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

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

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

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

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

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