straw
Or was it made of gold
When the lightning struck
And the thunder rolled
Did you weather all the seasons
Or was your reign in vain
And did the blood you shed
Only leave behind a stain
When you danced across the water
Of the living dead
Did they sacrifice their lies
Or turn away instead
You ran around high circles
In the air of nowhere fast
Now you present your future
With fragments of the past
When you finally got the message
Written on the throne
You looked behind to find
Your mind had turned to stone
When you knelt before the altar
To offer up your prayer
You found your heart was empty
And your soul was bare
Without a trace of grace
Where will you place the blame
On the day when time stands still
And you have to answer to your name.
Lyndon Queripel
When the flames got too high
Did you lose your shroud of cloud
When you touched the sky
Was your temple made of straw
Or was it made of gold
When the lightning struck
And the thunder rolled
Did you weather all the seasons
Or was your reign in vain
And did the blood you shed
Only leave behind a stain
When you danced across the water
Of the living dead
Did they sacrifice their lies
Or turn away instead
You ran around high circles
In the air of nowhere fast
Now you present your future
With fragments of the past
When you finally got the message
Written on the throne
You looked behind to find
Your mind had turned to stone
When you knelt before the altar
To offer up your prayer
You found your heart was empty
And your soul was bare
Without a trace of grace
Where will you place the blame
On the day when time stands still
And you have to answer to your name.
Lyndon Queripel
Empty Cans - Diane Scantlebury
So that’s why I’m on the beer this morning,
Last night I had nowhere to sleep,
Rough and ragged on a hard park bench,
The stars and the cold are the usual company I keep,
So that’s why it’s beer and oblivion for breakfast
As a salve for my lost soul’s pain,
In an existence where there’s little hope or dignity,
Only crushed, empty cans on the ground remain.
Diane Scantlebury
Last night I had nowhere to sleep,
Rough and ragged on a hard park bench,
The stars and the cold are the usual company I keep,
So that’s why it’s beer and oblivion for breakfast
As a salve for my lost soul’s pain,
In an existence where there’s little hope or dignity,
Only crushed, empty cans on the ground remain.
Diane Scantlebury
Time Travel - Oscar Milde
The year is Twenty Thirty One
a new decade has just begun
and if time-travel is your bag
you’ll join me here without a snag
but what a shock, what a surprise,
you hardly will believe your eyes:
the Guernsey of Twenty Nineteen
has vanished like it’s never been.
No more mind-numbing traffic jams,
aggro, hostility or scams,
or undisguised abuse of power,
with prices rising hour by hour.
The modern Sarnia has changed
though sometimes it just seems deranged.
We all live indoors nowadays.
Outside, pollution like a haze
hangs over our poor Bailiwick:
if you go out you come back sick.
Life’s safer now with VRC
(that’s virtual reality),
much better than real life by far.
We live like beetles in a jar
for our protection, say the States
(yes, we still have those reprobates).
Nobody works, it’s too much fuss.
Now robots do the jobs for us.
St Peter Port is just glass towers
bedecked with artificial flowers,
there’s no marinas, not one boat,
all’s tarmac now nothing’s afloat.
The highlight of our little lives
is once a year we and our wives
are taken on a trip to see
something miraculous for free
Today we’re off to see real grass,
extremely rare, kept under glass.
It used to flourish all about
but blade by blade we stamped it out.
Oscar Milde
a new decade has just begun
and if time-travel is your bag
you’ll join me here without a snag
but what a shock, what a surprise,
you hardly will believe your eyes:
the Guernsey of Twenty Nineteen
has vanished like it’s never been.
No more mind-numbing traffic jams,
aggro, hostility or scams,
or undisguised abuse of power,
with prices rising hour by hour.
The modern Sarnia has changed
though sometimes it just seems deranged.
We all live indoors nowadays.
Outside, pollution like a haze
hangs over our poor Bailiwick:
if you go out you come back sick.
Life’s safer now with VRC
(that’s virtual reality),
much better than real life by far.
We live like beetles in a jar
for our protection, say the States
(yes, we still have those reprobates).
Nobody works, it’s too much fuss.
Now robots do the jobs for us.
St Peter Port is just glass towers
bedecked with artificial flowers,
there’s no marinas, not one boat,
all’s tarmac now nothing’s afloat.
The highlight of our little lives
is once a year we and our wives
are taken on a trip to see
something miraculous for free
Today we’re off to see real grass,
extremely rare, kept under glass.
It used to flourish all about
but blade by blade we stamped it out.
Oscar Milde
El Paso - Richard Fleming
Withdraw the bullets, mend the flesh.
Place back the bullets in the gun.
Return the weapon to the store.
Remove the fury from the heart.
Transform the shooter to the youth
he was before obsessive thoughts
led him, against humanity,
to spew out death like obscene words
and scatter souls like fleeing birds.
Richard Fleming
Place back the bullets in the gun.
Return the weapon to the store.
Remove the fury from the heart.
Transform the shooter to the youth
he was before obsessive thoughts
led him, against humanity,
to spew out death like obscene words
and scatter souls like fleeing birds.
Richard Fleming
Nothing Else Planned - Ian Duquemin
Will you walk with me darlin’?
Will you take hold my hand?
I don't know where we're going
But we got nothing else planned
Let's head for the sunset
Watch it fall from our view
I will keep you beside me
The entire night through
We can lay in the fresh fields
Count the stars in the skies
I will keep those that shimmer
In the stillness, of your eyes
And the moon it shall greet us
Like an old trusted friend
And paint you in silver
In this time, that we spend
When we wake in the morning
With the beckoning sun
We will follow it somewhere
We’ll just keep, moving on
As long as we're together
We are never alone
And whatever we find there
We will make that our home
But let's take long time
Be it gentle and safe
This path which we travel
Is a journey, one of faith
And as we grow older
We can look back and say
That we did this together
And we've come a long way
But each step was worthy
And every day new
This life that I dreamed of
Was inspired by you
And when we both lay down
For the very last time
I will keep hold your fingers
And your hand, clasped in mine
We can roam into twilight
Where we never will part
Our journey continued
Yet only, just the start
Will you walk with me darlin’?
Will you take hold my hand?
I don't know where we're going
But we got nothing else planned
Ian Duquemin
Will you take hold my hand?
I don't know where we're going
But we got nothing else planned
Let's head for the sunset
Watch it fall from our view
I will keep you beside me
The entire night through
We can lay in the fresh fields
Count the stars in the skies
I will keep those that shimmer
In the stillness, of your eyes
And the moon it shall greet us
Like an old trusted friend
And paint you in silver
In this time, that we spend
When we wake in the morning
With the beckoning sun
We will follow it somewhere
We’ll just keep, moving on
As long as we're together
We are never alone
And whatever we find there
We will make that our home
But let's take long time
Be it gentle and safe
This path which we travel
Is a journey, one of faith
And as we grow older
We can look back and say
That we did this together
And we've come a long way
But each step was worthy
And every day new
This life that I dreamed of
Was inspired by you
And when we both lay down
For the very last time
I will keep hold your fingers
And your hand, clasped in mine
We can roam into twilight
Where we never will part
Our journey continued
Yet only, just the start
Will you walk with me darlin’?
Will you take hold my hand?
I don't know where we're going
But we got nothing else planned
Ian Duquemin
Schooly McSchoolface - Donald Keyman
Lisia, Lesia, which one is easier?
Are both of them not barmier
Than good old Sarnia?
Lisia, Lesia, are they not both uselesser
Than the people who have made
A school without grades?
Lisia, Lesia, which do you prefer?
The question they'd never ask
Until it was answered by Craske
Donald Keyman
Are both of them not barmier
Than good old Sarnia?
Lisia, Lesia, are they not both uselesser
Than the people who have made
A school without grades?
Lisia, Lesia, which do you prefer?
The question they'd never ask
Until it was answered by Craske
Donald Keyman
Grandma’s picture - Tony Gardner
She stands there just exactly where
I stood the other day
The only difference is we were
A hundred years away
I was in Twenty seventeen
For her the War raged on
Her man was out there fighting
She was home here with their son
In the photo she looks haggard
She knew some would not return
But Hope burned bright within her
And her lucky candle burned
For Grandpa came back safely
Though he left some brothers there
Sleeping through the history
And Time that should be theirs
Grandma, Grandpa Thank you
For facing what I don't know if I could do
Tony Gardner
I stood the other day
The only difference is we were
A hundred years away
I was in Twenty seventeen
For her the War raged on
Her man was out there fighting
She was home here with their son
In the photo she looks haggard
She knew some would not return
But Hope burned bright within her
And her lucky candle burned
For Grandpa came back safely
Though he left some brothers there
Sleeping through the history
And Time that should be theirs
Grandma, Grandpa Thank you
For facing what I don't know if I could do
Tony Gardner
The Body Keeps The Score - Kate Gallienne
As I stand in my garden, surrounded by trees
I question what’s real and what’s not
My senses inhale the nature around
My memory brings back the forgot
See my body remembers what my mind's erased
Taking me back in time
As if I was reliving the past that was
I begin to question my mind
I am safe here, it is not true
The feelings I feel deep inside
I look to the outside instead of within
I begin to question my mind
Confusion reigns as I’m torn between
Myself and all that I know
How can I trust my feelings
When to do so, I’d let myself go
So I hold on tight to this day and time
I breathe into myself again
I steady my body which soothes my mind
Bringing me back today…and then…
Calmly and slowly I begin to heal
Understanding the disconnect
For my body remembers what happened
Whilst my mind it's tried hard to forget.
