Friday Flash Fiction - Poetry

Ghost in the Pews, by Guy Fletcher

3/2/2023

I am in church on a cold Sunday
peering across to where she always sat
stating once that she had worshipped
in this very church for sixty years
and how it used to be full.
Now far fewer stroll down
the path to God on a Sunday morn.
She discussed travelling to Yorkshire
to visit her sister but today
there's an empty space where she used to be
and as the first hymn begins
I imagine I view her ghost
but she will not be singing anymore,
departed like so many here before.

A Roxette Triolet, by Michael Leach

3/2/2023

My fave part of that Super Mario Bros. flick
is Marie Fredriksson singing ‘Almost Unreal’.
Though I love making Mario jump into bricks,
my fave part of that Super Mario Bros. flick:
a pop/rock track about romantic magic tricks.
It pays to stay and listen while credits unreel.
My fave part of that Super Mario Bros. flick
is Marie Fredriksson singing ‘Almost Unreal’.

Old Shabby, by Mimi Grouse

3/2/2023

In time-poor people's way,
Old Shabby shuffles to one side
So as not to spoil the day
For those with jobs, a home. A child.
He trips and drops his shopping bag.
Now the street is full of laundry
And his silk shirt's just a rag
Draped across the boundary
Of esteem.
Invisible, annoying Shabby,
The once successful go-between
Relegated, by the dictates of Economy,
To the comforts of the rubbish bin.

Poem for Holocaust Day, by Guy Fletcher

27/1/2023

Editor's Choice

This is, of course, Holocaust Day.

The film shows spectators:
some smoking, breath like ectoplasm
on a sad, terrible day.
A man stares briefly at the crowd
then runs with others to the trench
that has turned into a gruesome mass grave
and his life is impossible to save

from the bullets of the Einsatzgruppen
as the crowd smirks, banality of evil.
I wonder what dreams once flourished
inside the poor victim's head,
did he saunter through forests with his love?
Today all's quiet but ghosts remain
from the doomed Jews in times so insane.

Bad Zen, by Alex Blaine

27/1/2023

It's bad zen
messing with
somebody else's
teacup
of overflowing
words
It messes up
one's chi

Astral, by Ivan Ristic

27/1/2023

I lay myself down
Drowned in the dreamless sleep,
Striving for the depths of stars
And the abyssal heights.
To levitate immaterial
High above the rooftops,
Far above the clouds.

Highway, by Myram Huey

27/1/2023

daylight robbery
the buddha called it, a knife
at his throat at noon

The Poet, by Gordon Lawrie

20/1/2023

I'm exercising Editorial Privilege to write this in Scots. Nothing else will do, I'm afraid. The moral of the story is "dinnae mess."

Noo ah’m nae poet
But there’s this guy
Sends in a story and insists
On being ca’d
“The Poet”.
That’s it, first name “The”.
Ah mean, it’s no’ e’en a poem
He’s sent
It’s a story
An’ he widnae budge
Oan the name thing
Sae his story’s in the bin
An’ he can take a runnin’ jump.

A 9 Year Old's Crush on Elmo, by Cailey Amielle

20/1/2023

How strong of an adoration
for a red little furry
can be as strong as the affection for a soft,
yellow plush-

the soles of Big Bird, or
the cookies of Cookie Monster

Cannot compare to the flowing fudge sundae
that bubbles and smokes in my heart, the drumming
as it pounds in my ears and inside me

The flowing fudge sundae on a summer day
the sundae parallels with the drools of a lost red lover,
the one that got away-

it was on a Sundae, and
by Monday, he was gone.

Capitola Sandcastle, by Sterling Warner

20/1/2023

Sandcastle turrets rise towards the heavens
while deep moats capture waves
from incoming tides, leaving flotsam jetsam
wreaths floating around their construction
eventually sinking between sand particle pores;
children squeal as the water laps at their ankles
& courageously attempt to protect their
grainy bastion decorated with gull feathers
seashells, driftwood & moss; saltwater assaults
surging up and down the coastline displace
their stronghold leaving nothing in its wake,
leveling the beach palace ten small hands & five
sunburnt bodies labored all day to erect—marveling
how the ocean swiftly swallowed their citadel.

End of the Chase, by Robert P. Bishop

20/1/2023

Give me one more chance
I won’t squander life this time
pursuing her love

The Sad Demise of Lisa Marie Presley, by Guy Fletcher

20/1/2023

She appeared shaky at the Golden Globes
just two days before her demise,
all that wealth couldn't save her soul
or the Church of Scientology.
The drugs could only numb the pain
and the make-up unable to disguise
the sad haunted look in her troubled eyes

with her father dying when she was nine,
her son a suicide at twenty-seven
checking out like Kurt Cobain.
What torments she must have suffered
in the eerie stillness of the night
like many others tormented by the past,
God bless you Lisa...now at peace at last.

