The Call - Richard Fleming

We watched a small boat on the lake:
oars dipped and rose, oars dipped and rose,
and strollers, happy, I suppose,
went by, each blind to our heartache.
We held each other, did not speak
too numb to search for words to soothe:
instead, embraced the dreadful truth
and, in truth’s loveless arms, grew weak.
An hour ago, we laughed and shopped,
drank coffee, waited for a bus,
then came the call that murdered us:
Time slowed, then stalled. Now time has stopped.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - TF3000

Armistice Day, France - Trudie Shannon

Armistice Day
And the café is two thirds empty.
Vacant seats that evoke images
Of men unknown
Who drank coffee, made love, fathered children
Teased their siblings, loved their fathers, idolised their mothers.
Unknown and faceless here and now
Yet these empty seats exude their presence somehow.
Their voices infiltrate the conversation and the music,
Their invisible footprints leave muddy trails upon the floor
And the dank smell of their unwashed bodies and uniforms
Permeates the air and outside there is a
Staccato rhythm to the silence.
It is not raining.
It is not nighttime
But there are ghosts, drifting hopeful
Around these empty tables, these vacant chairs.
And suddenly in isolation, tears cascade into my cup.

Trudie Shannon

Hello - Kriss Lee

© Kriss Lee

© Kriss Lee

I say hello to you every day
But you no longer reply
That breaks my fragile heart
And I just sit and cry

I say hello to you every day
And talk about the fools we were
How sadly now it's gone away
The memories now all become a blur

I say hello to you every day
And talk about so many things
I tell you what I'm doing now
And open up with all my feelings

I say hello to you every day
With almost a nonchalance
But my breath hitches and stutters
As yet again there's no response

I say hello to you every day
With an aching deep in my heart
Knowing no answer will come
So long it's been this way, now we're apart

I say hello to you every day
But there’s no reply, all I hear is Myself
With these trembling old hands
I replace your Urn upon the shelf

Kriss Lee

Soldier On - Lyndon Queripel

The old soldier looked down in sorrow
By the flag he once held with pride
To the valley that was now in shadow
Where all of his comrades had died
“No survivors, they are all gone“
He said as he turned to walk away
“But why should I be the only one
Who lives to fight another day ?“

Lyndon Queripel

World of Sadness - Diane Scantlebury

Yesterday I saw you,
A shadow walking,
Wearing your sorrow
Like a too heavy coat,
Your face was pale
And the sparkle had been
Extinguished,
From your once bright eyes,
Now dull, opaque opals
Stared back at me,
Where there used to be
Fiery diamonds,
You were drifting along
All the fight inside gone,
I wanted to hug and console you,
Reassure you that life
Would trundle on regardless,
But I knew this was not the time,
You were locked in your lonely
World of sadness,
And probably wouldn’t listen anyway.

Diane Scantlebury

Grief - Diane Scantlebury

Grief is a vulture silently circling,
Circling in the air,
Then swooping down at life’s lowest ebb
To pick the bones of our despair,
But those pickings are slim
When you’ve become frail and thin,
Caught up in the turmoil of sadness,
And all around you the well wishers spin
On a roulette wheel of madness,

Grief is a mantis
Quietly and mindlessly engulfing its prey,
Siphoning out the life force
As you try to struggle away,
But that struggle seems futile
When all that’ll be left is dry bone,
And only years of frayed memories to clutch
After the one you’ve loved has gone.

Diane Scantlebury

In comfort, in debt - Tony Bradley

Washed onto the shore, lifeless, that dear little angel
such heartbreaking sadness, beyond words, and verse
and imagine, beyond this tragedy and evil
his family, his people, are fleeing from worse.

We all have to do something, this mustn't go on
money, possessions, or time we can give
lobby our leaders, form one loud voice
we owe that dear angel, as long as we live.

Tony Bradley.

That Awful Truth - Trudie Shannon

You will be the source of a thousand thousand
Heartrending songs and poems.
For your small footprints never graced
Any kind of promised land,
No one opened a welcoming hand to aid you.
You lie dead, in a canvas bag, tied at the neck
Beside the bags that hold your brother and your mummy.
Placed lovingly, agonisingly in the hand dug grave,
By your daddy,
Back in the homeland that you all had fled
That homeland torn apart, destroyed, oozing terror and death
Where the sun bears down
And the bombs and mortars continue to fall
Heavy, toxic, killing rain.
You, one small boy,
One in an excruciating line, of thousands upon thousands,
Yet it is
The image of your one, small, inert body
Lying prone upon the wave lapped sand
That will haunt and layer guilt upon millions.
One small boy, dark haired and beautiful
Fleeing for life but whose life was stolen
Not by bombs, water, the sea
But by wilful blindness and man’s crass inhumanity.

Trudie Shannon

When Grief Hits - Diane Scantlebury

When there are no tears left
And you’re in that grey, twilight shadow place
Where grief finally hits you,
You busy yourself with the trivia of everyday
And the insignificant suddenly becomes important,
In the sadness zone
You’re sleep walking through the motions,
Not knowing where you are,
A fog of sorrow descends
Its heavy, cold arm drapes over your shoulder
As if to console you,
But brings no comfort,

When grief finally hits you
You’re vulnerable and unprepared,
Nothing makes sense anymore
So you stumble aimlessly,
Trying to break free
From the grip of the sad mist,
For in your heart you know
The sorrow can’t last forever.

Diane Scantlebury

(The Quandary Of) A Painful Loss - Ian Renouf-Watkins

Fire burned inside his head
Stole any rational thought
Flames leaving only dread
His pulse would fall to nought

Muscles tensed eyes closed
Draining his last reserves
A painful and final choke
Delivered his craved dessert

Hot tears so openly shed
Though not for very long
As many were glad he’s dead
When they heard he’d gone

Light faded from his sight
A vacuum shut out sound
Losing in his final fight
And sent to the burial mound

Many came wept to mourn
And a few they lingered on
All were cut, so badly torn
Not seeing right from wrong

We watched his awful pain
Sobbed quietly out of sight
But now he’s thrown his chains
We can celebrate the light

Ian Renouf-Watkins

Grief - Trudie Shannon

Image Source: Trudie Shannon

Grief - Trudie Shannon

At dusk, with a blackbirds song and drizzle.
On the table, the empty whiskey bottle.
Beside it the uncorked wine, blood red.
The man, a shuffling automaton cooks tasteless food,
The processed wheat and the morsels of dead flesh
Are as grey as his features, as grey as his life.
All words are forbidden in the brittle atmosphere
He is as heavy as a ton of feathers,
As the lead that wraps itself around his windows,
His silence curdles thoughts in process
Twists love into glass fragments.
He sits while the pot boils, a head of steam singing.
In the barren stillness
The dogs pad in, coated in dew and constancy
Their panting breath like a gasp of wind escaped.
He sits and reaches out his grey hand, a reluctant desire
Encapsulating him in spite of himself.
His friend takes it in affirming warmth and promise
And the man bows his head and weeps.

Trudie Shannon