Kate Gallienne
I question what’s real and what’s not
My senses inhale the nature around
My memory brings back the forgot
See my body remembers what my mind's erased
Taking me back in time
As if I was reliving the past that was
I begin to question my mind
I am safe here, it is not true
The feelings I feel deep inside
I look to the outside instead of within
I begin to question my mind
Confusion reigns as I’m torn between
Myself and all that I know
How can I trust my feelings
When to do so, I’d let myself go
So I hold on tight to this day and time
I breathe into myself again
I steady my body which soothes my mind
Bringing me back today…and then…
Calmly and slowly I begin to heal
Understanding the disconnect
For my body remembers what happened
Whilst my mind it's tried hard to forget.
Kate Gallienne
La Biche - Richard Fleming
This is the age of clarity:
we know more than our fathers did.
Vulgarity, celebrity,
exposure of what has been hid,
has made us seem immune to fear:
in short, disdainful, cavalier.
But when, returning from a bar,
through labyrinthine, narrow lanes
in old St Martin’s parish, far
from lights and noise, the wind complains,
the bushes sigh and move apart,
fear, beyond reason, grips the heart
and suddenly, instinct, within,
alarmed, awakes to fight or flight.
The child, inside the adult’s skin,
feels terror in the starless night,
imagining an outline, stark,
twin-horned, approaching through the dark.
Richard Fleming
we know more than our fathers did.
Vulgarity, celebrity,
exposure of what has been hid,
has made us seem immune to fear:
in short, disdainful, cavalier.
But when, returning from a bar,
through labyrinthine, narrow lanes
in old St Martin’s parish, far
from lights and noise, the wind complains,
the bushes sigh and move apart,
fear, beyond reason, grips the heart
and suddenly, instinct, within,
alarmed, awakes to fight or flight.
The child, inside the adult’s skin,
feels terror in the starless night,
imagining an outline, stark,
twin-horned, approaching through the dark.
Richard Fleming
2020 Vision - Joan Etoile
Such an act of brilliant trickery
Of this tiniest island state
To elevate itself beyond pinprickery
And punch way above its weight
Because - we built the steps of cathedrals
And were visited by Saints from Rome
Our Duke controlled old Mercia
And Hugo called it home
The Führer was besotted
By the gem in the silver sea
They were our darkest hours
Until we were all set free
Great times then came upon us
Wealth that we still see
From money, fruit and flowers
All free of VAT
But now we're like dumbwalkers
Staring at our phones
We can't decide on progress
Or hiding in our homes
Once there were great leaders
Who ordered quays and reservoir
But to build the Route Militaire today
Would surely be a Bridge too far
Maybe in 2020
Our vision will be so
And we'll only vote for deputies
Who'll make this island grow
Joan Etoile
Of this tiniest island state
To elevate itself beyond pinprickery
And punch way above its weight
Because - we built the steps of cathedrals
And were visited by Saints from Rome
Our Duke controlled old Mercia
And Hugo called it home
The Führer was besotted
By the gem in the silver sea
They were our darkest hours
Until we were all set free
Great times then came upon us
Wealth that we still see
From money, fruit and flowers
All free of VAT
But now we're like dumbwalkers
Staring at our phones
We can't decide on progress
Or hiding in our homes
Once there were great leaders
Who ordered quays and reservoir
But to build the Route Militaire today
Would surely be a Bridge too far
Maybe in 2020
Our vision will be so
And we'll only vote for deputies
Who'll make this island grow
Joan Etoile
Just Living For Today - Lyndon Queripel
When I find myself in the open
And I can’t hide away
Surrounded by words I’ve spoken
With nothing left to say
I won’t think about tomorrow
Forget about yesterday
I’ll take the time I can borrow
And I’ll be on my way
Just living for today
When I find myself alone
With no one there at all
Like another rolling stone
Where love is just a fall
I won’t think about tomorrow
I’ll hang up on the call
Leave behind my sorrow
Back in the shadow play
Just living for today
When I find myself at last
At first or in between
All the places that I’ve passed
And the faces that I’ve seen
I won’t think about tomorrow
Or what I might have been
I was not born to follow
And I didn’t mean to stay
Just living for today.
Lyndon Queripel
And I can’t hide away
Surrounded by words I’ve spoken
With nothing left to say
I won’t think about tomorrow
Forget about yesterday
I’ll take the time I can borrow
And I’ll be on my way
Just living for today
When I find myself alone
With no one there at all
Like another rolling stone
Where love is just a fall
I won’t think about tomorrow
I’ll hang up on the call
Leave behind my sorrow
Back in the shadow play
Just living for today
When I find myself at last
At first or in between
All the places that I’ve passed
And the faces that I’ve seen
I won’t think about tomorrow
Or what I might have been
I was not born to follow
And I didn’t mean to stay
Just living for today.
Lyndon Queripel
Psycho ... (Mummy’s Boy) - Tony Bradley
When I get home these days, I've got the same laments
that my mother often croaked.
"Oh,let me get these stupid shoes off...
bloody rain, I'm tired and soaked!"
Or, sometimes, I just THINK, things she'd say
it's weird, because, for Heaven's sake
She wasn't a good Mother, we were never that close
it just seems a very hard bond to break.
Am I morphing into my Mother? Heaven forbid!
"What a day, I'm as tired as can be...
and that stupid assistant,... be an angel
get your Mum a cup of tea."
Tony Bradley
that my mother often croaked.
"Oh,let me get these stupid shoes off...
bloody rain, I'm tired and soaked!"
Or, sometimes, I just THINK, things she'd say
it's weird, because, for Heaven's sake
She wasn't a good Mother, we were never that close
it just seems a very hard bond to break.
Am I morphing into my Mother? Heaven forbid!
"What a day, I'm as tired as can be...
and that stupid assistant,... be an angel
get your Mum a cup of tea."
Tony Bradley
Holding Hands - Diane Scantlebury
We still hold hands
You and I,
In quiet affirmation
Of our affection,
A gentle squeeze,
Nothing ostentatious
In any way,
Just a discrete
Silent, public display,
We still kiss ‘good night’
And again,
In the morning
When we awaken,
Nothing over amorous,
A gentle peck,
Neither of us wishing
Each other for granted
To be taken,
Holding hands
Down leafy, dark lanes,
Sometimes together
We’ll walk,
And just occasionally
You’ll try to
Encourage me to skip,
But I’ll laugh and refuse
Then hold on even tighter,
In case upon the rough tarmac
I might trip,
We still hold hands
You and I,
Because we’re comfortable,
Not caring
What others think,
A gentle squeeze,
Or a loving peck
Will haul us happily back,
On miserable days
From sorrow’s brink.
Diane Scantlebury
You and I,
In quiet affirmation
Of our affection,
A gentle squeeze,
Nothing ostentatious
In any way,
Just a discrete
Silent, public display,
We still kiss ‘good night’
And again,
In the morning
When we awaken,
Nothing over amorous,
A gentle peck,
Neither of us wishing
Each other for granted
To be taken,
Holding hands
Down leafy, dark lanes,
Sometimes together
We’ll walk,
And just occasionally
You’ll try to
Encourage me to skip,
But I’ll laugh and refuse
Then hold on even tighter,
In case upon the rough tarmac
I might trip,
We still hold hands
You and I,
Because we’re comfortable,
Not caring
What others think,
A gentle squeeze,
Or a loving peck
Will haul us happily back,
On miserable days
From sorrow’s brink.
Diane Scantlebury
Lycanthrophilia - Edgar Allan Poet
In straitjacket and padded cell,
I struggle when the full moon calls.
The doctors say I am unwell.
I hurl myself against the walls
till, gradually, my lupine howl
dies down into a weary growl.
At other times, I am a man
and therefore I must integrate
with other men as best I can:
a human beast, approximate.
But, in my heart, the wolf-pack cry
commands me so I must comply.
There are no mirrors in this place
but I discern, in my mind’s eye,
the snarl upon my stricken face
whenever nurses happen by.
To murder would not be a sin:
I am a wolf in human skin.
Edgar Allan Poet
I struggle when the full moon calls.
The doctors say I am unwell.
I hurl myself against the walls
till, gradually, my lupine howl
dies down into a weary growl.
At other times, I am a man
and therefore I must integrate
with other men as best I can:
a human beast, approximate.
But, in my heart, the wolf-pack cry
commands me so I must comply.
There are no mirrors in this place
but I discern, in my mind’s eye,
the snarl upon my stricken face
whenever nurses happen by.
To murder would not be a sin:
I am a wolf in human skin.
Edgar Allan Poet
Speak From My Heart - Ian Duquemin
I don't speak with my voice
I don't speak with my tongue
As whatever they say, seems to always be wrong
So I speak with my heart
As the words that I feel
Are the right things to say
And are honestly real
I speak about love
And I talk about truth
Put your hand to my chest
Where you'll feel the proof
Every beat sings a verse
And that verse becomes song
When I speak from my heart
It can never be wrong
Ian Duquemin
I don't speak with my tongue
As whatever they say, seems to always be wrong
So I speak with my heart
As the words that I feel
Are the right things to say
And are honestly real
I speak about love
And I talk about truth
Put your hand to my chest
Where you'll feel the proof
Every beat sings a verse
And that verse becomes song
When I speak from my heart
It can never be wrong
Ian Duquemin
Suffering - Tony Gardner
I caught a little virus
at the local shopping Mall
It just jumped into my basket,
wasn't chasing it at all
It's knocked me sort of sideways,
and I'm feeling awful rough
I've got a raging headache
and a horrid, hacking cough.
