Friday Flash Fiction - Poetry

Transcendence, by Ian Fletcher

4/12/2020

I am too old to harbour
the delusions of youth
or the fraught ambitions
of tortuous middle age
and though my hopes
have all come to naught
evaporated like the dew
I have crossed at last
that shadow line that
borders death’s domain
where the sure knowledge
of my own annihilation
frees me from regretting
the paths trod or untrod
in my ever receding past
as now I have transcended
all petty desires and fears
having escaped the prison
of the self and may simply
look at the sea, stars or trees
for my soul to be at ease.

The Origin of Friday Flash Fiction (in a 100-word sentence), by Carl Palmer

2/12/2020

Gordon Lawrie,
teacher, author, publisher and editor
from Edinburgh, capital of Scotland,
tells us on his Comely Bank Publishing page
LinkedIn was an online social media site,
a sort of Face-Book for business people,
where professionals and wannabes
would promote themselves,
also like on Face-Book,
with a section called Discussions,
again like Face-Book’s Messenger,
where in 2013 a challenge was issued
to post a 100-word story that following Friday
receiving only a couple replies the first week,
a dozen the next and within two months
thousands of entries arrived
prompting Gordon to create
his wildly famous website,
Friday Flash Fiction.

Quite, by Alex Andy Phuong

27/11/2020

Quite right
In the heat of the night
Even when darkness descends
One can still make amends
Not quite sure
What lies ahead
Even when lying in bed
But upon awakening
Getting up
Is truly a decision
To stand up
Quite frankly

'Drug Smuggling' – An Operetta, by Adrian McRobb

27/11/2020

The heroin alarm went off
when they landed from Lithuania
they searched all the passengers
who tried to enter Australia

They read them their rights
warned them of addiction mania
"it is against the law
to smuggle drugs into Australia"

Imagine their surprise
while searching baggage's interior
false linings and fake bottoms
and the scent of drugs inferior

There were...trainers full of cocaine
and bags full of paraphernalia
needles, powder, bong pipes
to addict most of Australia

Border guards are ruthless
if you hide drugs in your regalia
"you will end up in prison
staying much longer in Australia!"

November Mist, by Guy Fletcher

27/11/2020

November mist rolls in the valley
obscuring the distant Quantock hills.
A robin perches on the branch
of a silver birch where only
a few leaves desperately cling,
survivors of autumnal storms.
But now it is beautiful:
my breath like the mist itself
floating into the deep blue ether,
the wind has grown silent.
It is a time to relish existence
as morning dew shines like stars.
These rare dry days in the midst of the Fall
are truly the loveliest of all.

The Lighthouses, by Guy Fletcher

20/11/2020

It is the 1830s
and two lighthouses at Nash Point
warn ships of the Channel's peril.
The sea cares nothing for virtue
devouring both evil and good
and those who lie inbetween.
Yes, lighthouses were built but came too late
to stop the steamer Frolic's awful fate.

78 perished including Captain Jenkins,
victims of infifferent stormy seas
the Bristol Channel becoming a tomb
and when the wind whistles on Nash Point
you can hear the ghosts of the doomed,
a reminder of the power of nature
and that we are helpless and oh so small,
really of no significance at all.

Hope, by Niharika Gupta

20/11/2020

Hope,
The pine trees flanked the road few or bare,
And the sunlight came through a tree pair.
It(sunlight) planted a kiss on the irrigated plain-
where farmers grew sugarcane.
Hope,
The plain's air was impregnated with sweet scent,
Leafs with ocean green eyes and clouds with white paint-
peeked out their faces with warm smile,
where sun's eye lit up for a long while.
Hope,
The nature had stepped out on its way-
with its amazing sway-
it eyed the plain little carefully,
Of course, no energy wasted their path hapazardly.

Crime, by Alex Andy Phuong

20/11/2020

There is no right time
To commit atrocious crimes
Please use time wisely

I Saw a Star, by Adrian McRobb

20/11/2020

Unmoving
in that evening sky
twinkling
like landing lights
an aircraft?
A satellite?
White noise?
Over that house
with the strange stairs

Turquoise evening
with that unerring
something
twinkling
like thoughts
of you

Cool skin
and twined sheets
rumpling in pleasure
sweat and heat
joined like twins

Tracing that bead
of moisture
down your neck
to that wetness
licking
salt and caramel

I see that sky
and feel light
with yearning
my souls on fire
Babylon is burning...

Four Short Years, by Mary Wallace

13/11/2020

Your leader steered from great to hate
Allowed unrest to permeate
Encouraged men to segregate
And brought the world to tears
In only four short years

He misdirected, cheated, lied
Awash with arrogance and pride
Until the Country's soul had died
And he'd estranged his peers
In only four short years

Our world will not forget his rule
How apathy allowed a fool
To tarnish what was once a jewel
With mockery and jeers
In only four short years

How will you now regain respect
And counteract so much neglect
Let human kindness take effect
And quieten all our fears
We give you four short years.

