Reservoir - Stephen Rowe

By the reservoir
In fading light
We walk amongst the gnarled trees
On the banks of a silver sea
Poles like grey steel pylons
Felled in the twilight
By ancient monsters
Who flicked them over
Into tangled bars
That held us on the water’s edge
Struts beneath tree trunk bridges
Reach out from the bank
To the shiny haze spanning the lake
Where ghosts walk in the misty evenings
And birds call from shore to shore
Where the forest is deep with bluebells
Leading into their caverns of canopies
Of fir and cedar in owl light
Half-light streams of hyacinths
Draw us in
To secrets hidden in the depths
Overseen by knotty arbour arms
And woody Abies cones
Like beacons sending signals
To the mystery world
Of ethereal nature
To let them know we’re here
And part of the balance
And the flow
And the stretch of all things
Earthly and surreal
In timeless order
In life

Stephen Rowe

Propaganda - Lyndon Queripel

"So, what is propaganda ?"
I asked with a sigh
"It’s adnagaporp spelt backwards."
Was your quick-witted reply
"I thought everyone knew that."
You said as you put on your hat
And then smiling waved goodbye

Lyndon Queripel

A Mother’s Hips - Trudie Shannon

Small children
Have legs, that
By right, embrace
A woman’s hips.
Women, by right
Have hips
That are
Safe places
For small children.

Trudie Shannon

The Cobra - Richard Fleming

The cobra can’t resist a tune
so when the Charmer blows his flute,
to make the notes rise in the air,
the cobra stirs and follows suit.

It is a most amazing sight:
the tourists clap and toss rupees
while others, far less prosperous,
remunerate with loud whoopees.

Majestically, the cobra sways
from right to left, then left to right.
Applaud it, even if you’re bored:
it’s always best to be polite.

Richard Fleming

Boris Brontosaurus - Oscar Milde

Boris, Boris, Brontosaurus,
crashing blindly through the forest,
hair askew, complexion pinked,
destination indistinct,
doesn’t know that he’s extinct.

Oscar Milde