Recluse - Richard Fleming

All scattered to the winds and ways,
like blushing cherry blossom blown,
the friends, he knew when not full-grown,
have vanished from his elder days.
The carelessness of childhood meant
that friendships were a thing to find
then let escape. No contract signed.
No deal. A currency unspent.
If friendships had been coins or gold,
he might have locked inside a cage
all he had gathered to assuage
the loneliness of growing old.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - michaelform

Isolation - Diane Scantlebury

In a room alone,
In touch with the world
Yet curiously apart,
On a singles holiday,
Without leaving
The confines of home,
A staycation in the rawest
Most literal sense,
Here time marches forward
Without consideration,
Punctuated only by room service,
Provided selflessly
By beloved ones,
Being spoilt by their concern,

Soon one tires
Of banal media entertainment,
Switch off and just listen,
To the rhythm of the rain
Tap dancing on the roof,
The swish of tyres
Speeding over wet tarmac,
Voices drifting in
From the unobtainable outside,
Feel the novelty
Of being still
And simply breathing,

Isolation allows time,
Time to rediscover and reevaluate,
To reset the mind,
To miss the warmth and comfort
Of human contact,
And perhaps appreciate more
The ones you love.

Diane Scantlebury

Locked Down, Abandoned - Tony Bradley

With no Church, or Community meetings,
no Zumba, with all the beautiful girls
just waving to neighbours, from a distance
as each day, another anxiety unfurls.

With no permitted gatherings to go to,
and no family, kith or kin
I envy the company, of those in a Care Home
than this private Hell that somehow, I’m in.

Tony Bradley

Image : Pixabay - Q K

Waiting - Diane Scantlebury

She’s waiting,
Waiting to be held,
To be touched,
To be kissed,
Her arms are aching,
To encircle,
To enfold,
To embrace,
She’s lonely,
Insecure,
Isolated,
Unsure,
Time’s passing,
Insignificantly,
Unremarkably,
Too slowly,
So she’s still waiting,
Waiting,
To be released,
Waiting,
Waiting,
For her freedom.

Diane Scantlebury

The Return Of The Flask - Stephen A. Roberts

Image: Jill Chadwick

In a lonely place
Deprived of the chance
Of a shop-bought flat white;
I watch the waves dance

It’s time to revert
To the ways of the past
To the portable brew;
The return of the flask

Coffee or soup
Laced with whisky or gin
Enough for two cups;
While social distancing

Sleek metal design
A Thermos that lasts;
No longer the risk of
A mug of smashed glass

Stephen A. Roberts

Forever Alone - Ian Duquemin

I fell through the branches
And crashed to the ground
Kids in their laughter
All gathered around
I stood in their shadow
And brushed off the pain
I looked up at that tree
And then climbed it again

I laid in the long grass
And stared at the sky
I watched as the birds flew
Thought 'Why couldn't I?'
I ran through the Green Fields
My arms reaching high
But my wings they were broken
Unable to fly

I sat by the sea shore
And buried my feet
I breathed in the air
Of the shimmering heat
I noticed a ship
And waved it goodbye
With a feeling of sadness
I didn't know why

Those days I remember
From when I was young
The freedom I dreamed of
Were feelings so strong
But I was born on an island
Not much of a home
A castaway always
Forever alone

Ian Duquemin

Miss McCarthy - Richard Fleming

Miss McCarthy by the window,
with a glass of Cork Dry gin,
watching as a band comes marching
making a god-awful din.
Watch the banners, hear the drummer
march on by, this Ulster summer.

Miss McCarthy, fifty-seven,
rounded shoulders, spreading hips,
smudged red lipstick, cupid-bow style
to accentuate her lips,
watches with a smile, sardonic,
drinking neat gin without tonic.

In the gloomy first-floor bedroom
(in which, once, her parents slept)
on a sun-bright summer morning
she sways gently, hair unkempt,
cursing life that, once abundant,
left her here washed-up, redundant.

Tired old bra beneath her cardie,
saggy breasts hang down like fruit,
wrinkled buttocks heading southwards,
all the rest in hot pursuit.
Miss McCarthy, lonely, boozy:
when it came to love, too choosy.

In the street, beneath her window,
children frolic with a pup.
She’s been here for half a lifetime,
waiting, but Life stood her up.
Watch the banners, hear the drummer
march on by, this Ulster summer.

Richard Fleming

Backchat [ a soliloquy ] - Lyndon Queripel

Do you ever talk to yourself ?
I do you know
It all began
Sometime ago
When I was on my own
Feeling alone
Then I started to mutter and stutter
When there was just you and me  
And then I'd mumble and grumble
When we were in company
They say it's a sign of madness
When you talk to yourself
But when you answer back
Well that's something else
I don't know why I do it
But every now and then
I think maybe it's because
No one else will listen.

Lyndon Queripel

Party Line - Lyndon Queripel

You play back the last message
On your answer phone
Just to hear another voice
You're feeling so alone
You pick up the receiver
And listen for the tone
You dial the speaking clock
Your time is all your own.

Lyndon Queripel