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

Inside the Bluebird - Ian Duquemin

I sit on my bed that is made from a door
My feet on a rug neatly placed on the floor
The wood burner glows as a log does ignite
I gaze at the warmth of its flickering light
Shadows move freely like spirits at play
The rain on the roof washing daytime away
A spiral of smoke rises up to the skies
As the flames come alive in my eyes

Inside the Bluebird, a magical place
My very own home and my very own space
No more am I lonely and never more free
An Indian's eyes they look down upon me
Telling me I should give thanks for this day
The spirits will chant all my worries away
Sandalwood incense that hangs in the air
I breathe in to heal and repair

Ian Duquemin


Image : Pinterest

Guernsey Blood - Tony Gardner

Guernsey gache and Conger stew, parsnip soup and Beanjar too
Moulin Huet, Rocquaine Bay, parades on Liberation Day
Golden Guernsey cows and goats, beach hut baskets, Whoopee floats
L'Ancresse common, Castel hill, Hanois lighthouse beaming still
Belgreve and the Salerie, these things mean so much to me.

Talbot valley, Bathing pools, ghosts of Blanchelands clifftop schools
Pleinmont point, Fort Pezerie, Guernsey blood runs strong in me
The Cannon rock at Petit Port, the almost vanished Jerbourg Fort
Golfers on the L'Ancresse course, southern cliffs ablaze with gorse
Small streams tumbling to the sea, these things mean so much to me.

The Longfrie and the Wayside Cheer, "Pony" ales and "V.B." beer
Creasey's and Alladin's Cave, the Pollet and the States Arcade
Rouge Rue, Grand Rue, Vauquiedors, Keyprice and Le Riches Stores
Val de Terres and Vauxbelets, the little harbour at Saints Bay
Because I'm Guernsey bred you see, these things mean so much to me.

Tony Gardner

Today Was The First Day Of The Rest Of My Life - Lyndon Queripel

Well, first of all I woke up late
I’m usually out by half past eight
The thought of work depressed me so
I decided that I would not go
Tossing and turning in my bed
I tried to go back to sleep instead
My eyes were tired, burning red
And there was an aching in my head
It was afternoon when I got up
And put some coffee in a cup
When I looked around in dismay
To find there was no milk today
The bread was in a stale state
And way past its sell by date
I turned on the t.v,the news of course
Yet another war, more military force
Followed by the weather forecast
The Sun would shine but wouldn’t last
Then I had to switch it off fast
Next was a party political broadcast
Thought I had some mail for a minute
But there was only a bill in it
I tuned the radio, forget the D.J’s name
It’s funny how they all sound the same
“The Top Ten Countdown” said the voice
Well one man’s music is another man’s noise
The telephone rang and I answered
“Sorry, wrong number.” is all I heard
So I looked out the window and the door
Nothing seemed any different than before
I read the paper, who’s wed, bred and dead
Then feeling rather tired I went back to bed.

Lyndon Queripel

Stories - Trudie Shannon

The lads on the ferry are raucous, loud
Laughing, talking, shouting
Strings of ‘friendly’ obscenities about
Cars, women, drink
Hang-overs, conquests and pile-ups
Wearing the clothes they slept in
The same that saw them all spruced up
Smelling of aftershave and exuding pheromones
Out on the pull last night.
They dominate the space
Rude, coarse and harmless
Bouncing stories between themselves
Each one racing to out-do the others.
Other passengers, sigh and look heavenward
Saying nothing but oozing disapproval
Features contorted into frowns until …
One lad says
I can’t wait to get home, sleep in my own bed,
Mum’s cooking tea
There’s a pause and a universal sigh of assent.
The other passengers turn to each other
And share a covert smile.

Trudie Shannon

The Old Farmhouse - Tony Gardner

Memories live in this old homestead
Through the years they still delight
Of a young boy window gazing
At the brilliant starry night
How two newlyweds came laughing
How love died, a sorrow still
But though people change and fail us
This old farmhouse never will.