My throat it seems on fire
You should hear my fearsome sneeze
My energy more equal to
a languid summer breeze
But do I get sympathy ?
You bet your life I don't
I'm surrounded here by tablets
Lozenges and Vicks
Paracetamol and Lemsip
Still I'm feeling sick
My lovely kids can't give a toss
they're busy on their phones
My faithful dog keeps pestering me
for Walkies and his bone.
I'm in a truly awful state
But there's worse I'm telling you
My wife just told our neighbour
"Oh, he's only got Man Flu".
Tony Gardner
at the local shopping Mall
It just jumped into my basket,
wasn't chasing it at all
It's knocked me sort of sideways,
and I'm feeling awful rough
I've got a raging headache
and a horrid, hacking cough.
My throat it seems on fire
You should hear my fearsome sneeze
My energy more equal to
a languid summer breeze
But do I get sympathy ?
You bet your life I don't
I'm surrounded here by tablets
Lozenges and Vicks
Paracetamol and Lemsip
Still I'm feeling sick
My lovely kids can't give a toss
they're busy on their phones
My faithful dog keeps pestering me
for Walkies and his bone.
I'm in a truly awful state
But there's worse I'm telling you
My wife just told our neighbour
"Oh, he's only got Man Flu".
Tony Gardner
Anthropod - Richard Fleming
They sit at desks, PC-equipped,
round-shouldered, fingers stroking keys:
without exception microchipped
beneath their skin, like worker-bees
engaged in labour: a dark hive
of insects only half alive.
An artificial, sterile pod,
is their environment, austere.
A faceless robot is their God.
Its scrutiny engenders fear
so they work tirelessly, these fools:
not men or women, merely tools.
This is the future, mark it well:
all life ersatz, no air, no trees.
No brimstone but no less a Hell
where there can be no escapees.
All life lived in an endless Now.
The Beast’s mark stamped on every brow.
Richard Fleming
round-shouldered, fingers stroking keys:
without exception microchipped
beneath their skin, like worker-bees
engaged in labour: a dark hive
of insects only half alive.
An artificial, sterile pod,
is their environment, austere.
A faceless robot is their God.
Its scrutiny engenders fear
so they work tirelessly, these fools:
not men or women, merely tools.
This is the future, mark it well:
all life ersatz, no air, no trees.
No brimstone but no less a Hell
where there can be no escapees.
All life lived in an endless Now.
The Beast’s mark stamped on every brow.
Richard Fleming
Three Kittens - Trudie Shannon
She is a farmer’s wife, she is a farmer
She drowned the kittens
She said, it had to be done.
She said, It broke my heart
She said, I put them in a sack
She said, I plunged the sack snap, like that, into the bucket
She said, I had no choice
I was on my own.
It seemed barbaric to me
And I really didn’t want to listen or to hear.
I leave the farm and the farmer’s wife.
Now I reflect and consider,
How many small bodies has the sea swallowed
As the Syrian refugees flee their war?
It’s barbaric
But it seems we shed more tears over kittens.
Trudie Shannon
She drowned the kittens
She said, it had to be done.
She said, It broke my heart
She said, I put them in a sack
She said, I plunged the sack snap, like that, into the bucket
She said, I had no choice
I was on my own.
It seemed barbaric to me
And I really didn’t want to listen or to hear.
I leave the farm and the farmer’s wife.
Now I reflect and consider,
How many small bodies has the sea swallowed
As the Syrian refugees flee their war?
It’s barbaric
But it seems we shed more tears over kittens.
Trudie Shannon
Two Sides To Every Story - Lyndon Queripel
There’s two sides to every story
But we’ll listen to yours first
Have you changed it for the better
Or just left it for the worst
You’ve been drinking lies like water
But haven’t quenched your thirst
There’s two sides to every story
The inside and the out
Together with your explanation
You ride your roundabout
Hoping experience will give
The benefit of the doubt
There’s two sides to every story
And two to every penny
But you’ve run out of words
You’ve already used too many
Now you’re looking for excuses
But you know you haven’t any
There’s two sides to every story
But you’ve yet to hear mine
It’s your turn for your ears to burn
And disguise your eyes to shine
I’ve rolled some gold into my silence
And put my values on the line.
Lyndon Queripel
But we’ll listen to yours first
Have you changed it for the better
Or just left it for the worst
You’ve been drinking lies like water
But haven’t quenched your thirst
There’s two sides to every story
The inside and the out
Together with your explanation
You ride your roundabout
Hoping experience will give
The benefit of the doubt
There’s two sides to every story
And two to every penny
But you’ve run out of words
You’ve already used too many
Now you’re looking for excuses
But you know you haven’t any
There’s two sides to every story
But you’ve yet to hear mine
It’s your turn for your ears to burn
And disguise your eyes to shine
I’ve rolled some gold into my silence
And put my values on the line.
Lyndon Queripel
Animals - Stephen A. Roberts
Yes, that's what the animals do
In the wild, in their natural zoo
They live, they mate, they fight, they die
They starve, they run, they kill, they fly
Just like they have always done
Ever since there was a Sun
Long before the cameras came
And showed us that we are all the same
Stephen A. Roberts
In the wild, in their natural zoo
They live, they mate, they fight, they die
They starve, they run, they kill, they fly
Just like they have always done
Ever since there was a Sun
Long before the cameras came
And showed us that we are all the same
Stephen A. Roberts
Life Unravelling - Diane Scantlebury
Where have you been young man?
What adventures have you experienced?
And what have you seen?
I sense that you’ve been over the edge
Fallen off the jagged cliff of sanity,
I can tell by your fixed smile,
Your trembling hands,
As you embroider while you wait,
Muttering under your breath,
Curses and profanities,
Where to now young man?
Where will you go?
Each day you return
To sit and patiently sew,
Your mind vacantly travelling,
The tangled threads
Of your short life,
Once tightly wound, unravelling.
Diane Scantlebury
What adventures have you experienced?
And what have you seen?
I sense that you’ve been over the edge
Fallen off the jagged cliff of sanity,
I can tell by your fixed smile,
Your trembling hands,
As you embroider while you wait,
Muttering under your breath,
Curses and profanities,
Where to now young man?
Where will you go?
Each day you return
To sit and patiently sew,
Your mind vacantly travelling,
The tangled threads
Of your short life,
Once tightly wound, unravelling.
Diane Scantlebury
Seasons - Tony Bradley
So distant, now . . those hot, hazy days
when even the winds were warm
the Sun slept little, from it’s scarlet set
to another bright morning, a dazzling dawn.
Too soon, the Sun slumbers, slow to rise
as golden leaves glisten, glossed by night’s rain
and falling,twirling, they waltz to Autumn’s wind
and bristling, bare bushes face Winter again.
January breezes begin their frosty toil
crispening a crust on the slumbering soil.
Soon, plucky bulbs will peep, and on dark, stark trees
Spring’s faithful companions, little green leaves.
Tony Bradley
when even the winds were warm
the Sun slept little, from it’s scarlet set
to another bright morning, a dazzling dawn.
Too soon, the Sun slumbers, slow to rise
as golden leaves glisten, glossed by night’s rain
and falling,twirling, they waltz to Autumn’s wind
and bristling, bare bushes face Winter again.
January breezes begin their frosty toil
crispening a crust on the slumbering soil.
Soon, plucky bulbs will peep, and on dark, stark trees
Spring’s faithful companions, little green leaves.
Tony Bradley
Paper Weight - Donald Keyman
Another day another report
That's all your hard-earned taxes bought
The States have squandered all your wealth
On consultant's words for a dusty shelf
No day goes by without a suggestion
To spend some more on a new investigation
Shall we look into a brand new harbour
Or find ways to use less carbon?
Any idea must of course be contested
And in multiple papers our cash invested
But who can tell if a plan is attractive
When half the document is redacted?
We can only watch as the deadline slips
At least we can use it to wrap our chips
As the experts trouser their heap of bread
The massive tome remains unread
Donald Keyman
That's all your hard-earned taxes bought
The States have squandered all your wealth
On consultant's words for a dusty shelf
No day goes by without a suggestion
To spend some more on a new investigation
Shall we look into a brand new harbour
Or find ways to use less carbon?
Any idea must of course be contested
And in multiple papers our cash invested
But who can tell if a plan is attractive
When half the document is redacted?
We can only watch as the deadline slips
At least we can use it to wrap our chips
As the experts trouser their heap of bread
The massive tome remains unread
Donald Keyman
Strange Trail - Ian Duquemin
I walk this strange trail, wherever it goes
The distance in miles? I guess nobody knows
But with every step, that this body might take
I will gather in strength, till the day when I break
This journey I'm on, it will come to an end
But the time that it takes, that will only depend
As the life I have left, has its hills which to climb
So I’ll walk this strange trail, till I run out of time
Ian Duquemin
The distance in miles? I guess nobody knows
But with every step, that this body might take
I will gather in strength, till the day when I break
This journey I'm on, it will come to an end
But the time that it takes, that will only depend
As the life I have left, has its hills which to climb
So I’ll walk this strange trail, till I run out of time
Ian Duquemin
Ageing - Tony Gardner
I used to be a strong man
Worked from dawn 'til setting sun.
