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

Hello - Kriss Lee

© Kriss Lee

© 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

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

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

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

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

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

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