Loved and lovely, strong and honest
With its weather-wearied face
From my youngest years the centre
Of my world, the dearest place
Life is not a bed of roses
With the good oft comes the ill
But though people disappoint us
This old homestead never will.

There's such joy at my returning
Every time I've been away
What a peace my heart is feeling
As I vow I'm home to stay
Snug beneath the Downs it nestles
With the stables and the barn
And though people cool towards us
This old house is always warm

As my father and grandfather
Farmed this God-touched Sussex earth
Loved and clung to this good building
Knew instinctively its worth
So through all that lies before us
Through Life's tangled tears and thrill
And through people's fickle friendships
This old house is constant still.

Tony Gardner

Travellers - Chris Hudson

Time bends
Around a miniscule finger
Dimensions bend, for the clock is round
Here we are outside time
It passes us by, a cold, hard strip, interspersed with cat’s eyes
To think is to progress, travel is relative to your state of mind
They pass us by, here by the road side
But the road was only in your mind
You overlooked the most important thing
We are here, we always have been
To travel is to live
Here we are living
By the side of the road.

Christopher J. Hudson

Bad fruit in Eden - Susan Jones

It's not safe
in my garden;
in the garden of England
Kent.
Eden Valley, Maidstone,
Tonbridge Wells,
home to cricket,
hop houses,
orchards
and my house;
where my dog
roamed
the backyard,
boxed in by Laurel,
privet, roses
and apple trees.

But they came.
To threaten
and terrorize;
a modern scourge.
Ransomed,
exchanged
late at night ;
a crime
no one dare speak
aloud;
but I dare now:
Dog-nappers
everywhere -
Bad fruit in the garden -
may you wither on the limb
and rot in Eden.

Susan Jones

Clouds of Time - Susan Jones

Wiltshire grew me
in its landlocked beauty.
Clay coloured hair,
chalk white skin,
meadow green eyes;
while flint from the hills
veined my character -
These abundant assets, nurtured
amidst a comfortable vale,
I took with me, as I stepped into adulthood.

Exiled to a quiet gem
seascapes surround me now.
Wrack covered beaches,
line the shore,
pretty bays overwhelmed then desolate
as tides rise and recede
with regular monotony.
Proved in this temperate isle,
I rose in my skin,
from young adult to old woman.

Clouds of time motor on.
Made whole, I reflect on work, pleasure,
illness and long fought for health -
my memory whirls.
Tears and laughter
direct the elaborate
weathervane of my life
but accommodated and accepted,
I settle into my fate
and find what I consider home.

Susan Jones

The Knowing - Susan Jones

Go
visit
back home, girl,
take some mind's ease,
touch again, spit drenched mauve cuckoo flowers,
smell meadow grass, eye cornflowers, true blue-
lay your heart wide
to old friends,
who know
you.

Susan Jones

Victor Hugo In Exile - Andrew Barham

Here it is, almost the end of October, 2012
And already the first snowflakes have begun to fall.
Should I note for the record, before I delve
Into the meat of this poem and tell all,
That it was in 2008, shortly after the Vale Earth Fair
I was sent scurrying back to this land of exile,
Racing sedately through the stratosphere
Crossing oceans and continents the while?

I cannot but ask as I enter Year Five,
""Has it really been four long years since I left?""
During those latter three years in Guernsey, I felt so alive
Despite the anguish of a teaching job bereft
Of any sense of accomplishment or worth.
They say, ""Home is where the heart is.""
But my heart has almost never been in the land of my birth
Despite the intense love I feel for all of This.

We are truly a social species with a deep need to belong;
In Canada, I really do love all of This: these wild places
Where, with a single moment's lapse, it can all go wrong
And the Rescuers are looking for your remaining traces.
Even here in this town carved from the Forest Primeval,
They probably think I'm more than a little crazy,
Wandering alone with only a bear bell to protect me from evil –
But I'm so used to bears; their nearness no longer phases me

As I hunt for mushrooms, seeking out the Chanterelle
Black in a mass, Golden ones like up-turned bells,
I enjoy every sound, every sight, every smell –
The faint spicey incense permeating every dell
Of new fallen leaves and needles on the deep moss –
But then the snow comes and it's twelve feet deep;
The forests are hidden til May, and I feel their loss
More than I can say, as all of Nature sleeps.

