I Must Have Been A Naughty Boy - Tony Gardner

All  last  year  I  was  so  good
As  little  boys  and  grown  men  should
I  tried  so  hard  you  see  because 
I  had  written  to  Santa  Claus.
For  I  had  seen  on  Amazon
What  he  could  bring  on  his  next  run
Nectar  sweet  from  a  Scots  Glen
Brewed  for  discerning  gentlemen.
Much  better  than  cheap stuff  I  sip
Which  puckers  up  my  upper  lip
I  thought  he might  for  I'd  been  good
As  little  boys  and  grown  men  should
…..
I  went  excited  to  my  bed
Slept  soon  as  Pillow  touched  my  head.
Dreamt  I  could  see  old  Rudolph’s  glow
Through  the  thickly  falling  snow. 
I  woke  up  early  bleary-eyed
Hoped  he’d  left  something  on  the  side
Like  Single  Malt,  but  never  guessed
He'd  leave  a  gift  not  of  the  best.
Tiptoed  downstairs,  then  my  heart  broke
At  the  miniature bottle  and  small   can  of  Coke

Tony Gardner

Image : Pixabay - Ebweb/thuanvo

A Guernsey Carol - Tony Gardner

In  fields  above  the  bay  of  Saints  this  moonlit  Christmas  night
A  donkey's  old  folk  memories  rekindle  and  take  flight
    To  that first  night
 
The  blessedness  of  Christmas  Day  steals  over  all the  land
Enveloping  each  tree  and  field,  the  cattle  where  they  stand
   With  glory  grand.
 
Then  to  a  donkey  in  the  fields  came  age  old  memories  strong,   
How  brilliant  was  the  sky  that  night,  how  sweet  the  angels  song
   In  radiance  hung 
 
That  night  Christ  came  to  save  us  all,  a  pauper  yet  a  King
Poor  shepherds  came  to  honour  Him, the  Lord  of  Everything
   While  angels  sing
 
A  donkey  brought  the  blessed  pair  the  long  and  torturous  way
And  stayed  beside  them  through  their  trials,  until  that  won'drous  day
    When  softly  in  the  hay
 
Our  Lord  reposed,  at  last  God's  gift   so  precious  and  so  true
Here  amongst  us,  God  on  earth,  The  prophesy  come  true
   Life  for  me  and  you
 
In  fields  above  the  bay  of  Saints  this  moonlit  Christmas  night
A  donkey's  old  folk  memories  rekindle  and  take  flight
    To  that first  night
 
To  that  first  Christmas  night.

Tony Gardner


Image : Pixabay - geralt

Cheese - Stephen A. Roberts

My drug of choice is simply cheese
Grated in a bag just for ease
It’s the ultimate snack it
Works so well on a buttered jacket

Then at night the terrors come
Spawned by that evil cheddar crumb
Dadaist visions of flying cars
Skimming on the surface of Mars

Drowning under thick sheets of ice
Or chased and eaten by giant lice
Flying high with fantastic beasts
Soaring on the wings of my cheesy feast

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - Hans

Sweet Afton - Robert Burns (1759–1796)

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning leaps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowrets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream

Robert Burns

Image : Pixabay - DuncanNelson

I Used To Be A Dreamer - Lyndon Queripel

I used to be a dreamer
I had faith to keep
But now I just can’t sleep
The dawn will break
And I’m still awake
The Sun will rise in my eyes

I used to be a dreamer
And you know it’s true
That I had visions too
Now there’s a part
Deep in my heart
Where memories just freeze

I used to be a dreamer
Sowing seeds to reap
But now I just can’t sleep
The shadows fall
On the wall
On my bed and in my head

I used to be a dreamer
Lost in my own mind
But I’ve been left behind
The time has passed
Much too fast
Where did it go I don’t know.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - LeandroDeCarvalho

Wren - Richard Fleming

See
the wren,
resplendent:
her clever eye,
her sweet essence. Deep, let her sleep be deep;
there, let the green hedge be her perfect bed;
the rye, the reed,
be her screen;
shelter
her.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - Nature-Pix

Veteran - Stephen A. Roberts

In the smoke and flattened fields
your comrades walked into oblivion;
you were left to face
a hundred years alone

Now you are fêted
and they ask you,
before you fade into history,
what was it like?

