Rope Trick - Richard Fleming

Upward, upward, upward he goes
on the taut rope in dusty heat
defying gravity, belief.
One rope end lies, sweat-oiled, coiled, neat,
on a soiled, cheesecloth handkerchief.
From his father’s pipe, music flows.
The other end climbs vertically,
upward and attached to nothing
and up that swaying ladder, there,
a small brown boy, with gold ear ring,
shins, this red morning, while we stare
with breathless incredulity.
We western tourists: Brits, fat Yanks,
believe mostly in disbelief.
Dull cynicism is our way:
debunking magic is our brief.
It’s just a bloody trick! we say,
who trust in pension plans and banks.

Richard Fleming
This poem appears in Richard’s second poetry collection, Strange Journey.

For further information go to http://redhandwriter.blogspot.com

Poly Tunnel - Diane Scantlebury

My poly tunnel isn't majestic or grand
As a bold, green statement on the patio it stands,
Within the warmth of its shelter
Side by side we sit and sow,
The seeds and the tubers
We hope will thrive and grow,

Out of the compost and the muck
Now ingrained beneath our nails,
Come fresh, brave shoots to tenderly water
And fastidiously guard against slugs and snails,
On sunny days we’ll unzip and roll up the door
To allow cool air to circulate,
And let curious bees enter and get down to work
The beans and alluring strawberry flowers to pollinate,

Every time I look at my poly tunnel
I see a miracle place,
Where new life will germinate and grow,
And deep inside me there’s great joy and excitement
That only the parent of plant babies will know!

Diane Scantlebury

Dereliction - Donald Keyman

There are less breweries now
to organise piss-ups in
but somehow our elected members
don't let that worry them

Ancient sites are razed to the ground
in an act of fundamental vandalism
to create shoebox living for a work drone lifestyle,
suiting a stereotype that has ceased to exist

Meanwhile Havelet looks like Berlin, '45
and the flasher in Candie Gardens
waits for the lights to come on
in the Penthouse apartment

Donald Keyman

Mourning Bird Song - K Svensson

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in May 2012

She sits in her gilded cage
Gazing at the feathered forms
Drifting lazily on the wing,
Flying free on thermals
In skies of azure blue.

Peering through life’s window
She wonders, what if?
She had the courage
To fly free
Just like those other birds do.

Powder-puff clouds float by,
Breezes taking them
Destination unknown.
To tumble like tears,
For who?

She’s known no other life.
Let out, she briefly flies
Wings unfurled,
Soaring high,
Dipping low.

Going back to the keeper,
Met with scorn.
Wishing,
Hoping
Her song will be heard.

K Svensson

Backchat [ a soliloquy ] - Lyndon Queripel

Do you ever talk to yourself ?
I do you know
It all began
Sometime ago
When I was on my own
Feeling alone
Then I started to mutter and stutter
When there was just you and me  
And then I'd mumble and grumble
When we were in company
They say it's a sign of madness
When you talk to yourself
But when you answer back
Well that's something else
I don't know why I do it
But every now and then
I think maybe it's because
No one else will listen.

Lyndon Queripel