Perhaps my long exile might be easier to bare
If I had a social life, friends with whom I might feel less lonely,
Night after night, through the long dark Winter I stare
At the walls of my living room. To keep me amused, there are only
Persian carpets and tapestries and my collection of old books
And the music on my computer to keep me company.
I have become so familiar with every cranny and nook
That I find myself longing for some BC Bud to set me free.

One more School Year, that's all I need,
One more year of scrimping and saving and getting by,
One more year of monthly anxiety – Will I have to bleed
My Savings Account because my Chequing has run dry?
Every half month, will I get enough work days
To carry me through the next and the one to come?
Once I've got the rent covered and the bills paid,
I can anticipate putting money by and saving some.

I'm not just saving for a rainy day
In this isolated town, where, if it isn't raining it's snowing;
There's more than madness to my method of making hay
Even if I no longer know where this poem is going.
In Guernsey, for the first time since I can remember,
I truly felt I was part of a community,
Someone who belonged even in the bleakest December:
Guernsey, where once again, I can be part of Humanity.

Andrew Barham

Dan Dorey - James Willis

Is it that you know Dan Dorey?
For now it’ll be a bit less,
It’s not long I remember reading
Dan Dorey has died, on the press.

Is it you remember Dan Dorey?
He lived near the Hampshire, alone.
It was ninty steps for to get there,
And a hundred and fifty goin’ home.

It’s a fact you’d remember Dan Dorey,
He’d one of those memorable faces,
He’d travelled all around the world,
And various other places.

You’d never forget Dan Dorey
For he disarmed a German, barehanded.
He was caught celebratin’ gone curfu
When the Canadians in Diep had landed!

A well known man was Dan Dorey,
In the pubs and to the bookies as well,
Of his winnings he’d often talk proudly,
But of his losses he never would tell.

Lest anyone forgets Dan Dorey,
His name is carved out in stone,
“Dan’s Cottage” cut in the lintel
Over the door of his home.

James Willis

The Call - John Buchanan

Ragged granite sentinels tear at the hearts of the huge Atlantic rollers driven in by the gale.
White horses charge towards the shore, spume flying from their manes.
A thunderous roar heralds their approach, and then, the deep muffled thump as the foaming mass explodes against the stone wall.
Spray is hurled into the churning grey sky before falling back in a sheet which covers the road and the wall, again and again.

The mournful sound of the fog horn breaks through the shroud of fog which lingers on the morn.
Water chuckles gleefully in the douit which runs beside the narrow lane as it flows to the sea.
The Fog burns off, Primrose, Bluebell and Buttercup bejewel the hedgerow and ducklings paddle in the shallow water.
Birdsong fills the quiet valley as migrant and resident alike celebrate new life in harmony.

Narrow paths thread through the undergrowth, clinging to the rugged cliffs.
Campion, Thrift and Gorse abound, their colours, a riot amongst the myriad of greens which clothe the steep slopes.
Here and there outcrops of granite adorned with splashes of Lichen erupt from the Bracken to bask in the warm sun.
Heady scents, vibrant colours, the sound and taste of the sea and the touch of the warm sun assail the senses.

The Jewels of the hedgerows and cliffs have faded as the bracken and trees rust.
Now they bear treasures of a different kind as Blackberry, Rosehip and Sloe are picked by beak and hand alike.
Fallen leaves litter the paths and lanes and smoke from the bonfires drifts on the cool air.
Hedgehog, Field Mouse and the distant church bell celebrate the festival of harvest as the nights close in.

There I stand in the busy airport, eyes closed, listening.
From far away, across the ocean, I hear a call,
A call I once was told would come;
For no matter where I roam, Sarnia always calls me home.

John Carré Buchanan