A tear comes,
it is for the fallen:
and for the
world still at war

Stephen A. Roberts

Remember, Remember… - Traditional

One of many versions of this traditional chant

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.

By god's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

Traditional
Image : Pixabay - anncapictures

Old Mag - Oscar Milde

Old Mag the hag sat with her cat,
she in her chair, it on its mat.
She muttered intermittently
as so befits a retiree
but what she muttered was not kind
she had unpleasantness in mind.
From time to time she cast a spell
or brewed herbs with a pungent smell
to conjure up, a witches’ trick,
a demon or perhaps, Old Nick.
Instead, to her intense surprise,
she got a maiden with blue eyes,
long silver cloak, curls on her head.
I am your Good Fairy, she said.
Three wishes I am granting you.
Come on, be quick, it’s time I flew.
Oh give me money! Hag Mag cried.
A chest appeared with gold inside.
Next wish? Speak up and speak the truth.
Give me great beauty, please, and youth.
Then Mag was altered in a flash
so she had beauty, youth and cash.
One last wish, then I’ve got to go:
you’ve got the cash and beauty, so?
Mag cried, please turn my young cat, Vince,
into a sexy, handsome Prince.
When this was done, the Fairy went.
Mag told the “Prince” of her intent:
long nights of passion, love and lust
until they’d jolly well combust.
The “Prince”, her former cat, looked sad.
He said, now look here, don’t get mad.
I’ll do my best but you’ll regret
the day you took me to the vet.

Oscar Milde


Image : Pixabay - StockSnap

The Face Of Truth - Lyndon Queripel

I don’t want to know
The headline news today
Or what the morning papers
Have got to say
Nor hear the hourly show
Blow by blow 
On the programmed radio

I don’t want to read 
The propaganda page
Where freedom is kept
Locked in a cage
And I don’t need 
To know how you succeed
To feed all of your greed

The face of truth is in disguise 
Behind a web of media lies

I don’t want to recall
I’m trying to forget
How the cost of living
And the Third World debt
Will rise and fall
On a street called Wall
Or the secret of it all

I don’t want to see
Another live transmission
Or anymore of the war
On the evening television
When will we be free
From the inhumanity
And all the insanity

The face of truth is a mystery
Behind a veil of media unreality.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - OpenClipart-Vectors

La Roque Lane - Tony Gardner

In the nooks  and  the  corners  of  La Roque  Lane
Images,  memories  ever  remain
That  was  where  my  education  was  gained
In  the  soft,  mossy  corners  of La Roque Lane

There  I  learned  about  women,  much  as  a man  can
For  ladies  are  ever  so  not  like  a  man
Of  what  we  discovered  they  did  not  complain
While  learning  our  lessons  in  La  Roque  Lane

There's  a  green  shaded  corner in  La  Roque Lane
That  sweetly  and  softly  will  ever retain
Mem'ries  of  youth  and  of  young  love  that  died
Life's  lessons  learned  as  we  laughed  and  we  cried

And  though  I  am  happy,  content  with  my  life
And  deeply  and  dearly  in  love  with  my  wife
Sometime  I  dream  of  those  bright  days  again
In  that  green quiet corner  in  La Roque  Lane.

Tony Gardner

Image : Pixabay - JACLOU-DL

September Song - Richard Fleming

Outside the parish church, we pause,
exchange the old banalities
we flee to, at such times, because
we cannot face finality,
then nod, acknowledging a friend,
shake sundry hands, and hasten on
but cannot really comprehend
that one so long beloved has gone.

