Parade - Lyndon Queripel

Who rained on your parade
And stole the thunder
From under your feet
Who took the wind
Out of your sails
Breaking the heart of your beat
It wasn’t me was it ?

Lyndon Queripel

Days Pass - Joan Etoile

Measured by medications
The wheel of the pill dispenser 
Goes inexorably round
And is filled each week in a ritual
After breakfast and blood pressure testing.

To see that it’s safely down
To the recommended level.

On go my glasses as
The pills all look the same to me
There are so many to marshal 
Jumping like fish from the foil packets
Elusive under the furniture. 

Now which of them are for breakfast and
Which ones are to go with my tea?

Joan Etoile

Image : Pixabay - ID 27707

Dumbfold - Stephen A. Roberts

I was in the Market building  
Practising my shielding  
The island slowly yielding  
To the new dawn  

Blue mask grey eyes  
Sitting outside  
Looking so fearful  
Looking so normal  

How did we get here 
Governed by our fear 
We’re catching no colds 
All wearing dumbfolds 

Your eyes are shining  
And slowly brining 
We’re saying nothing  
Voiceless, choiceless 

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : ©Stephen A Roberts

The Old Oak - Tony Gardner

There's a big old tree in the corner
Of the field just along the way
It's the only tree around here
So it's special....well to me anyway

I've known it since I was a nipper
When I used to climb up and sit
On it's branches so strong and sturdy
And contemplate Life for a bit.

I loved to see new leaves in springtime
And the acorns as they grew then fell
Many's the time I would wonder
What stories this old tree could tell.

Did it grow from a careless dropped acorn
By a bird flying so high above
I like to think someone with vision
Planted that acorn with love

Maybe he dreamed it would flourish
And that many years after his time
A boy would climb its strong branches
And be moved to write a small rhyme.

Tony Gardner

Image : Pixabay - mbll

Owl - Richard Fleming

In a green lane in St Peter’s
near midnight, under a full moon,
a pale owl flew across my path, silently,
then low
over dark fields to the tree-line, hunting.
 
I turned
to watch his tireless sweep
over dumb ground, mist spreading like a shroud,
till I lost sight of him,
and coldness, creeping,
turned my leaden footsteps home.
 
In bed, near daybreak,
I jerk awake, heart pounding,
mindful of accelerating time, moments eaten up,
of golden, soundless wings,
that questing eye;
sharp talons reaching for my heart.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Comfreak

The Spell - Ian Duquemin

Inside a house within the wood
A bent and twisted woman stood
She chanted words beneath her breath
That called on demons, summoned death
A fire burned within her eyes
Its flames began to demonise
Her spell then mingled with the smoke
And ghostly fingers formed to choke
She gave a smile this tragic night
As smokey fingers held on tight
The bells of morning brought a crowd
The Mayor in sadness spoke aloud
The people cried at news he read
"Our Queen is dead.... OUR QUEEN IS DEAD!"
And from a house within the wood
A pretty green eyed woman stood
Uncovered from the dark of night
She danced beneath the golden light
Then called toward the oldest tree
Now all shall notice me!


Image : Market day - painted by Y. G. B. O'Neil - from the Exhibition of the Royal Academy . Artist/engraver/cartographer: Y.G. B. O`Neil. Provenance: The Illustrated London News. Type: Antique wood-engraved print. Illustrated London News full page from 17 May 1856.

Ian Duquemin

Ex-Pats - Oscar Milde

We buy the Telegraph each day
although, each day, it’s one day late
but we don’t mind, we keep abreast
with all things English anyway
and try our best to recreate
our English life. 
This foreign nest 
may offer sunshine, vino and no rain
but Lord, these foreign types can be a pain. 

We bought and now, alas, we’re stuck:
house values down, pensions undone,
so we just have to grin and bear
although we, daily, curse our luck.
We thought life here would be such fun
with friends galore 
but it’s a snare 
with ruddy Spaniards everywhere, 
bad sanitation, mozzies and sun burn.

They’re volatile, and what is more,
they hardly know a blessed word
of English when we try to shop.
It really is a dreadful bore.
They all act dumb. It’s quite absurd,
and yet the blighters talk non-stop
among themselves. 
Heads high, we keep our calm
but yearn for lovely Cheltenham.

Oscar Milde

Litter Bugs - Diane Scantlebury

We all want our freedom,
To lounge on the beach, or the park,
In the sun,
But a few inconsiderate, lazy people
Are spoiling all the fun,
Could these be the same ones?
Protesting about the state of the planet,
Or worried about climate change?
Their consciences must have escaped them,
We fear,
When they leave their litter behind them
For some other poor soul to clear.

Diane Scantlebury

Image : Guernseypoets