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

I Must Have Been A Naughty Boy - Tony Gardner

All  last  year  I  was  so  good
As  little  boys  and  grown  men  should
I  tried  so  hard  you  see  because 
I  had  written  to  Santa  Claus.
For  I  had  seen  on  Amazon
What  he  could  bring  on  his  next  run
Nectar  sweet  from  a  Scots  Glen
Brewed  for  discerning  gentlemen.
Much  better  than  cheap stuff  I  sip
Which  puckers  up  my  upper  lip
I  thought  he might  for  I'd  been  good
As  little  boys  and  grown  men  should
…..
I  went  excited  to  my  bed
Slept  soon  as  Pillow  touched  my  head.
Dreamt  I  could  see  old  Rudolph’s  glow
Through  the  thickly  falling  snow. 
I  woke  up  early  bleary-eyed
Hoped  he’d  left  something  on  the  side
Like  Single  Malt,  but  never  guessed
He'd  leave  a  gift  not  of  the  best.
Tiptoed  downstairs,  then  my  heart  broke
At  the  miniature bottle  and  small   can  of  Coke

Tony Gardner

Image : Pixabay - Ebweb/thuanvo

A Guernsey Carol - Tony Gardner

In  fields  above  the  bay  of  Saints  this  moonlit  Christmas  night
A  donkey's  old  folk  memories  rekindle  and  take  flight
    To  that first  night
 
The  blessedness  of  Christmas  Day  steals  over  all the  land
Enveloping  each  tree  and  field,  the  cattle  where  they  stand
   With  glory  grand.
 
Then  to  a  donkey  in  the  fields  came  age  old  memories  strong,   
How  brilliant  was  the  sky  that  night,  how  sweet  the  angels  song
   In  radiance  hung 
 
That  night  Christ  came  to  save  us  all,  a  pauper  yet  a  King
Poor  shepherds  came  to  honour  Him, the  Lord  of  Everything
   While  angels  sing
 
A  donkey  brought  the  blessed  pair  the  long  and  torturous  way
And  stayed  beside  them  through  their  trials,  until  that  won'drous  day
    When  softly  in  the  hay
 
Our  Lord  reposed,  at  last  God's  gift   so  precious  and  so  true
Here  amongst  us,  God  on  earth,  The  prophesy  come  true
   Life  for  me  and  you
 
In  fields  above  the  bay  of  Saints  this  moonlit  Christmas  night
A  donkey's  old  folk  memories  rekindle  and  take  flight
    To  that first  night
 
To  that  first  Christmas  night.

Tony Gardner


Image : Pixabay - geralt

Cheese - Stephen A. Roberts

My drug of choice is simply cheese
Grated in a bag just for ease
It’s the ultimate snack it
Works so well on a buttered jacket

Then at night the terrors come
Spawned by that evil cheddar crumb
Dadaist visions of flying cars
Skimming on the surface of Mars

Drowning under thick sheets of ice
Or chased and eaten by giant lice
Flying high with fantastic beasts
Soaring on the wings of my cheesy feast

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Pixabay - Hans

Sweet Afton - Robert Burns (1759–1796)

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning leaps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowrets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream

Robert Burns

Image : Pixabay - DuncanNelson

I Used To Be A Dreamer - Lyndon Queripel

I used to be a dreamer
I had faith to keep
But now I just can’t sleep
The dawn will break
And I’m still awake
The Sun will rise in my eyes

I used to be a dreamer
And you know it’s true
That I had visions too
Now there’s a part
Deep in my heart
Where memories just freeze

I used to be a dreamer
Sowing seeds to reap
But now I just can’t sleep
The shadows fall
On the wall
On my bed and in my head

I used to be a dreamer
Lost in my own mind
But I’ve been left behind
The time has passed
Much too fast
Where did it go I don’t know.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - LeandroDeCarvalho

Wren - Richard Fleming

See
the wren,
resplendent:
her clever eye,
her sweet essence. Deep, let her sleep be deep;
there, let the green hedge be her perfect bed;
the rye, the reed,
be her screen;
shelter
her.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - Nature-Pix

Veteran - Stephen A. Roberts

In the smoke and flattened fields
your comrades walked into oblivion;
you were left to face
a hundred years alone

Now you are fêted
and they ask you,
before you fade into history,
what was it like?

A tear comes,
it is for the fallen:
and for the
world still at war

Stephen A. Roberts

Remember, Remember… - Traditional

One of many versions of this traditional chant

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.

By god's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

Traditional
Image : Pixabay - anncapictures

Old Mag - Oscar Milde

Old Mag the hag sat with her cat,
she in her chair, it on its mat.
She muttered intermittently
as so befits a retiree
but what she muttered was not kind
she had unpleasantness in mind.
From time to time she cast a spell
or brewed herbs with a pungent smell
to conjure up, a witches’ trick,
a demon or perhaps, Old Nick.
Instead, to her intense surprise,
she got a maiden with blue eyes,
long silver cloak, curls on her head.
I am your Good Fairy, she said.
Three wishes I am granting you.
Come on, be quick, it’s time I flew.
Oh give me money! Hag Mag cried.
A chest appeared with gold inside.
Next wish? Speak up and speak the truth.
Give me great beauty, please, and youth.
Then Mag was altered in a flash
so she had beauty, youth and cash.
One last wish, then I’ve got to go:
you’ve got the cash and beauty, so?
Mag cried, please turn my young cat, Vince,
into a sexy, handsome Prince.
When this was done, the Fairy went.
Mag told the “Prince” of her intent:
long nights of passion, love and lust
until they’d jolly well combust.
The “Prince”, her former cat, looked sad.
He said, now look here, don’t get mad.
I’ll do my best but you’ll regret
the day you took me to the vet.