Yet I enjoyed my leisure
Had more than of my share of Fun
And I thought I'd live forever
That no shot could bring me low
For I was tall and full of Life
And confidence and 'Go'
Today I sit and dream through dark
And misty memories thick
To days I didn't need to lean
On this cold metal walking stick
But it's down to aged men like me
To sit and wonder why
Every fit and youthful man
Will one day fade and die.
Tony Gardner
Worked from dawn 'til setting sun.
Yet I enjoyed my leisure
Had more than of my share of Fun
And I thought I'd live forever
That no shot could bring me low
For I was tall and full of Life
And confidence and 'Go'
Today I sit and dream through dark
And misty memories thick
To days I didn't need to lean
On this cold metal walking stick
But it's down to aged men like me
To sit and wonder why
Every fit and youthful man
Will one day fade and die.
Tony Gardner
Homage? - Trudie Shannon
How strange that throughout time
Man has built edifices, temples, churches
In homage to his Gods.
When surely the greatest homage must be
To protect and respect all of creation.
For nothing man creates can ever compare
To the innate beauty and absolute wonder of the earth itself.
Trudie Shannon
Man has built edifices, temples, churches
In homage to his Gods.
When surely the greatest homage must be
To protect and respect all of creation.
For nothing man creates can ever compare
To the innate beauty and absolute wonder of the earth itself.
Trudie Shannon
Blood - Richard Fleming
A Guernseyman once told me how
Chancre crabs are caught and that
the kitchen always rings with screams
when they go in the boiling pot.
I buy my food in plastic packs:
no thought of slaughterhouse or blot
of beast’s blood on my conscience.
One day I may be judged for that.
Richard Fleming
Chancre crabs are caught and that
the kitchen always rings with screams
when they go in the boiling pot.
I buy my food in plastic packs:
no thought of slaughterhouse or blot
of beast’s blood on my conscience.
One day I may be judged for that.
Richard Fleming
Soldier On - Lyndon Queripel
The old soldier looked down in sorrow
By the flag he once held with pride
To the valley that was now in shadow
Where all of his comrades had died
“No survivors, they are all gone“
He said as he turned to walk away
“But why should I be the only one
Who lives to fight another day ?“
Lyndon Queripel
By the flag he once held with pride
To the valley that was now in shadow
Where all of his comrades had died
“No survivors, they are all gone“
He said as he turned to walk away
“But why should I be the only one
Who lives to fight another day ?“
Lyndon Queripel
Site of Special Insignificance - Donald Keyman
I went looking for Cobo Alice
outside the gates of a wondrous palace
I got the feeling that time had been unfrozen
in a major case of inland coastal erosion
Is no-one in planning listening to Greta
don't they want to make our world better
Their strategies will only make things worse
a built-up world that's less biodiverse
As the fields are ploughed one last time
for the developer's harvest of mortar and lime
Guernsey has its curtilage redrawn
into a concrete garden complete with asphalt lawn
Donald Keyman
outside the gates of a wondrous palace
I got the feeling that time had been unfrozen
in a major case of inland coastal erosion
Is no-one in planning listening to Greta
don't they want to make our world better
Their strategies will only make things worse
a built-up world that's less biodiverse
As the fields are ploughed one last time
for the developer's harvest of mortar and lime
Guernsey has its curtilage redrawn
into a concrete garden complete with asphalt lawn
Donald Keyman
Picnic At Chouet - Lord Byro (A Pen-Name)
I went for a picnic at Chouet today,
with tea in a flask and a sandwich or two,
to relax by the sea with a view of the bay
and a snooze on the beach with my sunhat askew
but when I nodded off, such a nightmare ensued.
I woke with a start, hoping I’d misconstrued.
I dreamed that a quarry, obscene and immense,
had spoiled Chouet headland: the land was destroyed.
It seemed so far fetched. It just didn’t make sense
to despoil a fine place that so many enjoyed.
There was something uncannily real in my dream:
a sense of foreboding. I woke with a scream.
Lord Byro
with tea in a flask and a sandwich or two,
to relax by the sea with a view of the bay
and a snooze on the beach with my sunhat askew
but when I nodded off, such a nightmare ensued.
I woke with a start, hoping I’d misconstrued.
I dreamed that a quarry, obscene and immense,
had spoiled Chouet headland: the land was destroyed.
It seemed so far fetched. It just didn’t make sense
to despoil a fine place that so many enjoyed.
There was something uncannily real in my dream:
a sense of foreboding. I woke with a scream.
Lord Byro
Barred, From Company - Tony Bradley
Nobody, I thought close, is corresponding with me
not an e-mail, a pigeon, nor postie at the gate
I'm sure I replied, I certainly tried, but have I
really annoyed so many, of late?
Sometimes someone's lost, a long way from home
but no wanderers in sight, seeking directions
I am forsook, alone, with just a book, on loan
nobody wants kindness, a little affection.
I've bought some Twinings, I'd never touch the stuff,
but some visitors, DO love their cuppa
Ooh! . . it's Peaky Blinders soon
I'd better go and make my supper.
Tony Bradley
not an e-mail, a pigeon, nor postie at the gate
I'm sure I replied, I certainly tried, but have I
really annoyed so many, of late?
Sometimes someone's lost, a long way from home
but no wanderers in sight, seeking directions
I am forsook, alone, with just a book, on loan
nobody wants kindness, a little affection.
I've bought some Twinings, I'd never touch the stuff,
but some visitors, DO love their cuppa
Ooh! . . it's Peaky Blinders soon
I'd better go and make my supper.
Tony Bradley
Bed of Roses - Diane Scantlebury
I lie here
Under a bed of roses,
Not breathing out
Or breathing in,
The moist, damp soil
Caressing my body,
Cold against my naked skin,
You search for me
But never see me,
My lips are silent
My hands are bound,
So quietly I lie here
Under a bed of roses,
Buried deep,
Never to be found.
Diane Scantlebury
Under a bed of roses,
Not breathing out
Or breathing in,
The moist, damp soil
Caressing my body,
Cold against my naked skin,
You search for me
But never see me,
My lips are silent
My hands are bound,
So quietly I lie here
Under a bed of roses,
Buried deep,
Never to be found.
Diane Scantlebury
Fugit - Stephen A. Roberts
The remembrance of all things past
Those golden days that could never last
We stood upon the reservoir of youth
Convinced we knew the only truth
Was it arrogance or naïve belief
That carried us over every reef
Swept along on the rising tide
We laughed so hard and enjoyed the ride
Now we wait in rooms for our turn
Looking back on what we've learned
The doubt crept in and is here to stay
We sold our souls for another day
We repeat repeat the same mistakes
Until our film has no more takes
The final reel is spinning down
Fade to black and no more sound
Stephen A. Roberts
Those golden days that could never last
We stood upon the reservoir of youth
Convinced we knew the only truth
Was it arrogance or naïve belief
That carried us over every reef
Swept along on the rising tide
We laughed so hard and enjoyed the ride
Now we wait in rooms for our turn
Looking back on what we've learned
The doubt crept in and is here to stay
We sold our souls for another day
We repeat repeat the same mistakes
Until our film has no more takes
The final reel is spinning down
Fade to black and no more sound
Stephen A. Roberts
Crash Right Through The Sky - Ian Duquemin
You know you lift my spirit
Yeah, you raise it high
Sometimes I feel I might collide or, crash right through the sky
You are so beautiful
Is there a better word?
I'm sure there must be, though right now, it's not been heard
You are a part of me girl
You are my beating heart
I know this, as it skips a beat when, we're too far apart
You're the one I turn to
You're the one I love
Continue being you, and lift my, treasured soul above
Yeah you lift my spirit
And you raise it high
So high I feel I might collide or, crash right through the sky
So high I feel I might collide or, crash right through the sky
Ian Duquemin
Yeah, you raise it high
Sometimes I feel I might collide or, crash right through the sky
You are so beautiful
Is there a better word?
I'm sure there must be, though right now, it's not been heard
You are a part of me girl
You are my beating heart
I know this, as it skips a beat when, we're too far apart
You're the one I turn to
You're the one I love
Continue being you, and lift my, treasured soul above
Yeah you lift my spirit
And you raise it high
So high I feel I might collide or, crash right through the sky
So high I feel I might collide or, crash right through the sky
Ian Duquemin
Shores I Won’t See Again - Tony Gardner
These Coral reefs and coconuts
Are Heaven on Earth to you
Greek isles seem like Paradise
And I know you feel that true
But I’ve been ‘round this big wide world
And though I’ve loved the things I’ve seen
I’ve never felt contented
With the places that I’ve been
For there’s always memories calling
Dreams of deep cliff cutting vales
And the streams that lead us downwards
To the warm inviting waves
Or the inland valleys whispering
“Stay here more than just a while
“For your family’s ghosts are wandering
“When they see you, then they’ll smile”
And that little bubbling stream
That chuckles down the lane
Sighs ‘cause this poor old exile
Will never see those shores again
Tony Gardner
Are Heaven on Earth to you
Greek isles seem like Paradise
And I know you feel that true
But I’ve been ‘round this big wide world
And though I’ve loved the things I’ve seen
I’ve never felt contented
With the places that I’ve been
For there’s always memories calling
Dreams of deep cliff cutting vales
And the streams that lead us downwards
To the warm inviting waves
Or the inland valleys whispering
“Stay here more than just a while
“For your family’s ghosts are wandering
“When they see you, then they’ll smile”
And that little bubbling stream
That chuckles down the lane
Sighs ‘cause this poor old exile
Will never see those shores again
Tony Gardner
The Demise of Notre Dame - Kathy Figueroa
Something happened to Notre Dame
And Paris, France, won’t be the same
Its demise wrought by fire and flame
And so a hallowed landmark falls
A careless accident, it’s thought
By workman’s mishap, perhaps wrought
The dreadful blaze now being fought
By those who such disaster calls
Paris, our hearts go out to thee
In this time of calamity
A huge historic tragedy
The church reduced to smoldering walls
Kathy Figueroa
This poem was written as a response to seeing newscasts of Notre Dame Cathedral, in Paris, France, burning on April 15th, 2019. (Please note I’ve used “Notre Dame” the way Americans pronounce it.)
