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

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

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

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

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