Yuletide Blues - Diane Scantlebury

Christmas Eve
And I'm in bed,
With bloodshot eyes
And banging head,
Not through over indulgence
As you may think,
Or copious tipples
Of festive drink,

Christmas Day
And I’m in bed,
With a snake rattle cough
That would summon the dead,
So don’t bring me your glad tidings
Of goodwill and wealth,
'Cause my nose is streaming
And I’m feeling sorry for myself,

Boxing Day
And I'm in bed,
Drugged up to the eyeballs
Popped every pill or remedy
That's available to take,
But this Yuletide viral monster
Is impossible to shake,

New Year's Eve
And I’m still in bed,
No chance of testing out
My new suede shoes,
While I'm down in the dumps
With the Yuletide blues,
And the paper tissue shuffle
To keep me awake,
The bronchial rock and roll
Are the only New Year moves
I'm likely to make!

Diane Scantlebury

You Call This A Golden Handshake! - Lester Queripel

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

A golden handcuff, a golden handshake
Surely there’s been some kind of mistake
I’m only fifty-five
I’m still very much alive
Yet I’m being shown the door
They don’t want me anymore
I’ve still got a lot to offer
Yet I have got to suffer
I have to stand in the unemployment line
Wait my turn…………………and sign
They’ve dispensed with all my knowledge
I will now have to summon all my courage
I don’t know how long I can cope with the indignity
We’ll have to wait and see

Lester Queripel

Obituary - Lyndon Queripel

You never stood in the middle
Of a complete silence
Without a pin drop
A curtain call
A breath of wind
Or Summer rain
On the window pane
Without a sound surround
A turn of the tide
A distant dog barking
Children trying to hide
Just laughing outside
Without a bluebird
Singing on the wire
A passing car
A squealing tyre
The tick tock
Of an office clock
Without a radio wave
Telephone tap
Radar trap
Supersonic boom
A jet soaring high
In a cloudless sky
Without a shadowed doubt
A ghostly whisper
In an empty room
A creaking floor
Footsteps in the corridor
Without your heart beating
Pounding, louder, faster
Pulse racing in the gloom
You never even heard
The shot that killed you.

Lyndon Queripel

Gull - Tony Bradley

Grey gull, gliding gracefully
in the September squall
I need only your wings
I have a plaintive call.

Your Autumn is here again
as, indeed, is mine
I, too, just had Summer
but the sun didn't shine.

These seasons, even time itself, have nothing for me
all I care about, everything of worth
was taken from me, before I realised
overseas, to the far side of this earth.

Gull, you now circle the same harbour water
for forty years I've had my tear-filled eyes on
that took Janie away, in a big boat
following the sun, beyond the horizon.

Tony Bradley

Sonnet For Newtown - Andrew Barham

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

Suffer little children come unto me
But not so young for their Maker to see;
Cut down when their lives are just beginning –
What evil hour here is Evil winning?
Madness speaks, and Death untimely answers –
Get thee hence, Death! Cast elsewhere thy grim lures.
Children so young, so fragile filled with hope
For a bright future they will never see;
Through these dull days of endless night we grope;
Our pleas beseech whatever gods there be
Demanding answers from this tragedy:
From meaningless horror, we seek meaning,
Plunged as we are in Grief's bottomless sea –
Instead we hear only children screaming.

Andrew Barham