Old Mag - Oscar Milde

Old Mag the hag sat with her cat,
she in her chair, it on its mat.
She muttered intermittently
as so befits a retiree
but what she muttered was not kind
she had unpleasantness in mind.
From time to time she cast a spell
or brewed herbs with a pungent smell
to conjure up, a witches’ trick,
a demon or perhaps, Old Nick.
Instead, to her intense surprise,
she got a maiden with blue eyes,
long silver cloak, curls on her head.
I am your Good Fairy, she said.
Three wishes I am granting you.
Come on, be quick, it’s time I flew.
Oh give me money! Hag Mag cried.
A chest appeared with gold inside.
Next wish? Speak up and speak the truth.
Give me great beauty, please, and youth.
Then Mag was altered in a flash
so she had beauty, youth and cash.
One last wish, then I’ve got to go:
you’ve got the cash and beauty, so?
Mag cried, please turn my young cat, Vince,
into a sexy, handsome Prince.
When this was done, the Fairy went.
Mag told the “Prince” of her intent:
long nights of passion, love and lust
until they’d jolly well combust.
The “Prince”, her former cat, looked sad.
He said, now look here, don’t get mad.
I’ll do my best but you’ll regret
the day you took me to the vet.

Oscar Milde


Image : Pixabay - StockSnap

The Face Of Truth - Lyndon Queripel

I don’t want to know
The headline news today
Or what the morning papers
Have got to say
Nor hear the hourly show
Blow by blow 
On the programmed radio

I don’t want to read 
The propaganda page
Where freedom is kept
Locked in a cage
And I don’t need 
To know how you succeed
To feed all of your greed

The face of truth is in disguise 
Behind a web of media lies

I don’t want to recall
I’m trying to forget
How the cost of living
And the Third World debt
Will rise and fall
On a street called Wall
Or the secret of it all

I don’t want to see
Another live transmission
Or anymore of the war
On the evening television
When will we be free
From the inhumanity
And all the insanity

The face of truth is a mystery
Behind a veil of media unreality.

Lyndon Queripel

Image : Pixabay - OpenClipart-Vectors

La Roque Lane - Tony Gardner

In the nooks  and  the  corners  of  La Roque  Lane
Images,  memories  ever  remain
That  was  where  my  education  was  gained
In  the  soft,  mossy  corners  of La Roque Lane

There  I  learned  about  women,  much  as  a man  can
For  ladies  are  ever  so  not  like  a  man
Of  what  we  discovered  they  did  not  complain
While  learning  our  lessons  in  La  Roque  Lane

There's  a  green  shaded  corner in  La  Roque Lane
That  sweetly  and  softly  will  ever retain
Mem'ries  of  youth  and  of  young  love  that  died
Life's  lessons  learned  as  we  laughed  and  we  cried

And  though  I  am  happy,  content  with  my  life
And  deeply  and  dearly  in  love  with  my  wife
Sometime  I  dream  of  those  bright  days  again
In  that  green quiet corner  in  La Roque  Lane.

Tony Gardner

Image : Pixabay - JACLOU-DL

September Song - Richard Fleming

Outside the parish church, we pause,
exchange the old banalities
we flee to, at such times, because
we cannot face finality,
then nod, acknowledging a friend,
shake sundry hands, and hasten on
but cannot really comprehend
that one so long beloved has gone.

She seemed so permanent and set
on living, never letting go,
to relish life and joy and yet 
seemed not to see death as a foe.
The very air appears tight-lipped
as though the earth has ceased to sing.
It is as though the world has tipped
and scattered, headlong, everything.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Placidplace

The Final Journey - Stephen A. Roberts

And so it came the end of life
In Balmoral heralded by pipes
Via Edinburgh to London, the resting places
All of them lined with mourning faces

Near Poets’ Corner in the Lantern room
Atop the catafalque in the eerie gloom
A normal lady who by twist of fate
Came to be our Head of State

Outside, a dying carpet of wilted flowers
Lies beneath the royal towers
Where the bereft masses queue
Hoping to get just one last view

From the Thames a tide of tears
Flows to salute 70 long years
Strangers unite in a shared grief
Old soldiers salute their CinC

The people weep to see the end
Victorious they can no longer send
Her Majesty, their revered Queen
The only monarch they’ve known or seen

Citizens of every stripe and sex
Shuffle through to pay respects
A man in sandals and white socks
Stares in reverence at the box

Tomorrow then is the final day
The cortège will make its way
In the shadow of the Shard
Past the silent funeral guard

From the Abbey a stepping stone
Through London streets once her own
To Windsor Castle where by default
She will rest in the Royal Vault

Bells will ring and cannons fire
Along the journey to the shires
Past transport hubs and corner shops
And across the Nation, things will stop

Stephen A. Roberts