I lie in the dark, waiting.
Time passes unmeasured,
and here in the pitch black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.
The body craves sleep,
Yet pain forces it away,
and here in the inky black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.
Rapid thuds of paws on carpet,
the cat lands beside me.
and here in the jet black silence,
I wait and wait and wait.
He gently butts me with his head,
then curls in a ball beside me.
Here in the velvet black silence
We wait and wait and wait.
He snuggles in tight,
then begins to snore.
Leaving me to fight black thoughts
as I wait for the arms of Morpheus.
John Buchanan
After Christmas Day - Lyndon Queripel
After Christmas Day
The words were read
Without a doubt to spare
I rose and froze
Inside my head
Behind a black ice stare
After Christmas Day
I was feeling low
I'm told I had cold turkey
I ached and flaked
In the melting snow
And the water was all murky
After Christmas Day
And lost communication
Ears burn to learn the news
I suppose the year will close
Without a resolution
Left for me to choose
After Christmas Day
With boxing cloud
Darkness fell to spell the night
Without sleep to keep
No dreams allowed
To meet the dawn's grey light.
Lyndon Queripel
The words were read
Without a doubt to spare
I rose and froze
Inside my head
Behind a black ice stare
After Christmas Day
I was feeling low
I'm told I had cold turkey
I ached and flaked
In the melting snow
And the water was all murky
After Christmas Day
And lost communication
Ears burn to learn the news
I suppose the year will close
Without a resolution
Left for me to choose
After Christmas Day
With boxing cloud
Darkness fell to spell the night
Without sleep to keep
No dreams allowed
To meet the dawn's grey light.
Lyndon Queripel
The Diners – Richard Fleming
The woman with provocative hair
is sitting at a rhombic table
with a man whose bow-tie is a daffodil.
Waiters flicker to and fro, like great white bats,
navigating among tables and themselves
by means of high, inaudible squeaks.
She taps her menu with a scarlet finger,
looks up, smiles. Her skin is alabaster pale.
Bow-Tie Man has a small black beard,
shaped like an arrowhead,
with streaks of silver.
His black eyes twinkle.
She orders baby’s ribs, he choses artists’ fingers.
They call for soup distilled from human tears.
To follow, they will share poet’s brain with vegetables al dente.
A chateau-bottled red will wash it down.
They speak in cultured accents
of mutual acquaintances in non-existent cities
where music is forbidden and clocks do not exist.
They talk of towers constructed underground,
lit through by neon,
tall rooms, suffused with pulsing light,
where fish swim languidly in streams of air.
When served, he eats the fingers slowly,
discards small bones into a patterned bowl,
brings napkin to mouth, dabs his beard.
They drink the broth of tears: pronounce it salty.
The Woman’s lips, a blood-red wound,
open and close like an anemone.
She laughs shrilly, pats Bow-Tie’s hand,
falls on the small ribs, devours them like a wolf.
The waiters come, replenish glasses;
serve up the poet’s brain
on a dish shaped like a massive coin.
Surgeon-like, the waiters
sever hemisphere from hemisphere
with glinting knives like scalpels,
their movements quick, decisive, confident,
borne of experience and expertise.
Then they retreat and the diners commence.
He takes the left side, she the right.
Their teeth are sharp and very white.
Richard Fleming
is sitting at a rhombic table
with a man whose bow-tie is a daffodil.
Waiters flicker to and fro, like great white bats,
navigating among tables and themselves
by means of high, inaudible squeaks.
She taps her menu with a scarlet finger,
looks up, smiles. Her skin is alabaster pale.
Bow-Tie Man has a small black beard,
shaped like an arrowhead,
with streaks of silver.
His black eyes twinkle.
She orders baby’s ribs, he choses artists’ fingers.
They call for soup distilled from human tears.
To follow, they will share poet’s brain with vegetables al dente.
A chateau-bottled red will wash it down.
They speak in cultured accents
of mutual acquaintances in non-existent cities
where music is forbidden and clocks do not exist.
