RIP Guernsey Poets (2016-2022)

It’s time to put you out to grass my friend
It’s a shame this is the way it had to end
But it looks as if the muse has dried up -
Contributions have trickled to a stop
Have the Guernsey Poets ceased to write
No longer raging against the dying light?

So goodbye dear blog, my trusted source
Of doggerel and oft twee verse
Lyndon, Richard, Tony Don and Steve
Offered only the slightest reprieve
We thank them for their precious time
Spent slowing the death of local rhyme

Guernsey Poets

Image : Pixabay - OpenClipart-Vectors

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

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

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

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

Water Under The Bridge - Lyndon Queripel

It’s all water under the bridge
And clouds across the sky
Where time just seems to fly

It’s all water under the bridge
Just listen for a sigh
As dreams begin to die

It’s all water under the bridge
There’s no point to deny
The years have passed you by

It’s all water under the bridge
There’s a shadow in your eye
With no tears left to dry

It’s all water under the bridge
Of a river running dry
While winds just whisper why.

Lyndon Queripel


Image : Pixabay - fietzfotos

Deadline - Lyndon Queripel

With the cost of living
And the price of dying
It’s no wonder at all
To the Lord I pray
That I can afford to pay
For my own funeral.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - TheDigitalArtist

Sons - Richard Fleming

On a yellowed flyleaf, half a century ago,
my mother wrote to say Birthday Wishes
and Mum, that name that buries self away.
I was her firstborn, headstrong, loving,
exuberant, wilfully astray.
My childhood fears, unbidden tears,
the small, lost battles of the day,
she dissipated in her arms.
My daughter holds her sons that way.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - VaniaRaposo

I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise - Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

I think just how my shape will rise
When I shall be forgiven,
Till hair and eyes and timid head
Are out of sight, in heaven.

I think just how my lips will weigh
With shapeless, quivering prayer
That you, so late, consider me,
The sparrow of your care.

I mind me that of anguish sent,
Some drifts were moved away
Before my simple bosom broke, --
And why not this, if they?

And so, until delirious borne
I con that thing, -- "forgiven," --
Till with long fright and longer trust
I drop my heart, unshriven!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Image : Pixabay - Darkmoon_Art

Standing Up - Tony Gardner

I   miss  my  younger,  fitter  self,  with  aches  and  pains  unknown
Maturity's  crept  up  on  me,  my  youth  has  long  since  flown
There's  much  I  can  no  longer  do like  drinking  all  night  long
Or  pulling  in  the  Tug of War, to  the  beat  of  Rugby  songs.
It's  simple  things  that  I  miss  most, like  picnics  with  some  friends
In  meadows  where  the  grass  would  tease my bare  feet  and  finger-ends.
I'd  lay  full  length  in  soft,  green  grass,  in  Eden's  Fields  I'd  reign
If  I  lay  there  today  I  doubt  I  could  stand  up  again.

Tony  Gardner


Image : Pixabay - Fotorech

Screaming Bees - Ian Duquemin

No angels came to greet me, only darkness 
Swarms of screaming bees had filled my mind 
Everything so black… Much like an ocean 
Drowning… I was motionless and blind
Strip lights flashing, in and out of focus 
Panicked voices, calling out my name
Every silent breath, a breath of struggle 
Numb from any feeling, or the pain 
No blinding light or doorway, lay ahead of me
No healing hand, or whispers of concern 
Nothing, but the sound of angry insects 
Breaking free to summon my return
I opened up my eyes, in some confusion 
Everything so sterile, white and clean 
Had I simply drifted here, from out of nowhere? 
A place the living never should have been
Fragile as a man of many ages
Nothing making any sense at all 
Left wondering… If I should ask forgiveness? 
Yet knowing that no one would hear my call
In life I wasn't worth the gift of living 
Yet even death refused to welcome me
And so I just drifted, through this life of wonder 
Where through the darkness, I had learned to see

Ian Duquemin

Image : downgraf.com - Pierre Alain D

Immortality Is Overrated - Lyndon Queripel

I tried to write a poem
About how I’d like to be remembered
Well believe me I tried
But all I could think of was
I’d like to be remembered as
The man who never died
But there again you see
Who would remember me
If I just lived on
And you and everyone
That I knew too
Would all be gone ?

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - Juhele

Ratty - Joan Etoile

Oh dear, dear Ratty
Cried a distraught Toad
Why ever did you have to
Cross the road?

An electric car
The whispering death
Was the reason that you took
Your last breath

No more tales from the riverbank
Sitting under the weeping willow
Rattus in peace, old chap
On your tarmac pillow

Joan Etoile

Image : Joan Etoile

Revenge - Richard Fleming

Perhaps there is an explanation, dear,
but you’re not here to set my mind at rest.
Death puts a stop to questions, so I fear
this one must stay unanswered or addressed.
Among your things I found a photograph:
it must be recent, you look hardly changed.
A stranger smiles beside you as you laugh,
your hair and solemn features disarranged.
In looking closer I can ascertain
you two are linked: there is a recklessness
about your pose, while he is cool, urbane.
It pains me so, this photograph, and yes,
our marriage wasn’t perfect: I would stray,
but, posthumously, you’ve made sure I pay.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Free-Photos

The Death Song - Ian Duquemin

This song's about the night I died
The knife. My blood. My suicide
I bet my soul that no one cried
No angel came, so someone lied

The veil of life and death was thin
It brushed against my butchered skin
I took a peekaboo within
My death on show. My mortal sin

I hoped someone would welcome me
And see what others failed to see
A soul who longed to be set free
His shame that held no dignity

So here I am, and still I'm lost
Who sacrificed and paid the cost
Whose pieces shattered, stained and tossed
Now crumbled into ash and dust

The grave awaits, so dark and deep
A place for my eternal sleep
To bury secrets sworn to keep
In silence where I sadly weep

Remember me as nothing good
A child, a man, misunderstood
Who longed to love, but never could
As every living person should

Ian Duquemin