Fade-Out, by Myram Huey

13/1/2023

love thins & shudders
while moon's pure propaganda
perched there on the sill

The Writer, by Guy Fletcher

13/1/2023

He wrote a bestseller centuries ago
now languishing on the dusty shelves
of charity stores but since
those halcyon days his pen has run dry
and hope has melted like snow in May
as he sits in his local yet again
where until closing time he will remain.

As another "cold one" is dispatched
an idea springs into his mind,
he's convinced it will be a new masterpiece
and texts his agent full of drunken joy
but on waking in the early hours
cruel reality comes back to the fore
longing for the pub...to open once more.

Philosophy on the High Seas, by Myram Huey

7/1/2023

An ocean-going thinker called Sam
Read his Descartes on deck like a man
But the ship went down
So he cried out loud
'I sink, therefore I swam.'

January, by Guy Fletcher

6/1/2023

Barren branches have fallen off trees
in this permanent twilight gloom.
An old woman in a cafe drinks alone
peering at the desolate scene,
most faces glum as the climate
yet the weatherman says it's unseasonably mild
but the rain sweeps across and the wind is wild

with Christmas a million years away.
Oh, I yearn for a crisp sunny day
with frost sparkling like diamonds
or snow to create a magical place
but tears drip from the bus stop
yet the weatherman says it's unseasonably mild
but the rain sweeps across...and the wind is wild.

Beached, by Alex Blaine

6/1/2023

You are the
washed-up
has-been
that never
was

Lily, by Michael Leach

6/1/2023

The first song that made me cry
on first listen, I mean properly cry -
weep out my pent-up store of lacrimal secretions
while home alone in my bare bedroom -
was Steven Wilson’s
simple track ‘The Raven that Refused to Sing’.
The haunting
vocals, piano, guitars, drums, wind and strings
struck complex chords with my emotions,
evoking sadness, nostalgia, grief and bittersweet joy.
Most notably,
Steven’s chorus about losing someone named Lily
called to mind someone so important in my life,
someone young at heart who had recently passed
away from my maternal grandpa:
my maternal grandma, Lily.

Set Upon a New Year, by Shannon Murphy

6/1/2023

We went to see the ducks
at pond beside a library
in midst of urban desert sprawl
They come, the ducks,
out of winter to sanctuary of sorts.
People too, like us, with cameras,
haphazard ornithologists.
We stop motion birds taking flight,
fiddle with the lens, crouch and stretch
like cranes upon the marsh.
What little bird is that tweeting out
a single note sweet so sweet
so sad so sad over and again?
But we move on …
the pond is prodigious set upon a new year.

Life on a Möbius Strip, by Robert P. Bishop

30/12/2022

God’s on vacation
Bombs fall, people die, Earth bleeds
The wars never end

Imagined Piano Lessons, by Michael Leach

30/12/2022

Sometimes I imagine
that I’d continued my piano lessons
beyond primary school.
I imagine
that the upright piano
in the dining room
were more than an ornament.
I imagine
that, each December,
I’d play classical Christmas carols
by various composers.
I imagine
that, each other month,
I’d play songs from further genres
such as Alicia Keys’ ‘Fallin’’
and John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’.

A Christmas Stroll, by Guy Fletcher

30/12/2022

I've escaped claustrophobia
enjoying crisp Christmas Morning air,
my breath drifting like mist
as I dwell upon those
who'll never view this Christmas
remaining locked in my memories yet
as I cross the quaint bridge over the stream
the splendour of nature is the main theme

observing the rivulet's seductive flow
under a mild partially blue ether
Cardiff stretching far below
and imagining excited kids and hungover parents.
Walking up here beats any pill,
melancholia is cast away
wandering with wonder on Christmas Day

Dust Devils, by Sterling Warner

30/12/2022

Windstorms rattle my bedroom windows
accost cars, buildings, and pedestrians
toss rolling tumbleweeds that inspire me
to hum songs by the Sons of the Pioneers
from “Ghost Riders in the Sky” to “Cool,
Clear Water,” never once do I contemplate
moving from my home, rambling like sagebrush,
invasive Russian thistle, or winged pigweed;
my mind marvels as each wind witch somersaults
across the prairie, sticking landings, trembling
silently before pulling loose, doing cartwheels
as I seek sanctuary in song, freedom of motion,
and reluctance to change; thank-you for gust
resistance as darkened skies fork, followed
by thunder’s rumble, dropping desolation’s seeds
like calling cards as rain strikes and sinks in dirt.

Holding On, by Sandra James

23/12/2022

In an old purse
cards
Medicare
pension
Seniors… all out of date
and an assortment of loyalty cards
from shops she’ll never visit again
I know I should cut them into small pieces
toss them into the bin, but
it feels like I’m throwing away
part of her.

Painted Heart, by Ivan Ristic

23/12/2022

There were two names
inside the freshly painted heart.
Pierced with arrow,
bloody, but so alive!

Now the heart is tainted
with countless layers of paint,
dirt and dust...
Desolate, but still alive...