She seemed so permanent and set
on living, never letting go,
to relish life and joy and yet 
seemed not to see death as a foe.
The very air appears tight-lipped
as though the earth has ceased to sing.
It is as though the world has tipped
and scattered, headlong, everything.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Placidplace

The Final Journey - Stephen A. Roberts

And so it came the end of life
In Balmoral heralded by pipes
Via Edinburgh to London, the resting places
All of them lined with mourning faces

Near Poets’ Corner in the Lantern room
Atop the catafalque in the eerie gloom
A normal lady who by twist of fate
Came to be our Head of State

Outside, a dying carpet of wilted flowers
Lies beneath the royal towers
Where the bereft masses queue
Hoping to get just one last view

From the Thames a tide of tears
Flows to salute 70 long years
Strangers unite in a shared grief
Old soldiers salute their CinC

The people weep to see the end
Victorious they can no longer send
Her Majesty, their revered Queen
The only monarch they’ve known or seen

Citizens of every stripe and sex
Shuffle through to pay respects
A man in sandals and white socks
Stares in reverence at the box

Tomorrow then is the final day
The cortège will make its way
In the shadow of the Shard
Past the silent funeral guard

From the Abbey a stepping stone
Through London streets once her own
To Windsor Castle where by default
She will rest in the Royal Vault

Bells will ring and cannons fire
Along the journey to the shires
Past transport hubs and corner shops
And across the Nation, things will stop

Stephen A. Roberts

Floral Tribute - Simon Armitage

© Simon Armitage
       Poet Laureate


Image : © Daily Mail

Coronation - Richard Fleming

That day in 1953
my family watched it on TV,
an innovation in our house.
I sat, as timid as a mouse,
enchanted by the pageantry,
the Coronation coach, the glee
of onlookers with Union Jacks,
the smooth-faced footmen made from wax,
toy-soldiers, cavalry, and guards
in uniforms like Christmas cards
We gazed in wonder and delight
at images in black and white
yet even monochrome impressed:
imagination did the rest.
I saw the young Queen, head erect,
in ceremonial robes bedecked,
her features, solemn and composed,
stiff-upper-lipped, thoughts undisclosed,
for in those far-off, post-war days
we still clung to our British ways
so joy and sorrow were suppressed,
not on parade: we thought it best.
But that day, gathered round the set,
a loud, exuberant quartet,
we sang God Save The Queen and cheered
till the last image disappeared.

Richard Fleming


Image : Twitter - @BarbaraRich_law

Silver Blue Eyes - Tony Gardner

Silver blue  skies
And  stars    diamond  bright 
Bring  nothing  but  coldness
And  frost  ghostly  white
Just  as  behind  beauty
A  cold  heart might  live
Selfish  with  no  warmth
Or   sweet  love   to  give
And  I  found  excuses
For  your  coldness  and  lies
But  the  truth  always  showed
In  your  silver blue  eyes.
 
Tony Gardner  


Image : Pixabay - cocoparisienne

Marry in Haste - Tony Gardner

She  met  him  on  a  Liner
On  a  Grecian  Islands  cruise
There beneath  soft,  starry  skies
And  quite  a  lot of  booze
They  fell  in  love one  evening
And  before  the  cruise was  done
The  Captain  of  the  ship had  spoke
Making  them  both  one
Back  at  home  cracks  soon  appeared
He  wanted  for  each  meal
Garlic  this  and  Garlic  that
Though  sick  it  made  her  feel
Then  they  were  both  invited
To  his  daughter  to  be fed
But  all  she  got  to  eat  there  
Garlic  chicken,  garlic  bread
She  couldn't  take  it  any  longer
Screaming,  out  the  house  she  ran
Straight  back  home,  she  couldn't  sleep  
And  the  murders  then  began.

Tony Gardner


Image : Pixabay - tigertravel

Cruising Into The Sunset - Stephen A. Roberts

The excursion bus awaits
Another day another shrine
All across Europe
We follow time
Back for lunch
And package wine
Siesta by the pool
Under hillside vines
Tomorrow we visit
Another Guggenheim
The days blur by
Living on borrowed time
Boarding, boarded
On down the line
We’re in a city
Scored by tramlines
Don’t get lost and miss
The sailing deadline
The heat beats down
In these foreign climes
The views confuse
Our average age is 99