And Paris, France, won’t be the same
Its demise wrought by fire and flame
And so a hallowed landmark falls
A careless accident, it’s thought
By workman’s mishap, perhaps wrought
The dreadful blaze now being fought
By those who such disaster calls
Paris, our hearts go out to thee
In this time of calamity
A huge historic tragedy
The church reduced to smoldering walls
Kathy Figueroa
This poem was written as a response to seeing newscasts of Notre Dame Cathedral, in Paris, France, burning on April 15th, 2019. (Please note I’ve used “Notre Dame” the way Americans pronounce it.)
Watch me fly - Callum Lee Doherty
It’s quite simple from here,
Absentee, candidly,
Scream in rhythm; scream in glee,
Free from prisms bound of me.
This nigh wisdom, my Dear,
Can you see? Shall we breathe?
Gleaming victims; thieving leaves,
Dreams of visions, hounding me.
Watch me fly, watch me fly.
Oh, brother, watch me fly.
Watch that hand forever slow,
Weightless Kings forever float.
Nameless crystals, taint my wings,
but through my wrists, they’ll never know.
I demand to see the scriptures;
Reprimand me as I go,
Enslave the guards who pray forgiveness
Whilst enlists of xenophobes.
Watch me fly, watch me fly.
Oh, lover, watch me fly.
I’ve gone without your jurisdiction,
Fled from timeous control.
I’ve reached the plain through which my fiction
Lifts the stain we call our Home.
I feel the breath within my fingers,
See the blessed expanse below;
Within my depths, I’ll re-consider
But on my terms, all alone.
Watch me fly, watch me fly.
Oh, mother, watch me fly.
Do not sorrow; in my judgement,
I’m resolved, and so I die.
Callum Lee Doherty
Absentee, candidly,
Scream in rhythm; scream in glee,
Free from prisms bound of me.
This nigh wisdom, my Dear,
Can you see? Shall we breathe?
Gleaming victims; thieving leaves,
Dreams of visions, hounding me.
Watch me fly, watch me fly.
Oh, brother, watch me fly.
Watch that hand forever slow,
Weightless Kings forever float.
Nameless crystals, taint my wings,
but through my wrists, they’ll never know.
I demand to see the scriptures;
Reprimand me as I go,
Enslave the guards who pray forgiveness
Whilst enlists of xenophobes.
Watch me fly, watch me fly.
Oh, lover, watch me fly.
I’ve gone without your jurisdiction,
Fled from timeous control.
I’ve reached the plain through which my fiction
Lifts the stain we call our Home.
I feel the breath within my fingers,
See the blessed expanse below;
Within my depths, I’ll re-consider
But on my terms, all alone.
Watch me fly, watch me fly.
Oh, mother, watch me fly.
Do not sorrow; in my judgement,
I’m resolved, and so I die.
Callum Lee Doherty
Walking My Shoes - Lyndon Queripel
I’ve walked in your wake
I’ve seen the life you live
I’ve had all I can take
Of what it’s got to give
But killing time is such a crime
Be a rebel without a pause
Before the young get strong enough
To change the laws
I’ve walked the crooked mile
Stopping here and there
Just to enjoy the view
And a breath of fresh air
For the smog and smoke starts to choke
And will crown a dead diesel town
When the waste spreads to the waterbeds
All the fish will drown
I’ve walked the line on parade
To advance or retreat
Now I’m stepping out of the shade
To the sunny side of the street
The traffic crawls between the walls
Don’t dare to stop and stare
At dividing lines and broken signs
That only lead nowhere
I’ve walked increasing circles
Turning inside and turning out
Now I've seen the light that shines
Without your shadow of doubt
Don’t be found losing ground
And passed by everyone
Feeling lonely you’re only walking
But you’ve yet to run.
Lyndon Queripel
I’ve seen the life you live
I’ve had all I can take
Of what it’s got to give
But killing time is such a crime
Be a rebel without a pause
Before the young get strong enough
To change the laws
I’ve walked the crooked mile
Stopping here and there
Just to enjoy the view
And a breath of fresh air
For the smog and smoke starts to choke
And will crown a dead diesel town
When the waste spreads to the waterbeds
All the fish will drown
I’ve walked the line on parade
To advance or retreat
Now I’m stepping out of the shade
To the sunny side of the street
The traffic crawls between the walls
Don’t dare to stop and stare
At dividing lines and broken signs
That only lead nowhere
I’ve walked increasing circles
Turning inside and turning out
Now I've seen the light that shines
Without your shadow of doubt
Don’t be found losing ground
And passed by everyone
Feeling lonely you’re only walking
But you’ve yet to run.
Lyndon Queripel
For x - Sarah Alexander
When did I become a shade?
A figment of your imagination passing by
So engrossed in your conflicting self
That you did not see my smile
When did you dreams fragment into splinters in your soul
And the light dim inside your mind ?
When did the darkness become all encompassing
So much so that your heart went blind
You did not see me clearly
Your perception was your all
And that to you was your reality
To my detriment and yours
Sarah Alexander
A figment of your imagination passing by
So engrossed in your conflicting self
That you did not see my smile
When did you dreams fragment into splinters in your soul
And the light dim inside your mind ?
When did the darkness become all encompassing
So much so that your heart went blind
You did not see me clearly
Your perception was your all
And that to you was your reality
To my detriment and yours
Sarah Alexander
Stories - Trudie Shannon
The lads on the ferry are raucous, loud
Laughing, talking, shouting
Strings of ‘friendly’ obscenities about
Cars, women, drink
Hang-overs, conquests and pile-ups
Wearing the clothes they slept in
The same that saw them all spruced up
Smelling of aftershave and exuding pheromones
Out on the pull last night.
They dominate the space
Rude, coarse and harmless
Bouncing stories between themselves
Each one racing to out-do the others.
Other passengers, sigh and look heavenward
Saying nothing but oozing disapproval
Features contorted into frowns until …
One lad says
I can’t wait to get home, sleep in my own bed,
Mum’s cooking tea
There’s a pause and a universal sigh of assent.
The other passengers turn to each other
And share a covert smile.
Trudie Shannon
Laughing, talking, shouting
Strings of ‘friendly’ obscenities about
Cars, women, drink
Hang-overs, conquests and pile-ups
Wearing the clothes they slept in
The same that saw them all spruced up
Smelling of aftershave and exuding pheromones
Out on the pull last night.
They dominate the space
Rude, coarse and harmless
Bouncing stories between themselves
Each one racing to out-do the others.
Other passengers, sigh and look heavenward
Saying nothing but oozing disapproval
Features contorted into frowns until …
One lad says
I can’t wait to get home, sleep in my own bed,
Mum’s cooking tea
There’s a pause and a universal sigh of assent.
The other passengers turn to each other
And share a covert smile.
Trudie Shannon
There, Be The Jam - Tony Bradley
Being a Janner, that’s from Plymouth
I was well brought up, proper job
but I realised them Cornish was diffrent
a few penniees short, of a bob.
They’s not so bright, over the Tamar
their afternoon tea, got a simler scone
but changing the order they’m decorates it
they shoud’ve left well alone.
Is sacred West Country Tradition, innit
since ancient histree of cream teas began
but them Cornish buggers put the cream on top
is always bin bleddy cream, then jam.
Tony Bradley
I was well brought up, proper job
but I realised them Cornish was diffrent
a few penniees short, of a bob.
They’s not so bright, over the Tamar
their afternoon tea, got a simler scone
but changing the order they’m decorates it
they shoud’ve left well alone.
Is sacred West Country Tradition, innit
since ancient histree of cream teas began
but them Cornish buggers put the cream on top
is always bin bleddy cream, then jam.
Tony Bradley
Cobo Sea-Wall - Richard Fleming
The granite sea-wall holds the heat
accumulated through the day
so, side by side, we take a seat
to watch sun set on Cobo Bay.
The taste of fresh-fried fish and chips
is salty when I kiss your lips.
There on the beach, late walkers shift
like friendly ghosts, as down the sun
slips like a red balloon adrift.
Day’s end: yet for us, just begun,
a summer romance, foolish hearts
that quicken when the sun departs.
Richard Fleming
accumulated through the day
so, side by side, we take a seat
to watch sun set on Cobo Bay.
The taste of fresh-fried fish and chips
is salty when I kiss your lips.
There on the beach, late walkers shift
like friendly ghosts, as down the sun
slips like a red balloon adrift.
Day’s end: yet for us, just begun,
a summer romance, foolish hearts
that quicken when the sun departs.
