Leeds 81 - Ian Duquemin

You never showed yourself to me...
But you may have passed me by!
Did I witness hatred in your soul?
See death within your eye!
I'd walked the many backstreets
Passed the red walls smoked in black
It never crossed my mind
That you might stab me in the back!
A kind of strange distraction
Just a twist to show you can
That maybe out of boredom
You would choose to kill a man
You wandered unknown freely
You were hunted high and low
Posters pleaded "FIND HIM"
And the search for you did grow
I strolled the streets at night time
My eyes watched out for you
Could I be the destined one
That stopped the things you do
I'd see you there about your work
And take a brick in hand
Then bash that brick upon your head
Above you proudly stand
I'd witness rage below you
From a horror scene of hate
Could I have been her hero?
If I'd not have come too late
But then the papers showed us
That the monster had been caught
You looked nothing like a demon
Or the devil I had sought
In fact you looked pathetic
Just a man beneath a beard
I'd imagined Mr Hyde
At least somebody weird!
Is that why you defected?
Did you need to be a name?
Did your god do all the killing?
And leave you to take the blame!
Or did you just find power
In the softness under touch?
And find that you enjoyed it far too much!
Ian Duquemin

Letter Home - Richard Fleming

The trenches are awash with mud.
We share this hell with rats and dead
while mortar shells scream overhead
and all the world is choked with blood.

We came as boys: some never aged
but died with childhood in their eyes.
Should we grow old, their fearful cries
will haunt us. So, like scapegoats caged
before a hungry tiger’s eye,
we wait for them, the bloody foe,
to charge with bayonets and know
what we must do, but never why.

This futile madness makes me weep.
Such sacrifice for little gain.
Fear only quelled by fearful pain.
Let death be but an endless sleep.

Richard Fleming

Recycling The Mind - Lester Queripel

The third of a lifetime
Held here in my hand
The third of a lifetime
Slipping into sand
Down through the ages
Now the dreams have passed
Tantric moon through the hour glass
If only it could speak, and tell us why
Instead of just hanging in the sky
If the moon could talk
And the sun could always shine
Past generations had more knowledge and time
The stories they could tell
To illuminate your mind
In stead of leaving the past behind.

Lester Queripel

My Garden - Diane Scantlebury

Mine is a beautiful garden,
Where nature’s had free reign
To run its course,
Not groomed or manicured
But borderline scruffy,
Weeds and perennials rub shoulders
And have learned to coexist
In their own defined harmony,

Birds adore it,
Swoop and chirp happily,
Or peck at the barely tamed lawn
Still strewn with grass cuttings,
Trees split and stooping
From winter’s gales
Seem to have sprung back to life,
Where their branches
Have touched the earth,

Mine is a natural garden,
Full of butterflies and bees
Creeping, crawling and stinging things,
Maybe too overgrown
For prim suburban taste,
But it suits me.

Diane Scantlebury

Loving Days - Fred Williamson

One day at a time you love your day
One day at a time I love mine
I love your days
Your doings
Your ways
I love your smile, your face, your grace
Loving days are in place
Loving days in your space

I love your connection
Your attraction
Your complexion
Your affection

You love your day
I love mine
One day at a time
Loving days are in place
Loving days in your space
What more can I say?

Fred Williamson