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Guernseypoets

Someone Else’s War - Richard Fleming

We thought the war was far away
and spoiling someone else’s day
but suddenly things took a turn:
on telly we saw rockets burn
across the sky, cities were hit …
our cities. That’s what started it.
It seems that one lot broke the rules
and used their nukes, the bloody fools.
Then other nutters used theirs too
and smashed the nuclear taboo.
New York, Rome, Moscow, Gay Paree …
our own dear London ceased to be
and countless millions were surprised
to find that they’d been vaporised.
It seems unfair: we bought the flags,
donated clothes in plastic bags,
showed solidarity online,
agreed that Putin was a swine,
said worthy things on Twitter too …
what else were we supposed to do?
The Government, in whom we trust,
tell us a cloud of deadly dust
will come our way and pretty soon
but, sadly, no one is immune.
It’s radiation: stuff, we’re told
will kill us slowly. We’re consoled
that all our neighbours, too, will die
so this small note’s to say goodbye
but who’s to read it, for the dust
gets everybody, as it must.
We hug each other, whisper love.
The sky is darkening above.
We thought, it’s someone else’s war:
alas, it isn’t any more.

Richard Fleming

Image : © When the Wind Blows - Raymond Briggs

The Creek-Road - Madison Julius Cawein

Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue
That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach
Of water sings by sycamore and beech,
In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.
It is a page whereon the sun and dew
Scrawl sparkling words in dawn's delicious speech;
A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,
Dissect each scent and analyze each hue.
Not otherwise than beautiful, doth it
Record the happ'nings of each summer day;
Where we may read, as in a catalogue,
When passed a thresher; when a load of hay;
Or when a rabbit; or a bird that lit;
And now a bare-foot truant and his dog.

Madison Julius Cawein


Image : Pixabay - KIMDAEJEUNG

The Raven - Ian Duquemin

The Raven
Drenched in darkness
Eyes observing everything
Life... Death... Perversion
Unable to separate
As all is one
Life... The beginning of all ends
Death... The end of all beginnings
Perversion... All that lies between
There is no escape on these fragile wings
As only sorrow is truth
From a baby's cry to the final breath
The Raven observes you all

Ian Duquemin


Image : Pixabay - blackrabbitkdj

The Cry Of The Cicada - Matsuo Basho

The cry of the cicada
Gives us no sign
That presently it will die.



Matsuo Basho



Image : Pixabay - englishcityceo

Translation : William George Aston

About Poetry - Kathy Figueroa

These days, pretty much anything goes
From measured meter to free-form prose
From haiku, odes, or tossed “word salads”
To precisely presented ballads
 
Like crickets chirp, wolves howl, and birds sing
To express one’s self is the main thing
So share your thoughts, let the words ring true
We learn from each other’s points of view
 
Kathy Figueroa


Image : GuernseyPoets

Where I Belong - Tony Gardner

There  is  much  excitement
So  much  vibrance  and  delight
In  the  heart  of  the  big  City
With  the  garish  City Lights
And  if  that's  what  excites  you
If  that's  what  turns  you  on,
Well  go  off  and  enjoy  it
But  just  leave  me  alone
For  here  on  my  little  Island
I  have  all  that  I  dream  of
My  family,  childhood  mem'ries
And  the  people  that  I  love.

Tony Gardner


Image : Pixabay - cegoh

Shooting Pains - Richard Fleming

Another day, another mall,
another shooting to appall
the world, astonished, that looks on
and, once again, the ghastly spawn
of frontier days produces nerds
who shoot, as though at bison herds,
and random bullets rip apart
some stranger’s brain, her lung, his heart.
For seconds, time’s arrested, then
restarts: the screaming starts again
in this red space, Hell’s ghastly twin,
as mall-security kicks in
too late, of course: the murdered child,
eviscerated and defiled,
the adults’ bodies, gutted, thrown
aside like debris, entrails, bone
exposed. These people won’t resume
their lively shopping in this tomb.
The shooter’s down: restrained, he screams
about his foul, frustrated dreams.
As sirens shriek, survivors cling,
to one another, anything
that has a heart that’s beating yet.
Blood spreads like a grotesque rosette.
 
Richard Fleming


Image : conversationprints.com

Nice Out - Joan Etoile

Do you remember ‘76?
When we were told to save all our drips
The reservoir was cracked and dry
And it was too hot for potato peel pie

I don’t remember too much fuss
The boiling sunshine didn’t worry us
All we had to do was bath with a friend
To save ourselves from a gruesome end

Cooking oil was our sunscreen
While we cooled off with Mr Whippy ice cream
No one had a hat or UV brolly
And Zoom was just another ice lolly

The weather warnings are so much tripe
How else will all my tomatoes get ripe?
Why all this panic, why all this blether?
It’s just a spot of bloney nice weather!