Richard Fleming
Snowy Tops - Diane Scantlebury
We people with our snowy tops
Androgynous in dress,
We hunt in pairs,
We grunt and grumble
About today’s youth,
Refuse to disguise or dye
Our snowy white hair,
We people with our snowy tops
We’ve had our time,
We’ve had the best,
Released the equity from our homes
Smug and secure,
We’ve feathered our nests,
We people with our snowy tops
We go on cruises,
We trawl the world,
Draw our pensions as we relax
On sunnier shores,
While the youth we berate
Grow unhealthy and poor,
We people with our snowy tops
We’ve had our fun,
Drained the world’s resources
Until there’s almost none,
We’ve climbed up our ladders
And behind us shut the door,
Lapped up all the cream
Now there’s no more.
Diane Scantlebury
Androgynous in dress,
We hunt in pairs,
We grunt and grumble
About today’s youth,
Refuse to disguise or dye
Our snowy white hair,
We people with our snowy tops
We’ve had our time,
We’ve had the best,
Released the equity from our homes
Smug and secure,
We’ve feathered our nests,
We people with our snowy tops
We go on cruises,
We trawl the world,
Draw our pensions as we relax
On sunnier shores,
While the youth we berate
Grow unhealthy and poor,
We people with our snowy tops
We’ve had our fun,
Drained the world’s resources
Until there’s almost none,
We’ve climbed up our ladders
And behind us shut the door,
Lapped up all the cream
Now there’s no more.
Diane Scantlebury
The Crown's Jewel - Donald Keyman
Sarnia Cherie drowns in a shining plastic sea
A sinking seafront of supermarket hegemony
The once glittering jewel tarnished by trade
A place where coffees and sandwiches are made
Burdened by laws that no one will enforce
These are the days of cart before horse
The rubbish piles high on old Guernsey streets
And cannot be cleared by stickers and tweets
The Government lives in its navel-gazing bubble
Waiting for the latest code of conduct squabble
But the vultures are waiting, out in the wings
They’re tired of dealing with Brexity things
They're coming for us, old Mitchell and Hodge
Hell-bent on delivering their constitutional fudge
So now it’s time to save old Sarnia Cherie
To polish and harden the gem of the sea
Donald Keyman
A sinking seafront of supermarket hegemony
The once glittering jewel tarnished by trade
A place where coffees and sandwiches are made
Burdened by laws that no one will enforce
These are the days of cart before horse
The rubbish piles high on old Guernsey streets
And cannot be cleared by stickers and tweets
The Government lives in its navel-gazing bubble
Waiting for the latest code of conduct squabble
But the vultures are waiting, out in the wings
They’re tired of dealing with Brexity things
They're coming for us, old Mitchell and Hodge
Hell-bent on delivering their constitutional fudge
So now it’s time to save old Sarnia Cherie
To polish and harden the gem of the sea
Donald Keyman
The Cycle - Ian Duquemin
You shoot at them…
They'll shoot right back
And through your cowardly attack
Many more will surely die
Their families left to mourn and cry
So in revenge you kill some more
To try and even out the score
This cycle now a constant threat
But when you hate, that's what you get!
If murder, maiming, fills your heart
This cycle then, is just the start
You shoot at them…
They shoot right back
And through your terrorist attack
Many more will wrongly die
Their loved ones left to reason… Why?
And so the cycle keeps on turning
Hunger for revenge now yearning
Shoot the people… Burn the mosque
With no concern of life that's lost
The cycle turns just like before
You hate them, but they hate you more
And on and on and on it goes
This hatred only ever grows
So…
You shoot at them…
They shoot right back
And through the threat of your attack
This cycle just rotates again
Causing untold death and pain
I wonder… Will this ever cease?
Could different faiths just pray for peace?
And glory in the freedom found
To stop this cycle turning round
Ian Duquemin
They'll shoot right back
And through your cowardly attack
Many more will surely die
Their families left to mourn and cry
So in revenge you kill some more
To try and even out the score
This cycle now a constant threat
But when you hate, that's what you get!
If murder, maiming, fills your heart
This cycle then, is just the start
You shoot at them…
They shoot right back
And through your terrorist attack
Many more will wrongly die
Their loved ones left to reason… Why?
And so the cycle keeps on turning
Hunger for revenge now yearning
Shoot the people… Burn the mosque
With no concern of life that's lost
The cycle turns just like before
You hate them, but they hate you more
And on and on and on it goes
This hatred only ever grows
So…
You shoot at them…
They shoot right back
And through the threat of your attack
This cycle just rotates again
Causing untold death and pain
I wonder… Will this ever cease?
Could different faiths just pray for peace?
And glory in the freedom found
To stop this cycle turning round
Ian Duquemin
Evolve To A Higher Plane - Kathy Figueroa
This poem was inspired by world events on March 14th, 2019.
There’s so much bad news
It’s like the world’s going to Hell
Will mankind survive?
These days, it’s hard to tell
A mass shooting in a mosque
Down in kiwi land
Another senseless slaughter
Sane folks don’t understand
Divisions in religion
Politics, and race
Become like ugly team sports
This society’s disgrace
Some are on Team Christian
Others on Team Jew
There’s Team Moslem, Team Sikh
Team Hindu, to name just a few
Will humans ever get along
And evolve to a higher plane?
Or are we doomed to destruction
By the hateful and insane?
Kathy Figueroa
There’s so much bad news
It’s like the world’s going to Hell
Will mankind survive?
These days, it’s hard to tell
A mass shooting in a mosque
Down in kiwi land
Another senseless slaughter
Sane folks don’t understand
Divisions in religion
Politics, and race
Become like ugly team sports
This society’s disgrace
Some are on Team Christian
Others on Team Jew
There’s Team Moslem, Team Sikh
Team Hindu, to name just a few
Will humans ever get along
And evolve to a higher plane?
Or are we doomed to destruction
By the hateful and insane?
Kathy Figueroa
The Men in the Masks: Pt1 - Callum Lee Doherty
Say not as thou dost, but through clocks as we rot
and thy shine dare not speak as before.
Pray, what divine cost, whispers, gods have we lost;
should my time and my steeple endure?
What price did He ask of you? What silence they grasp from us all.
We regress to impress; dictions learned, fictions spread,
Crystal spurned in pursuit of the chore.
Wear(e), take me; here, lately,
Enslaved of my bastard rapport.
De-grade me; dear, break me,
For we’ve lost in this faintest of cause.
I’m consumed by that thing I abhorred; I’m consumed by the virus in thoughts.
His mask see not mine, told my stifling mind,
As the roses – redolent – entwined.
And we all sing and dance, lest we might get a glance
of the frozen – exposure – we’re blind.
Déjà entendu, elate and offend you
Rehearsed since thy birth and refined.
But when all set aside, through thine time’s genocide
Hollows corpses – thoughtless – confined.
I will not reach out to your hand; and I swear I ne’er called on your name.
My design can divide and abort you; but my solace – I lied – I’m afraid.
Callum Lee Doherty
and thy shine dare not speak as before.
Pray, what divine cost, whispers, gods have we lost;
should my time and my steeple endure?
What price did He ask of you? What silence they grasp from us all.
We regress to impress; dictions learned, fictions spread,
Crystal spurned in pursuit of the chore.
Wear(e), take me; here, lately,
Enslaved of my bastard rapport.
De-grade me; dear, break me,
For we’ve lost in this faintest of cause.
I’m consumed by that thing I abhorred; I’m consumed by the virus in thoughts.
His mask see not mine, told my stifling mind,
As the roses – redolent – entwined.
And we all sing and dance, lest we might get a glance
of the frozen – exposure – we’re blind.
Déjà entendu, elate and offend you
Rehearsed since thy birth and refined.
But when all set aside, through thine time’s genocide
Hollows corpses – thoughtless – confined.
I will not reach out to your hand; and I swear I ne’er called on your name.
My design can divide and abort you; but my solace – I lied – I’m afraid.
Callum Lee Doherty
Ghosts - Tony Gardner
They played the concert in the Parish church
And walls resounded with the songs they sung
And while the music moved, affected all
I felt the ghosts who mingled there among
The listeners young and old, and those whose kin
Have lived here oh, so many hundred years
The incomers who may or likely not may not stay
So if they go will not cause many tears
I stand at my great-great-grandfather's grave
And feel him near while walking fields he trod
I wonder how rich folk think they can own
Land owned not by their money but by God.
Tony Gardner
And walls resounded with the songs they sung
And while the music moved, affected all
I felt the ghosts who mingled there among
The listeners young and old, and those whose kin
Have lived here oh, so many hundred years
The incomers who may or likely not may not stay
So if they go will not cause many tears
I stand at my great-great-grandfather's grave
And feel him near while walking fields he trod
I wonder how rich folk think they can own
Land owned not by their money but by God.
Tony Gardner
The Winter Jumper - V. Bean
My special job is to warm up somebody
they sometimes pull me, often stretch me
I swing on the line, at clothes-hanging time
and if it starts to rain, they come and fetch me.
I don’t like getting wet, I want to hide
my favourite spot, the tumble dryer
so snug and warm, when I’m inside
I love it when they turn it higher.
After I’m worn for a while, it’s a woolen-wash
then pegged up, to hang, dodging snow and rain
food gets spilt on me, they really don’t care
and stink! . . it’s that awful perfume, again.
Ooh, look, I’m in for a quick-wash
now I’m hanging out, in a Winter moon
I never really feel the cold of night
‘cos I’m a three-ply, cable-knit cocoon.
I await my owner’s comfy hands,
to unpeg me, carefully fold me, then
back in my big drawer, to rest, until
they decide to put me on, again.
I’m back on the line again, soon
but not next to the knickers and bras
they all seem to go together
but, me, I’m only Granpa’s.