They talk of towers constructed underground,
lit through by neon,
tall rooms, suffused with pulsing light,
where fish swim languidly in streams of air.
When served, he eats the fingers slowly,
discards small bones into a patterned bowl,
brings napkin to mouth, dabs his beard.
They drink the broth of tears: pronounce it salty.
The Woman’s lips, a blood-red wound,
open and close like an anemone.
She laughs shrilly, pats Bow-Tie’s hand,
falls on the small ribs, devours them like a wolf.
The waiters come, replenish glasses;
serve up the poet’s brain
on a dish shaped like a massive coin.
Surgeon-like, the waiters
sever hemisphere from hemisphere
with glinting knives like scalpels,
their movements quick, decisive, confident,
borne of experience and expertise.
Then they retreat and the diners commence.
He takes the left side, she the right.
Their teeth are sharp and very white.
Richard Fleming
What's 'is name - Lyndon Queripel
(Dedicated to Guernsey's quaint customs)
"And your name is ? "
" Yes,my name Is "
" Is ? Is what ? "
" Just Is. Not Is Watt. And what's yours ? "
" Me what ? "
" Oh, you're Watt ? "
" No I'm not."
"Oh, you're Knot ?"
" No, I'm not Knot ! "
" Are you sure you're not Watt ?"
" Of course I'm sure !"
" Ah, so you're Shaw then ? "
" No,I'm not Shaw ! Who is ? "
" I'm Is ! "
Lyndon Queripel
"And your name is ? "
" Yes,my name Is "
" Is ? Is what ? "
" Just Is. Not Is Watt. And what's yours ? "
" Me what ? "
" Oh, you're Watt ? "
" No I'm not."
"Oh, you're Knot ?"
" No, I'm not Knot ! "
" Are you sure you're not Watt ?"
" Of course I'm sure !"
" Ah, so you're Shaw then ? "
" No,I'm not Shaw ! Who is ? "
" I'm Is ! "
Lyndon Queripel
Beauty in Paradise - Diane Scantlebury
With head down
She trudges, duck footed,
Her limp, greasy hair
Viciously drawn back
Into a tight bun,
The pavement trembles
With her heavy foot fall,
Purposefully she strides on
With shoulders hunched
And head now drooping low,
Low as her self esteem,
Beneath the outward surliness
She is a pretty girl,
A beauty trapped in an ogre’s body,
She pretends to be impervious
To the abuse and insults,
The side glances and sniggers
Of ignorant, thoughtless passersby,
She throws up her shield
Of I don’t care nonchalance,
But the hurt breaks through her guard
And clings in painful barbs to her back,
Finally she reaches
The sanctuary of the corner shop
Where she can grab her fix,
Her daily comfort,
It’s only there among the crisps and chocolate
That her cherub cheeks flush,
And her small, tight lips smile
In ecstatic anticipation,
She is a beauty trapped
In a cycle of self destruction,
But for this brief moment
She’s in control and chooses to ignore it,
For when she gets her haul home
She knows she’ll be in paradise.
Diane Scantlebury
She trudges, duck footed,
Her limp, greasy hair
Viciously drawn back
Into a tight bun,
The pavement trembles
With her heavy foot fall,
Purposefully she strides on
With shoulders hunched
And head now drooping low,
Low as her self esteem,
Beneath the outward surliness
She is a pretty girl,
A beauty trapped in an ogre’s body,
She pretends to be impervious
To the abuse and insults,
The side glances and sniggers
Of ignorant, thoughtless passersby,
She throws up her shield
Of I don’t care nonchalance,
But the hurt breaks through her guard
And clings in painful barbs to her back,
Finally she reaches
The sanctuary of the corner shop
Where she can grab her fix,
Her daily comfort,
It’s only there among the crisps and chocolate
That her cherub cheeks flush,
And her small, tight lips smile
In ecstatic anticipation,
She is a beauty trapped
In a cycle of self destruction,
But for this brief moment
She’s in control and chooses to ignore it,
For when she gets her haul home
She knows she’ll be in paradise.
Diane Scantlebury
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