Invisible Enemy - Joan Etoile

In nearby trenches the enemy was real
He was over the top behind a hail of steel
Waiting with his gun and knife
And a picture of his wife

Some years later he came again
For 5 long years of death and pain
But we understood the threat back then
And countered it with brave women (and men)

That wasn’t the end of the totalitarian scare
It morphed into the Russian bear
In this cold war we cowered in our beds
Waiting to be vaporised by the Reds

Now we hide and wear a mask
Doing what the virus asks
Give up your job it’s more dangerous 
Than a charging rhinoceros

Never mind that there’s bills to be paid
Stay alone indoors and be afraid
Running blind in full retreat
This invisible enemy has us beat

Joan Etoile

Post-Lockdown Scenes From A Guernsey Beer Garden - J. Archer Avary

We’re back at the pub
at a table in the sun
drinking to welcome
the end of the lockdown
                          socially distanced
                          as per restrictions
                          examining faces from
                          two metres away
Over at the next table
with his back to us
a punk in a Kangol hat
sips on his Breda with
                          the aplomb of a man
                          who can pull off a thick
                          gauge double earring
                          worn without irony
Over in the corner
a Boddington’s drinker
in builder’s knee-pads and
paint-splattered trousers
                          he nurses his golden pint
                          props it up on his belly
                          like a man who doesn’t
                          want the moment to end
The atmosphere is merry
like the X-mas decorations
no one bothered to take down
when spring transformed
                          the island into a paradise
                          for flies and bees that
                          circle the table sometimes
                          landing in the beer foam

J. Archer Avary

Bard at Bay - Richard Fleming

The granite sea-wall retains heat
so here I choose to pause and watch
the bead-bright fishing-boats at rest,
or bathers, by the slipway, splash,
dive in and scream and reenact
the antics of last year’s warm days.
I try to count the fish that shoal
in hundreds down below the wall:
young mullet, camouflaged and swift,
uncountable, a multitude.

This north coast bay where I’ve washed up,
as flotsam does, is changeable:
tide hastens in, then tide retreats
and coloured boats, like fairground rides,
prance, then lie still, then dance again.
The distant islands, Herm and Sark,
slip in and out of white sea-mist.
and were I painterly, each hour
at Bordeaux surely would surprise
with some fresh image to record.

Now here I sit, the June sun sweet
as kisses on my upturned face,
the granite’s heat a remedy
for old bones nothing else will soothe.
This pleasing warmth, so comforting,
is transitory, gone too soon.
Time speeds away yet still I cleave
to this old sea-wall, granite-rough,
but, hour by hour, its heat will fade
and night will follow soon enough.

Richard Fleming

Imposter - Diane Scantlebury

He’s an imposter,
Slinks around in my fur,
Steals in through my cat flap,
Imitates my purr,
He helps himself to my dinner,
Grows fat while I grow thin,
Licks his lips and then mocks me
With a self-satisfied grin,
He’s a scamp and a bully,
With sparkling, daring eyes,
Treats my place as if it’s his own,
He loves to tantalize,
Afterwards when he’s bored
He’ll saunter across the kitchen floor,
Without as much as a backward glance,
And head home to his house next door.

Diane Scantlebury

Friend Of Mine - Ian Duquemin

Jesus was a friend of mine
We hung out every day
He asked me why I sinned so much?
And why I never pray?
I told him that I loved him
That I do the best I can
Said "I am not a preacher
I am simply just a man"
He told me of his journey
He'd come so very far
He pointed to the heavens
Towards the brightest star
He said that's where he came from
And I stood there in his spell
I wondered how this Moon child
Could have stumbled into hell?
I watched as he was talking
To the crowds that gathered round
I saw his lips were moving
But I could not hear a sound
And when I asked him later
Of the message I'd not heard
He told me not to worry
As he hadn't said a word
The further that we travelled
He moved too far ahead
It's then that I discovered
That I had been misled
I called for him to save me
But he did not hear my call
The man that I had followed
Was not a friend at all

Ian Duquemin

Depps of Depravity - Donald Keyman

I must admit I’ve hardly slept
Waiting for the latest dirt on Johnny Depp
Another day of lurid pages
Filled with tales of coke-fuelled rages
Is there a drug he didn’t do
Well, ketamine - he denies that too
Love and hate together can go
Sometimes it takes two to tango
For a prank the missus said
That she defecated in the bed
How did things get that sick
Was she bored of his pirate schtick?
The lawyers rub their hands in glee
Every day means a bigger fee
His legacy can’t be a major factor
Let's admit he's not a great actor
Forever now he’ll look back in anger
At these memories - preserved in Amber

Donald Keyman
Image: ©Anders L. Damgaard

Travellers, . . Stay At Home - Tony Bradley

God gave us talents to build homes
with limbs, and brains, to unravel
but not, the fleet foot of the antelope
nor the fishes' fins, or birds' wings, to travel.

Tony Bradley

The Troll - Tony Gardner

Deep there in the darkness underneath the bridge
Sits a scary fella, hungry for a meal
And if you don't tip-toe circumspect across
He may hear and grab you tightly by the heel
If he thinks you're tasty, he'll eat you with his bread
If he thinks you're pretty he'll take you to his bed

Underneath the dark bridge hides the scary Troll
Just waiting for his meal to come along
So tip-toe as you pass him, across his scary bridge
And never, Never, NEVER sing a song
If he catches you, he’ll eat you, with salad for his Tea
If he likes you he will cage you where none will ever see.

Tony Gardner

S.O.S. (Save Our Statues) - Oscar Milde

Prince Albert with his pier-side view
and Hugo up on Candie’s rock
must tremble, if a stone statue
can tremble when it gets a shock
as, one by one, monuments fall.
If one’s pulled down, what next, them all?

It must be worrying to be
a statue, innocent or not:
the subject of such scrutiny,
regarded by some as a blot
to be reviled, to have to move
because campaigners disapprove.

Things change, we know that, nonetheless,
while change is good, some is less so.
Should we not focus on progress,
move on from wrongs of long ago,
together face a future shared
where threatened statues may be spared?

Oscar Milde