V. Bean
they sometimes pull me, often stretch me
I swing on the line, at clothes-hanging time
and if it starts to rain, they come and fetch me.
I don’t like getting wet, I want to hide
my favourite spot, the tumble dryer
so snug and warm, when I’m inside
I love it when they turn it higher.
After I’m worn for a while, it’s a woolen-wash
then pegged up, to hang, dodging snow and rain
food gets spilt on me, they really don’t care
and stink! . . it’s that awful perfume, again.
Ooh, look, I’m in for a quick-wash
now I’m hanging out, in a Winter moon
I never really feel the cold of night
‘cos I’m a three-ply, cable-knit cocoon.
I await my owner’s comfy hands,
to unpeg me, carefully fold me, then
back in my big drawer, to rest, until
they decide to put me on, again.
I’m back on the line again, soon
but not next to the knickers and bras
they all seem to go together
but, me, I’m only Granpa’s.
V. Bean
Companion - Ian Duquemin
I ran into the devil
Who was just, hanging around
He needed a little sunshine
It was me the devil found
He asked me “Where you going?”
I replied I didn't know
“But if you wanna walk with me
Just follow where I go”
We walked across the meadows
Many rivers we would cross
The sun above had brightened
And it slowly followed us
We reached a mountain where I said
“We'll climb this mountain high”
The devil he just laughed and said
“I haven't wings to fly”
With distant steps behind me
My new friend stopped to say
“I can't go any further, as I've kinda lost my way”
I gave my friend a smile. Took another step or two
Then turned to him and said “Oh well… I guess I'll follow you”
Ian Duquemin
Who was just, hanging around
He needed a little sunshine
It was me the devil found
He asked me “Where you going?”
I replied I didn't know
“But if you wanna walk with me
Just follow where I go”
We walked across the meadows
Many rivers we would cross
The sun above had brightened
And it slowly followed us
We reached a mountain where I said
“We'll climb this mountain high”
The devil he just laughed and said
“I haven't wings to fly”
With distant steps behind me
My new friend stopped to say
“I can't go any further, as I've kinda lost my way”
I gave my friend a smile. Took another step or two
Then turned to him and said “Oh well… I guess I'll follow you”
Ian Duquemin
Flamingos - Oscar Milde
Thank you Lord, Flamingos cry,
surveying, with disdainful stare,
all manner of ignoble beasts
of crooked horn or matted hair.
Thank you, Dear Lord, they intone
their prayers of gratitude to Him,
for making Others ugly
while making Us so chic and slim.
Oscar Milde
surveying, with disdainful stare,
all manner of ignoble beasts
of crooked horn or matted hair.
Thank you, Dear Lord, they intone
their prayers of gratitude to Him,
for making Others ugly
while making Us so chic and slim.
Oscar Milde
Cat Burglar - Edgar Allan Poet
I curl up upon the armchair.
I purr and stare defiantly.
I will not move, let no one dare
to interfere, to dislodge me
or, when they slumber, softly deep,
I’ll suffocate them in their sleep.
They think I am a sulky cat.
They could not be the more misled,
for I am worse, by far, than that:
I am the Spirit of the Dead,
a demon dressed in feline skin.
When darkness falls, let sport begin.
I’ll sidle carefully upstairs
then enter bedrooms, one by one,
(their overheated, smelly lairs)
spring on each bed and have some fun.
I’ll dip into their psychic streams
and steal, from each, their precious dreams.
Edgar Allan Poet
I purr and stare defiantly.
I will not move, let no one dare
to interfere, to dislodge me
or, when they slumber, softly deep,
I’ll suffocate them in their sleep.
They think I am a sulky cat.
They could not be the more misled,
for I am worse, by far, than that:
I am the Spirit of the Dead,
a demon dressed in feline skin.
When darkness falls, let sport begin.
I’ll sidle carefully upstairs
then enter bedrooms, one by one,
(their overheated, smelly lairs)
spring on each bed and have some fun.
I’ll dip into their psychic streams
and steal, from each, their precious dreams.
Edgar Allan Poet
Ding-ding, "all aboard the 42" - Tony Bradley
I came out the pub, a little worse for wear
I left the car there, being mindful of the law
I took a bus, which turned out to be fun
‘cos I’d never driven a bus before.
I thought I’d better avoid main roads,
so I went cross-country, sort of, not many stops
but, arriving home, despite my caution
TV cameras, armoured vehicles, and twenty cops.
Tony Bradley
The Cry - Trudie Shannon
The mist has thickened into impenetrable fog
But the sea swirls, sucks and swells just the same.
Fog draped rocks are become invisible or disguised.
Light gleams are suffused with water
Cannot pierce the shadowy shrouds.
All sound is muffled
Until a familiar haunted call from atop it’s rock pinnacle.
The foghorn’s cry carries like dust on a desert wind
Puncturing each water droplet,
Startling roosting birds, sending mice scurrying,
Arousing me from fitful sleep and fearful dreams of floundering ships.
Its muted echo tumbles around me
And I breathe more easily in its embrace,
Island born, island bound to the sea
And the rocks and the cliffs
And the foghorn, that static saviour reticent in sunshine.
Trudie Shannon
But the sea swirls, sucks and swells just the same.
Fog draped rocks are become invisible or disguised.
Light gleams are suffused with water
Cannot pierce the shadowy shrouds.
All sound is muffled
Until a familiar haunted call from atop it’s rock pinnacle.
The foghorn’s cry carries like dust on a desert wind
Puncturing each water droplet,
Startling roosting birds, sending mice scurrying,
Arousing me from fitful sleep and fearful dreams of floundering ships.
Its muted echo tumbles around me
And I breathe more easily in its embrace,
Island born, island bound to the sea
And the rocks and the cliffs
And the foghorn, that static saviour reticent in sunshine.
Trudie Shannon
Tokens of Love - Diane Scantlebury
She didn’t need expensive flowers,
She didn’t want a special day,
There was no need
For a fancy restaurant,
Or the extortionate gift
For which he’d pay,
All she wanted
Was his full attention,
Not ruby hearts or a turtle dove,
All she wanted
Was care and consideration,
Not trivial trappings or artificial tokens of love.
Diane Scantlebury
She didn’t want a special day,
There was no need
For a fancy restaurant,
Or the extortionate gift
For which he’d pay,
All she wanted
Was his full attention,
Not ruby hearts or a turtle dove,
All she wanted
Was care and consideration,
Not trivial trappings or artificial tokens of love.
Diane Scantlebury
Scratch Card Heaven - Donald Keyman
Give us this day our daily bread
So that we can give it all to Super Fred
We'll take it wholemeal or unleavened, 'cos
We're living in a scratch card heaven
Take the widow's final mite
So that maybe the widow might
Win 5 grand or maybe 7, 'cos
She's living in a scratch card heaven
This then is the poverty trap
Why earn more just to pay it back
She needs some cash for baby Kevin
Born into a scratch card heaven
The cardboard carpet at her feet is
Made of hopes the gamble didn't meet
Some will win but she will never
Escape the hell of scratch card heaven
Her sad addiction is filling up the pot
There's 9 million reasons why it won't stop
A balanced budget is where we're heading
Using the manna from scratch card heaven
Donald Keyman
Room Full Of Dreams - Lyndon Queripel
Missing lock from the door
A rusty key on the floor
Dust everywhere so it seems
Torn picture on the wall
A moment to recall
In a room full of dreams
Echoes in the night
Fade in the morning light
Awake from cries and screams
Disconnected telephone
Visions all alone
In a room full of dreams
The day begins to break
In a dawn of heart ache
And teardrops turn to streams
A memory of a kiss
And a broken promise
In a room full of dreams.
Lyndon Queripel
A rusty key on the floor
Dust everywhere so it seems
Torn picture on the wall
A moment to recall
In a room full of dreams
Echoes in the night
Fade in the morning light
Awake from cries and screams
Disconnected telephone
Visions all alone
In a room full of dreams
The day begins to break
In a dawn of heart ache
And teardrops turn to streams
A memory of a kiss
And a broken promise
In a room full of dreams.
Lyndon Queripel
The Groundhog’s Longing - Kathy Figueroa
 |
| Source:Wikipedia |
The groundhog felt a longing
'Twas a most peculiar thing
A strange stirring in the soul
Could it be a sign of spring?
He pined for warmer weather
Which he hoped was on its way
So in his damp, dark burrow
He'd no longer have to stay
His empty stomach rumbled
As he thought of tender shoots
Because all he'd had for months
Were some tough, dirt-covered roots
He remembered his own kind
How they'd frolicked in the sun
He ached for companionship
And needed fresh air and fun
So down his hallway tunnel
He scurried to his front door
In great anticipation
Of many good things in store
Would expectations be met
And his ardent hopes come true?
Would his sore heart leap for joy
That winter was nearly through?
The answers to these questions
Will be revealed, at long last
Come February 2nd
And the Groundhog Day forecast!
Kathy Figueroa
The Best I Could Do - Ian Duquemin
I never deserved you...
So your closest friends said
But those letters I sent you
They must never have read
The words I strung together
Were the thoughts I had of you
They may not be much... But the best I could do
I may have been angry...
But I smiled when I could
If I swore that I'd love you
Then I possibly would
But something in my heart, said
I may not be true to you
I tried to be honest... That's the best I could do
Those times we were happy...
They weren't meant to last
I tried to light up
But the shadows were cast
I'd look towards the heavens
Tried to will a brighter view
I never gave up... That's the best I could do
I'm sorry you're leaving
But what can I say?
