Life Line - Guernsey Poet

I have some good news for you all;

I have been contacted by a friend who has offered to take over the running of the Guernsey Poets Blog.

In order for this to happen a number of changes will need to be made to the blog, not least a new email address for submissions. It will take a while to set things up so please bear with us.

I would like to thank you all for the many messages of thanks and support I have had during the last week, they are very much appreciated.

Please watch this space for further details.

John Buchanan

On Returning - Ian Duquemin

He took a seat... Searched for a view
Rubbed the ink of an old tattoo
Around him bodies, twist and turn
Show hints of some concern

The carriage rife with their infection
Glove covers mouth for his protection
The smell of leather fills his nose
Apprehension... Grows

Wheels on track... Accelerated
Life outside looks... Complicated
Hoarder shoppers leaden bound
Take home the trash they've found

Enter tunnel centuries old
A life of darkness, black and cold
In this void built to conceal
Seemed to him... More real

Metal scraped from underneath
Like black board nails or grinding teeth
Shivers on his spinal track
Rode pulses up his back

The rigid seat began to hurt
He wrote upon the windows dirt
"If this ride should never end...
Farewell to you my friend"

He placed his forehead on the glass
Watched the sheep and cattle pass
He wondered if they knew their fate...
Was meat upon a plate

A passing train attacks his heart
Faces gaze from feet apart
Frame by frame like animation
Headed towards THEIR destination

He dreamed he was a saboteur
But what was he? Except a blur
Who knows not where or who he is
Upon this rail of his

He sees a boy who smiles his way
The only smile he's seen today
The child holds up a hand of harm
Shows words cut deeply in his palm

The man jolts forward in his chair
The boy reached out and said "Beware"
And cuts he could now comprehend, read...
"Farewell to you my friend"

Ian Duquemin

About A Bunion - Kathy Figueroa

I thought I’d pen a poem
All about a “bunion,”
But t’would be easier
To versify “onion.”
They’ve something in common
Though, and I’ll tell you why:
Both “bunions” and “onions”
Are bound to make you cry.

Kathy Figueroa

I Feel Like A Stranger In My Own Home - Lester Queripel

The culture and traditions of Guernsey are being taken from us.
We are rapidly losing our identity.
Losing everything that makes us proud to be Guernsey.
Some of us are too blind to see.
Some are simply demoralised.
Others are ‘too busy’ to realise.
But it’s being taken from us in front of our eyes.
It’s disappearing into the pages of history.
And one day soon our grandchildren will see.
They will struggle to understand.
How could anyone destroy such a beautiful land?
When that day comes I will be ashamed.
For I am part of the generation that will be ‘blamed’.
Islanders lost their lives in the last world war.
They couldn’t have given anymore.
They couldn’t have given anymore than they gave.
If they could see the island now they’d cry in the grave.
So our culture and our traditions die.
Why?
Just to become like anywhere else in the world?
We’ve been given something we never asked for.
Why couldn’t they leave us alone?
It’s all such a tragic syndrome.
I’m starting to feel like a stranger in my own home.

Lester Queripel

Sold the Gold - Diane Scantlebury

I have sold all your gold,
The baubles and rings
The frivolous things,
You gave me in happier times,
Or maybe they were gifts of guilt
A salve for your conscience,
Diamonds and pearls to distract me,

I have sold all your gold,
Because material things
The glittering bangles and beads,
Have no worth or meaning
Without love or sincerity,
And can’t cover or disguise
Deception and lies,
Did you think I could be bought so easily?

I have sold all your gold,
To pay the bills
Not for pleasure or thrills,
Because you left me nothing
Only shiny, superficial trinkets,
A wounded heart,
And empty promises.

Diane Scantlebury