Then today in the Co-op I’m taken to task
By a group of children who all ask
“How can you be a climate change denier
When, like, most of France is on fire?”

Joan Etoile


Image : Pixabay - geralt

O Captain! My Captain! - Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
       But O heart! heart! heart!
         O the bleeding drops of red,
           Where on the deck my Captain lies,
             Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up- for you the flag is flung- for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
       Here Captain! dear father!
         This arm beneath your head!
           It is some dream that on the deck,
             You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
       Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
         But I with mournful tread,
           Walk the deck my Captain lies,
             Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman

Image : Pixabay - AlexSky

Preparation - Stephen A. Roberts

It’s on the TV now 
The things never discussed 
The inevitable 
The return to dust 
My parents never faced it 
Left a mountain behind 
For jumble sales 
And recycling yards 
Someone’s lucky find 

Let’s go through all my junk 
A catalogue of loss 
The indispensable 
The metal and the rust 
It seems a shame to waste it 
To throw it all away 
Memories and 
Faded photographs 
Of those salad days 

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - Alexas_Fotos

Sanctity - Jude Neale

Baby’s  in the cradle 
because you 
put her there, buddy.

While mommy cried, no
more subdividing my body
into plots, then setting up house. 

Selling our uterus for votes,
and using moral superiority 
as your shield.

You were a thief in the night.

Laying claim to our bodies
with a flourish of the pen,

that cut through our choice,
to render the impossible, possible.

You who have no place
in our reproductive biography.

We shout like a black cloud
of crows,  to get off of our land—

or we’ll leave the dishes and children,
    the cooking and tending,
the factories and hospitals,
     nursing homes and banks,
schools and prisons,
    ghettos and suburbs behind.

All those places that are held
together by the glue of our kindness,

will whither and die. And throwing 
nice aside for a moment 

let It be said that 
our biggest enemy

is simply shaking our heads,

instead of plunging 
into a battle 
for the sanctity 

of our own bloody lives.

Jude Neale

Image : Pixabay - jeffjacobs1990

Tamara Lich - Kathy Figueroa

Tamara Lich is like Canada’s
Very own Joan of Arc
Though she didn’t lead soldiers to battle
But truckers to Ottawa to park
 
Where they were met with vitriol
Of the most calumnious kind
When a Liberal honcho to talk to
Was what they had hoped to find
 
The people longed to be heard
To make their concerns known
But for “mandated” impacts on their lives
Rude political disregard was shown
 
The truckers were defamed as “terrorists”
Lies were disseminated far and wide
And the person occupying Canada’s main office
Actually chose to run and hide
 
Similar to the men
Who declared Joan of Arc a witch
So have Liberal Parliamentarians
Reviled brave Tamara Lich
 
Though they can’t just seize her
And burn her at the stake
They can level charges of dubious merit
...Some possibly even fake
 
So, here’s to Tamara Lich
May she ever be brave and strong!
Canada, people still stand on guard for thee
Though some politicians pretend it’s wrong

Kathy Figueroa


Image : Toronto 99 Independent News

Rescue Dog - Tony Gardner

There’s no need to flinch when I lift my hand
No need to cower each time I stand
No need to run when I come near
No need to tremble, I see your fear.
You can sleep with both eyes shut,
Don’t need to jump when you wake up
Your food is yours to eat in peace
No need to fight to keep your feast.
No need to lie on the cold, hard floor
The beds and the sofas are yours to explore
Don’t need to sit out in the rain
The house is your shelter, your new domain.
I cannot erase the memories and fears
Cannot compensate for those awful years
But all that we have and all that you see
Is yours, ….you’re now part of our family.

Tony Gardner


Image : Pixabay - Alexas_Fotos

Rough Beast - Richard Fleming

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
W B Yeats
 
Beware. Down in the woods today
the Teddy Bears have gone away
and, in their place, a monstrous beast,
by some foul chance, has been released,
perhaps the beast Yeats wrote about.
It has great antlers and a snout
but walks upright, with slouching gait,
and fiery eyes brimful of hate.
Yeats’ famous poem got it right:
it’s written there in black and white.
Life’s started imitating art.
The centre’s gone.
Things fall apart.