You may find a lover
Who will want you to stay
I'll try to think about us
Like an old flame's meant to do
It may not be much... But the best I can do
Ian Duquemin
So your closest friends said
But those letters I sent you
They must never have read
The words I strung together
Were the thoughts I had of you
They may not be much... But the best I could do
I may have been angry...
But I smiled when I could
If I swore that I'd love you
Then I possibly would
But something in my heart, said
I may not be true to you
I tried to be honest... That's the best I could do
Those times we were happy...
They weren't meant to last
I tried to light up
But the shadows were cast
I'd look towards the heavens
Tried to will a brighter view
I never gave up... That's the best I could do
I'm sorry you're leaving
But what can I say?
You may find a lover
Who will want you to stay
I'll try to think about us
Like an old flame's meant to do
It may not be much... But the best I can do
Ian Duquemin
Little Chapel - Richard Fleming
On full-moon nights the Chapel glows
with Holy light. No tourists now,
with cameras or summer clothes
or catalogues to tell them how
the Chapel grew, how earth and shards
created, like a house of cards,
this tiny masterpiece that stands
here in a valley far from Town;
how loving, dextrous human hands
raised it, from soil to spire and crown,
through faith for spiritual reward,
so long ago, to praise the Lord.
Only the barn owl, hunting low
over the meadow, and the shrew
crouching immobile, eyes aglow,
in the accumulating dew
of the amazing full-moon night
bathe in its spreading, mystic light.
Richard Fleming
with Holy light. No tourists now,
with cameras or summer clothes
or catalogues to tell them how
the Chapel grew, how earth and shards
created, like a house of cards,
this tiny masterpiece that stands
here in a valley far from Town;
how loving, dextrous human hands
raised it, from soil to spire and crown,
through faith for spiritual reward,
so long ago, to praise the Lord.
Only the barn owl, hunting low
over the meadow, and the shrew
crouching immobile, eyes aglow,
in the accumulating dew
of the amazing full-moon night
bathe in its spreading, mystic light.
Richard Fleming
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
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
Oetzi - Stephen A. Roberts
 |
| Image Source |
This is the story of iceman Oetzi:
A cold case murder mystery
Where the world's oldest blood has dried
The crime preserved, mummified
In a mountain village long ago
A traveller came down from the snow
He is welcomed and offered sustenance
As they listen eagerly to his accounts
But with his tales of nomadic life
Oetzi charmed another man's wife
The jealous husband was dismayed
And scored the visitor with a blade
Oetzi apologised, moved on, bade farewell
But the wife had changed and all could tell
She took on a mournful distant look
So the man wanted Oetzi brought to book
This interloper caused him loss of face
How dare he challenge his rightful place
Enraged he sets off , bow in hand
Towards the high alpine pastureland
The wanderer strolled on unaware
Far above the meadows, into cooler air
Then Oetzi sat: he had dined his last
He reflected on the women in his past
She was the one: in the valley below
It only took one look to know
But she belonged to another man
And Oetzi respected this higher plan
Musing as he climbed the glacier
One day perhaps he would again see her
(If he turned back now he would have seen
The villager turned killing machine)
Still tracking the stranger for cruel revenge
Three hundred years before Stonehenge
Above his rasping mountain breath
Oetzi did not hear the arrowed death
Punctured by that fatal blow
Oetzi laid gasping in the crimson snow
His killer eschewed the copper axe
He wanted to leave no fossil tracks
And maybe underneath that ancient sky
The murderer stood and watched Oetzi die
To hear familiar words in an ancient tongue
"Why my brother? - I did you no wrong..."
This is a story as old as time
Forever frozen above the treeline
Man's cold hatred, built to kill
Nothing changes, time stands still
Stephen A. Roberts
Walter, The Pigeon Man - Tony Bradley
Most mornings, he’s there, round about ten
if he’d had a bad night, a little later, then
But Church on Sundays, the birds seem to know
almost as if, he’d told them so.
But then, one day, . . Walter came no more
the birds were searching the pier, the shore.
another dawn rises, and the pigeons hover
hoping for food, . . . but will anyone bother ?
Tony Bradley
if he’d had a bad night, a little later, then
But Church on Sundays, the birds seem to know
almost as if, he’d told them so.
But then, one day, . . Walter came no more
the birds were searching the pier, the shore.
another dawn rises, and the pigeons hover
hoping for food, . . . but will anyone bother ?
Tony Bradley
Bread - Trudie Shannon
Today I mixed flour yeast, salt, water and a little oil
With my fingers, into a dough in a glass bowl.
Like a magician preparing transformation magic,
So that once established in its oiled tin, my dough would rise
As delicately as a child’s breast rises on every intake of breath.
I covered the tin with a cloth and left it.
With my house empty, the air quiet and still
I ventured that the yeast would work its mystifying miracle better.
Those pockets of carbon dioxide emerging like butterflies from their pupa
Into the winter’s day,
The day contracted by the travelling sun,
A day as short as a gasp of surprise, light barely present.
Night shades lurking silently, the curbed hours through.
When I returned home, significant time had passed
And the opalescent moon had risen majestically to court Venus.
Under the cloth, I saw the curvaceous mound of risen bread,
No stellar acolyte, but somehow
In its microcosmic way similarly beautiful.
Trudie Shannon
With my fingers, into a dough in a glass bowl.
Like a magician preparing transformation magic,
So that once established in its oiled tin, my dough would rise
As delicately as a child’s breast rises on every intake of breath.
I covered the tin with a cloth and left it.
With my house empty, the air quiet and still
I ventured that the yeast would work its mystifying miracle better.
Those pockets of carbon dioxide emerging like butterflies from their pupa
Into the winter’s day,
The day contracted by the travelling sun,
A day as short as a gasp of surprise, light barely present.
Night shades lurking silently, the curbed hours through.
When I returned home, significant time had passed
And the opalescent moon had risen majestically to court Venus.
Under the cloth, I saw the curvaceous mound of risen bread,
No stellar acolyte, but somehow
In its microcosmic way similarly beautiful.
Trudie Shannon
Rubbish Symphony - Donald Keyman
The audience stirs from its slumber
to the sounds of the Rubbish Symphony
a complicated work usually arranged in three parts,
punctuated by interludes of indeterminate length.
The Rubbish Orchestra's arrival is a surprise
though not wholly unexpected: they like to
build the suspense before crashing onto the stage
announced by the light of a thousand suns.
Tonight's work is entitled "Paper, Glass, Food";
though each is a standalone piece and can be performed
in any order at any time, the only stipulation
is that the whole movement must be adagio and fortissimo.
Occasionally a soloist may perform an impromptu vocal part,
which can be difficult to interpret over the cacophony
of noise produced by the other instruments, but
turns the performance into a truly unique experience.
It is an art of sorts, Musique concrète if you like,
certainly concrete is usually involved for percussive effect,
and with their imaginative sequencing and use of found sounds,
the Rubbish Orchestra can never be accused of recycling old material.
Donald Keyman
Question Mark - Diane Scantlebury
It was up at the court on the hill
And in the dock stood Mark,
A beady eyed advocate questioned him
Asking him where he’d parked,
What were the road conditions?
Was it daylight or after dark?
Mark scratched his head in thoughtfulness
And tried to search his mind,
Had he parked in a proper space
Or was his wheel on the yellow line?
The judge grew impatient
And tapped his foot,
It was nearly lunchtime
And he was hungry and cross,
Mark realised then that he’d no chance
And that his case was lost,
So Mark offered up a guilty plea
Then promptly paid the fine,
The moral of this sorry tale is, if in doubt,
Don’t park on the yellow line!
Diane Scantlebury
The Price Of Fame - Lyndon Queripel
Billy can’t sing no more
He’s got nothing left to say
He broke the strings on his guitar
Before he threw it away
He’s tired of living in stardust
And wants to find his identity
With some one he can trust
And feel free in reality
But he hasn’t got another face
And there is no other place
Left to go
Billy can’t dance no more
He’s flat foot from rock’n’roll
There’s a pain in his heart
And a hole in his soul
He’s forgotten where he’s going
Can’t remember where he’s been
The winds of change are blowing
But there’s a space in between
But he hasn’t got another way
With no passion left to play
The next show
Billy can’t smile no more
His eyes wear a frozen stare
Hit a hundred miles an hour
On the road out to nowhere
He made the morning headlines
The television had a call
For no news is good news
And good news is no news at all
But he hasn’t got another song
Left over to sing along
On the radio
He lived his life by another name
But he died to pay the price of fame.
Lyndon Queripel
He’s got nothing left to say
He broke the strings on his guitar
Before he threw it away
He’s tired of living in stardust
And wants to find his identity
With some one he can trust
And feel free in reality
But he hasn’t got another face
And there is no other place
Left to go
Billy can’t dance no more
He’s flat foot from rock’n’roll
There’s a pain in his heart
And a hole in his soul
He’s forgotten where he’s going
Can’t remember where he’s been
The winds of change are blowing
But there’s a space in between
But he hasn’t got another way
With no passion left to play
The next show
Billy can’t smile no more
His eyes wear a frozen stare
Hit a hundred miles an hour
On the road out to nowhere
He made the morning headlines
The television had a call
For no news is good news
And good news is no news at all
But he hasn’t got another song
Left over to sing along
On the radio
He lived his life by another name
But he died to pay the price of fame.
Lyndon Queripel
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