Before The Service - Vic Gamble

Sundays were by fate, grey,
lacking even peculiar grace,
my old man chewing over communion
and crudely caught in his own private act
of bewitchment and the folly of fear,
under the inescapable eyes
of some inconsolable God.

My young shoes polished
by a firm pious mother,
peeling off the dirt
like an enemy;
my hair stretched on the racks of comb
slicked surface as smooth as any
covered grave.

Father smiled his nervous disappearing act
in low roofed pantries
to nip at Dutch courage
for the sake of God & sanity,
brushing long slashes of ash
from his best suit
and smacking vulgar lips
as if his mouth was full
of the sensation
of his own carcass.
His wink was for me,
his scowl for God
and revealed, like a poor trump card,
he handed my mother
the creased eyed pain
of a wilted bouquet.

in the church
it was all air
and strange decorum,
the tinge of whiskey
still jigging my father’s tongue
like a devil sick to death
of its own inbreeding.
when no-one looked
I ran a hand through my hair,
digging up that grave image
so carefully earlier laid,
and catching her eye of disapproval
I yearned for the day when,
like my father,
I could play at evil
and still be loved by her.

Sundays were by fate, grey,
lacking even a peculiar grace………

Vic Gamble

Here I Go - Lester Queripel

Your brown eyes are deep pools of wonder
I want to jump in the pool and go under
Under your spell in the wishing well
Will our relationship be heaven or hell?

If I take the lovers leap
Will I go in too deep?
Will it be the end of me?
Between heaven and the deep blue sea

Unless I jump, I will never know
So here I go.

Lester Queripel

St James - Diane Scantlebury

So many feet across
These creaking boards have walked,
Where so many
Prestigious speakers have talked,
Many necks have craned
From the back row to see,
Within these walls that have echoed
To Sarnia Cherie,
The atmosphere’s still laden
With symphonic blast,
The trumpets, the voices,
The ghosts of proms past,
Each creative element contributing
To the isle’s rich heritage,
Encaptured now for posterity
On this St James’ stage.

Diane Scantlebury

Angry Falls - Fred Williamson

From the normal river flow,
The river waters gaining speed,
Towards the rapids of Somphamitt falls,
Soon the distant vibrating,
Thunder sound becomes so clear.

Trails of heavy gushing waters,
Between narrow and deeper rock,
Trapped in the turbulent,
Smoky spray, of death rapids,
There is no return.

Fred Williamson

Depth of Silence - Joan Raleigh

Switch off the radio.
Lock the door.
and try to listen
to silence.

With no noise to disturb
the nothingness,
your brain is still.
But listen,

listen to the stew of noise.
A high resonation
whirling
inside your brain.

It’s not tinnitus
but anathema to peace.
Your blood is pumping,
pumping, and you hear it.

Soon your breath
is noticeable in its rhythm.
Soon you see there’s was never
silence at all.

Joan Raleigh