Oscar Milde


Image : Pixabay - StockSnap

The Face Of Truth - Lyndon Queripel

I don’t want to know
The headline news today
Or what the morning papers
Have got to say
Nor hear the hourly show
Blow by blow 
On the programmed radio

I don’t want to read 
The propaganda page
Where freedom is kept
Locked in a cage
And I don’t need 
To know how you succeed
To feed all of your greed

The face of truth is in disguise 
Behind a web of media lies

I don’t want to recall
I’m trying to forget
How the cost of living
And the Third World debt
Will rise and fall
On a street called Wall
Or the secret of it all

I don’t want to see
Another live transmission
Or anymore of the war
On the evening television
When will we be free
From the inhumanity
And all the insanity

The face of truth is a mystery
Behind a veil of media unreality.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - OpenClipart-Vectors

La Roque Lane - Tony Gardner

In the nooks  and  the  corners  of  La Roque  Lane
Images,  memories  ever  remain
That  was  where  my  education  was  gained
In  the  soft,  mossy  corners  of La Roque Lane

There  I  learned  about  women,  much  as  a man  can
For  ladies  are  ever  so  not  like  a  man
Of  what  we  discovered  they  did  not  complain
While  learning  our  lessons  in  La  Roque  Lane

There's  a  green  shaded  corner in  La  Roque Lane
That  sweetly  and  softly  will  ever retain
Mem'ries  of  youth  and  of  young  love  that  died
Life's  lessons  learned  as  we  laughed  and  we  cried

And  though  I  am  happy,  content  with  my  life
And  deeply  and  dearly  in  love  with  my  wife
Sometime  I  dream  of  those  bright  days  again
In  that  green quiet corner  in  La Roque  Lane.

Tony Gardner

Image : Pixabay - JACLOU-DL

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

Silver Blue Eyes - Tony Gardner

Silver blue  skies
And  stars    diamond  bright 
Bring  nothing  but  coldness
And  frost  ghostly  white
Just  as  behind  beauty
A  cold  heart might  live
Selfish  with  no  warmth
Or   sweet  love   to  give
And  I  found  excuses
For  your  coldness  and  lies
But  the  truth  always  showed
In  your  silver blue  eyes.
 
Tony Gardner  


Image : Pixabay - cocoparisienne

Cruising Into The Sunset - Stephen A. Roberts

The excursion bus awaits
Another day another shrine
All across Europe
We follow time
Back for lunch
And package wine
Siesta by the pool
Under hillside vines
Tomorrow we visit
Another Guggenheim
The days blur by
Living on borrowed time
Boarding, boarded
On down the line
We’re in a city
Scored by tramlines
Don’t get lost and miss
The sailing deadline
The heat beats down
In these foreign climes
The views confuse
Our average age is 99

Stephen A. Roberts

Image : Guernseypoets

Someone Else’s War - Richard Fleming

We thought the war was far away
and spoiling someone else’s day
but suddenly things took a turn:
on telly we saw rockets burn
across the sky, cities were hit …
our cities. That’s what started it.
It seems that one lot broke the rules
and used their nukes, the bloody fools.
Then other nutters used theirs too
and smashed the nuclear taboo.
New York, Rome, Moscow, Gay Paree …
our own dear London ceased to be
and countless millions were surprised
to find that they’d been vaporised.
It seems unfair: we bought the flags,
donated clothes in plastic bags,
showed solidarity online,
agreed that Putin was a swine,
said worthy things on Twitter too …
what else were we supposed to do?
The Government, in whom we trust,
tell us a cloud of deadly dust
will come our way and pretty soon
but, sadly, no one is immune.
It’s radiation: stuff, we’re told
will kill us slowly. We’re consoled
that all our neighbours, too, will die
so this small note’s to say goodbye
but who’s to read it, for the dust
gets everybody, as it must.
We hug each other, whisper love.
The sky is darkening above.
We thought, it’s someone else’s war:
alas, it isn’t any more.

Richard Fleming

Image : © When the Wind Blows - Raymond Briggs

The Creek-Road - Madison Julius Cawein

Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue
That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach
Of water sings by sycamore and beech,
In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.
It is a page whereon the sun and dew
Scrawl sparkling words in dawn's delicious speech;
A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,
Dissect each scent and analyze each hue.
Not otherwise than beautiful, doth it
Record the happ'nings of each summer day;
Where we may read, as in a catalogue,
When passed a thresher; when a load of hay;
Or when a rabbit; or a bird that lit;
And now a bare-foot truant and his dog.

Madison Julius Cawein


Image : Pixabay - KIMDAEJEUNG