Richard Fleming

Image : "The Thing What Whispers" by Kat Philbin (@stupidanimals)

Beyond the Sea and Sky - Ian Duquemin

I walked the rugged cliff paths from the high land to the sea
With only Mother Nature as my welcomed company
Beneath my feet the fallen leaves lay naked on the ground
I sat and breathed the life of air and relished what I'd found
The only sound is silence, I have found some peace at last
It takes away the troubles of a most pathetic past
I think that I will stay awhile and sing with seagulls high
And wonder what's beyond the joining of the sea and the sky

Ian Duquemin

Image : Pixabay - diego_torres

Summer Magic - Leslie Pinckney Hill (1880-1960)

So many cares to vex the day,
    So many fears to haunt the night,
My heart was all but weaned away
    From every lure of old delight.
Then summer came, announced by June,
    With beauty, miracle and mirth.
She hung aloft the rounding moon,
    She poured her sunshine on the earth,
She drove the sap and broke the bud,
    She set the crimson rose afire.
She stirred again my sullen blood,
    And waked in me a new desire.
Before my cottage door she spread
    The softest carpet nature weaves,
And deftly arched above my head
    A canopy of shady leaves.
Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies,
    Her days were bowers rife with song,
And many a scheme did she devise
    To heal the hurt and soothe the wrong.
For on the hill or in the dell,
    Or where the brook went leaping by
Or where the fields would surge and swell
    With golden wheat or bearded rye,
I felt her heart against my own,
    I breathed the sweetness of her breath,
Till all the cark of time had flown,
    And I was lord of life and death.

Leslie Pinckney Hill


Image : Pixabay - Fotorech

Model Behaviour - Joan Etoile

I’m at ease with nudity
I was an artist’s model in’53!
I’d disrobe without a care
And disport myself upon a chair

In creativity’s name I would undress
I felt no shame at my naked flesh
When I was rendered into paint
It often made the young boys faint

Now I’m old and a bit wrinkly
I’ve been posing for the College of FE
Just like the old days they sketched in awe
Warts and all, just what they saw

So it came as a bit of a surprise
When the thought police arrived
Invoked some archaic obscenity laws
And hid me down a corridor

Joan Etoile


Image : Guernsey Press

A Jelly-Fish - Marianne Moore

Visible, invisible,
A fluctuating charm,
An amber-colored amethyst
Inhabits it; your arm
Approaches, and
It opens and
It closes;
You have meant
To catch it,
And it shrivels;
You abandon
Your intent—
It opens, and it
Closes and you
Reach for it—
The blue
Surrounding it
Grows cloudy, and
It floats away
From you.

Marianne Moore


Image : Pixabay - sarangib

1967 - Lyndon Queripel

What happened to the flowers
You used to wear in your hair
Now you have grey streaks there
What happened to the people
That so long ago it seems
All shared the same dreams
The heaven of nineteen sixty seven
A summer of love and peace
When the young were so strong

Were the days of freedom
Just numbered on charts
A club of only lonely hearts
Tomorrow may never know
But if it was guaranteed
Would the blossoms go to seed
The heaven of ninety sixty seven
For me the music was the key
But things got strange, began to change

There was something in the air
Do you recall before the fall
It just transcended it all
Life was dear and love was free
But without a shadowed doubt
The spirit has been all sold out
The heaven of nineteen sixty seven
A promise of skies to kiss
Words were spoken and then broken.

Lyndon Queripel


Image : Pixabay - keaton

Kosmos - Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

Who includes diversity, and is Nature,
Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth, and the equilibrium also,
Who has not look'd forth from the windows, the eyes, for nothing, or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing;
Who contains believers and disbelievers - Who is the most majestic lover;
Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the aesthetic, or intellectual,
Who, having consider'd the Body, finds all its organs and parts good;
Who, out of the theory of the earth, and of his or her body, understands by subtle analogies all other theories,
The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of These States;
Who believes not only in our globe, with its sun and moon, but in other globes, with their suns and moons;
Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day, but for all time, sees races, eras, dates, generations,
The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.

