Tinnitus - Trudie Shannon

It’s always raining in my head
Sometimes there are cross-winds
And often interminable white noise,
Static that comes before and after storms.
Always raining, from light hissing drizzle
To persistent shards pounding the windows of my eyes.
Sometimes when the night is weighty with silence
I hear the globules of rain flaunt descant and harmony as
They drift around the contours of my skull in vivid orchestration
Often the wind rises exponentially
Obliterating my hope for potential creativity.
Yes, it’s always raining in my head.
Within the landscape of my cranium I have the auditory pulses
Of every season
Soft April showers
The cascade of summer flood
Autumnal gales
And Winter snow’s vibrato hiss.
Always, always raining in my head
With static, that interminable white noise
That comes before and after storms.

Trudie Shannon

Bears - Diane Scantlebury

There’s a discarded blue mask
Blocking the gutter,
An abandoned rubber glove
On the fire escape stair,
The new toxic litter,
Sign of our times,
Strewn randomly everywhere,

There’s talk of bears
In the woods,
Strange shadows
Exiting in haste,
Leaving a trail of soiled paper,
And smelly piles
Of hazardous waste,

Is this how we go
Back to nature,
Our environment to defile?
And have we become thoughtless
Human bears,
Returning to dump in the wild?

Diane Scantlebury

Rewind - Richard Fleming

Wind Time back. Rewind Time.

Make the struck towers rise from dust,
reconstruct themselves:
glass, concrete, girders, walls,
a huge jigsaw
interlocked,
complete again.

Lights come on, phones chirp like crickets.
In reconstructed work-stations,
fingers dance on keyboards again;
vending machines cough
then spew out pungent brew;
air-con sighs then resumes;
elevators ascend, descend;
video conferences resume mid-
sentence, emails beep,
digital clocks flicker
like quick, green lizards.

Wind Time back. Rewind Time.

Time restarts
as though it had never ended.

Hopes, innocence, daydreams, boredom:
all the mundane certainties of ordinary lives
are reaffirmed.
Shoes, handbags, mobile phones, flesh,
warped by intense heat:
these un-melt, re-form,
resume their former shapes.
The terrible, unearthly screams
subside.

Wind Time back. Rewind Time.

Backwards
the soft clouds drift;
birds fly in reverse.
Those grim death-planes,
stiletto-silver in the morning sun,
withdraw, like daggers, from the shattered towers,
whose twin glass skins, pristine again,
shimmer
like smooth, un-rippled water.

Richard Fleming

Guernsey Blood - Tony Gardner

Guernsey gache and Conger stew, parsnip soup and Beanjar too
Moulin Huet, Rocquaine Bay, parades on Liberation Day
Golden Guernsey cows and goats, beach hut baskets, Whoopee floats
L'Ancresse common, Castel hill, Hanois lighthouse beaming still
Belgreve and the Salerie, these things mean so much to me.

Talbot valley, Bathing pools, ghosts of Blanchelands clifftop schools
Pleinmont point, Fort Pezerie, Guernsey blood runs strong in me
The Cannon rock at Petit Port, the almost vanished Jerbourg Fort
Golfers on the L'Ancresse course, southern cliffs ablaze with gorse
Small streams tumbling to the sea, these things mean so much to me.

The Longfrie and the Wayside Cheer, "Pony" ales and "V.B." beer
Creasey's and Alladin's Cave, the Pollet and the States Arcade
Rouge Rue, Grand Rue, Vauquiedors, Keyprice and Le Riches Stores
Val de Terres and Vauxbelets, the little harbour at Saints Bay
Because I'm Guernsey bred you see, these things mean so much to me.

Tony Gardner

Colour Blind (Racism is not just a black and white issue) - Lyndon Queripel

You could be a Gentile
Or you could be a Jew
An immigrant alien
In a country that is new
You could be a member
Of a tribe called the Sioux
You could be a mirror
For others to look through
The sun could turn you brown
It might burn you red too
A fever turns you yellow
The cold might turn you blue
Your face could be deathly white
If a ghost blurred your view
You could have green fingers
Go through a purple patch or two
And think you’re in the pink
Till clouds of grey cover you
You could be an orphan
Where fields never grew
Because of Agent Orange
With your future overdue
You could be a refugee
With no home to go to
Wandering the wasteland
Where the winds of war blew
You could be one of many
Or one of an ethnic few
At rest in your own nest
When in the cuckoo flew
You could hear the daily news
Is it propaganda, is it true
Is there a Big Brother plot
A conspiracy you never knew
Is there a secret robot army
An underground Babylon zoo
Are you waiting for answers
At the back of the queue
Or in the middle of a riddle
While rumours continue
Your mood could turn black
Leaving you without a clue
Caught up in a riot race
What then would you do ?

Lyndon Queripel