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