Walt Whitman


Image : Pixabay - LoganArt

Bumble - Tony Gardner

Bumble on  the  Bramble blossom.
Busy, buzzing, bumbling  Bee
Blackbird  fluting from  the  branches
Leads  the pastoral  symphony.
Breezes  brush  their  baby  kisses
On  my  skin  to  pure  delight
And  the  summer  sun  is  warming
All  in  this  sweet  world  is  right.
Dancing  in  and  out  of  memories
Like  the  sunbeams  through  the  trees
From  the  long,  hard  years  I've  weathered
Scenes  return  to  sting  or  tease
Running  barefoot  on  the  shingle
Down  towards  that  crystal  sea
Still  I  taste  the  salty  water
Through  the  years  of  history.
Bumble  on  the  Bramble  blossom
Busy,  buzzing,  bumbling  bee
Taking  me  to  where,  I  wonder
Are  you  happier  than me ?

Tony Gardner


Image : Pixabay - Emphyrio

The Great Man - Stephen A. Roberts

We sit and wait in hushed reverence
as the great man - with hair like mine, and C&A clothes - 
arose
The Laureate.
The priest of prose. 
He spoke in quiet Yorkshire tones
of his joy of working with girls and boys
and like a visiting stand-up cracked 
that he found here weird 
and could not pronounce Aurigny 
OR-EEEE-KNEE we all mouthed. 

Then he read from selected works
with an emphasis on the coast
a place for him exotic as the moon
he told us of his penniless Pennine walks
where he would literally
earn a crust living on his words:
those words arranged like the blocks
of the dry stone walls
in his native land, solidly built
with meaningful gaps between
inspiration for an installation -
the plaques inscribed with his
works - his Stanza Stones.

Then questions from the audience
who by then were almost mute
afraid to look the fool
before the ruler of rhyme
in his casual wear
I too was silent - what could I have asked - 
how was Lockdown? - we all knew - 
he spent it in his shed with the famous 
and a TV crew
despite his self- effacing air he is
quietly industrious with massive self belief
likes Bowie and OMD and
is a wannabe rock star just like me:
but the gulf between he and I
is as ‘twixt land and sky.

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Stephen A. Roberts

A Minor Chord - Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1855-1919)

I heard a strain of music in the street -
A wandering waif of sound. And then straightway
A nameless desolation filled the day.
The great green earth that had been fair and sweet,
Seemed but a tomb; the life I thought replete
With joy, grew lonely for a vanished May.
Forgotten sorrows resurrected lay
Like bleaching skeletons about my feet.

Above me stretched the silent, suffering sky,
Dumb with vast anguish for departed suns
That brutal Time to nothingness has hurled.
The daylight was as sad as smiles that lie
Upon the wistful, unkissed mouths of nuns,
And I stood prisoned in an awful world.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Image : Pixabay - Vladvictoria

Money Tree - Donald Keyman

another day another scam 
not just by people on the lam 
a wall, a movie, a culture centre 
grants and handouts to the highest tender 

this film needs money to start shooting 
(not quite as much as the Lagan looting) 
though that would make a tasty screenplay 
with disaster lurking just an email away 

to get more people to visit these parts 
they'll spaff more money on the arts 
Hugo this, Hugo that, spend more cash 
it's just more mindless balderdash 

rattling around on broken roads 
are we the envy of the toads 
or are these islands just the same 
with politicians just as lame?  

Donald Keyman

Image : Pixabay - mohamed_hassan

Paris - Richard Fleming

we meet on a sunlit bridge                  in an ancient city in spring
and our shadows merge                        we meet like eager lovers
inhaling sweetness                                        your cool skin scent
apple blossom                                                    drenches my lips
the river                                                                           the light
sings                                                                                     sings
wings                                                                                 wishes
or prayers                                                                      unspoken
sweep overhead                                                 escape like birds
we stand like statues                                our lips eyes fingertips
our vows now set in stone                connect to become but one
sky a purple mass of starlings     stretching beyond and beyond

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - congerdesign

I Can’t Think To Seem Straight - Lyndon Queripel

I can’t think to seem straight
No, I can’t think
For myself or on my feet
Of the names to the faces
On the street
My mind is blank
Missing a link
I can’t think to seem straight
No, I can’t think
Of what to say when we meet
I feel my heart
Skip a beat
My mind is blank
My eyes just blink

I can’t think to seem straight
No, I can’t think
I’m overcome by the heat
Without a shadow
Left to retreat
My mind is blank
I need a drink
I can’t think to seem straight
No, I can’t think
Without an object to defeat
 I can’t sleep
And I can’t eat
My mind is blank
I start to shrink
I can’t think to seem straight
No, I can’t think.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - ErikaWittlieb

A Poet's Last Stand - Ian Duquemin

I am so frail that I can barely breathe
Yet my mind refuses rest
My pen dilly dally's across paper like a stone skips on water
Spider ink scrawls from my scatty thoughts, as though a madman has moved into my head... With squatter's rights well learned
Is this to be my epitaph? Like so many "lasts"
Surely this cannot be my masterpiece. My pièce de résistance. My Magnum Opus
But in truth... I am only a poet... Always the dreamer... So then... I am but a fool

Ian Duquemin

Image : Pixabay - cromaconceptovisual

Graffiti - Stephen A. Roberts

The tags remain
On the overpass
Under bridges, girders
On countless spans

Illegal artistry that
Makes you look
Past the pages
Of your book

He was no Banksy
But he was gifted
Brightening up
The concrete brickwork

Dodging goods trains
And the cops
He honed his craft
Between the stops

Now he’s gone
Yes it’s a pity
He didn’t hear
The rescheduled Intercity

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - user_id:652234

The Custard Fields - Tony Gardner

The  Custard  fields  are  now  in  bloom
It  must  be  harvested  as  soon
As  we  can  get  the  wet  crop  sold
And  turn  the  yellow  into  gold.
The  neighbours  so  admire  the  sight
And  beg  and  plead  with  all  their  might 
To  let  sunshiney-bright  plants  stay
And  cheer  us  just  one  other  day.

But  if  we  hesitate  we  may
Miss  the  market, lose  our  pay.
The  country's  crying  out  for  this
Sweet  yellow  custard   for  their  dish
Of  rhubarb,  apple  pie  or  prunes 
It   can't  be  a  day  too  soon
Tomorrow  t'will  be  cut  and  canned
And  there'll  be  smiles  throughout  the  land.

Tony Gardner

PS   I  hope  you  know  this  is  a  jape
It's  really  just  a  field  of  Rape.


Image : Pixabay - blickpixel

May Is Back - Richard Le Gallienne (1866 - 1947)

May is back, and You and I
Are at the stream again -
The leaves are out,
And all about
The building birds begin
To make a merry din:
May is back, and You and I
Are at the dream again.

May is back, and You and I
Lie in the grass again, -
The butterfly
Flits painted by,
The bee brings sudden fear,
Like people talking near;
May is back, and You and I
Are lad and lass again.

May is back, and You and I
Are heart to heart again, -
In God's green house
We make our vows
Of summer love that stays
Faithful through winter days;
May is back, and You and I
Shall never part again.

Richard Le Gallienne


Image : Pixabay - GuentherDillingen

Ebb And Flow - Marianna Pliakou

The beaches here
never grow old.
Just as the rocks raise
their bulky bodies from the deep,
they are covered
by the next wave.

The islanders
know from children
of the constant flux –
the sands that become seabed
that becomes sands.

They have learnt to gauge
and test themselves against time
as the sea tests
its strength
in swallowing.

Marianna Pliakou


Image : Guernseypoets

Pie In The Sky - Donald Keyman

When your family can’t be fed
And it’s almost cheaper to be dead
You take stock and wonder why
Our leaders all want pie in the sky

Their ludicrously grandiose schemes
Will rip the purse at its seams
Looking for money we don’t have
Cos it was spent by Uncle Gav

They want a shining mini Monaco
Where only the moneyed rich can go
For tax-free fuel and their super yachts
While the proletariat can only watch

Grandstanding in the House they boast
Of their imaginary tunnel on the coast
An airport that can handle B-52s;
It’s a shopping list writ by fools

Donald Keyman


Image : Guernseypoets/Pixabay - pierre9x6