On Parade, by Adrian McRobb

11/11/2020

They stand
eternally
at attention

Some mourned
most forlorn
unknowns
known by old pals

The Menin gate
casts
it's long shadow
slowly
pointing out
this forgotten army

Mist and phantoms
merge
as the roll
is called

While

A silent bugle
calls
them back
shackled
to earths mortality

And

Still
they stand
on parade...

The Memorial at Vimy Ridge, by Guy Fletcher

11/11/2020

I could see the white towers miles away:
a tribute to brave Canadians
who fought in the battle of Vimy Ridge
but perished in their thousands.
Colossal statues including Canada Bereft
who gazes upon fields of death and screams,
frightened lads with broken bodies and dreams

yet the ground is green now
when once it was filthy and brown,
stained with the blood of so many
dying in a foreign land
decades before their time
and in these sad times of isolation
let's pray for humankind's salvation.

For America, by Gordon Lawrie

6/11/2020

Say a little prayer for those now lost,
Their ship in seas of torment tossed,
Torn asunder, ripped apart
By the lust for glory, fame and greed
Of one whose darkened heart
Set out to feed
Humanity's basest traits
A toxic stew of lies and hate.
Is that light in the darkness dawn or fire?
Who knows?
The world can only watch and wait
But more in sorrow and despair
Than in any hope this soon will end.
All the world feels tension in the air –
We have so little faith in those
On whom the future will depend.
Not my country, not my home,
I weep for thee as though my own.

Modern Life, by Adrian McRobb

6/11/2020

Letters intrude, outside world plopping on your mat
bills, from strangers uncaring demand things
telephones ring endlessly, cold callers full of enthusiasm
takeaway leaflets promising forbidden delights
which when explored, deliver cold lifeless porridge
e-bay saviour of the psyche, Christmas every three days
news reader delivers bad tidings with a desultory smile
weather girl grinning expounds tidal news of epic proportions
she wonders what she'll cook for tea, and if 'he'll' be there?
Drinking wine and thinking your life is much better
from the bottle bottom, you start envying the cat
and so to bed, dreaming dreams of unfulfilled nothing...

Truth be Told, by Guy Fletcher

6/11/2020

The painting by des Landes
entices me into its very soul
with a young woman who seems
to have lost all innocence
displaying a dead bird with her worker's hands,
messenger of the gods, a crow,
they used to kill the messenger, you know.

The birch trees behind are painted
not from reality but as if a dream
their leaves mirroring the villager's hair,
the bodies of crows strewn
like corpses on a battlefield.
There is disdain and sadness on her face,
no hint of joy...in this awful place.

For Peace’s Sake, by Al Watt

6/11/2020

War that serves only politicians,
Their shelter from suffering,
paid for by too many lives.
Some souls are easily sold.
Sacrificed by strangers.
Innocents die for some cause.
And next of kin hope
that no news is good news.

Our protests are ignored,
differences met by violence,
instead of finding understanding.
How much suffering must there be,
until we realise this is not the way,
we ward off this abominable evil?
As they try to take our spirit,
we must pray for peace.

It Was Only a Dream, by Robert Plumlee

6/11/2020

It was a vision that forced me into another world, the dream world.
It became my world.
A world of illusions.
A world I could not escape.
A world that made little sense to me.
Then she appeared.
Her voice whispering like running water.
Her eyes, sinister, inviting.
Her spirit, captivating.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to stay.
She reached for me.
I reached for her.
She laughed, pulling me into her dimension.
Into her exciting world.
There was no escape.
Like a wayward spirit.
I disappeared into that world.
A world of unmentionable, pleasure, passion, and love.

Growing Old Together, by James A. Tweedie

6/11/2020

“Where are my socks?”
“On your feet.”
“No, the ones I just bought.”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are my glasses?”
“On your head.”
“No, my reading glasses.”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are my pants?”
“You’re wearing them.”
“No, the ones I wear to church.”
“In the closet.”
“Where’s my heart?”
“Is this a trick question? It’s in your chest. At least I hope it’s in your chest.”
“Nope, it’s not there.”
“Then where is it?”
“I gave it to you when I asked you to marry me.”
“And I gave you mine.”
“Best trade we ever made.”

Mont Blanc:1950, by Adrian McRobb

30/10/2020

Hail drummed on windows
as you wiped spilt coffee
smiling through your fear
to console theirs
gangway like the 'Cresta'
as turbulence bucks
at what point I wonder
did you realise the danger...

Was it the darkness
dropping suddenly
or the engines rising tone
worried voices from cockpit
white faced passengers
"is something wrong?"
Frequently asked
your own heart racing

Twenty two years old
a bit young for stone
two high flying years
in your dream job
the world opened up
like orchid petals
cruelly snatched away
on that dark November morning...

When the Music's Over, by Guy Fletcher

30/10/2020

"When the music's over, turn out the lights" - Jim Morrison

It is not the songs I miss the most,
though certain ones moved me to tears:
"Danny Boy" or "So Long, Marianne" by Leonard Cohen
to name but two. Now I feel like a ghost
remembering conversations I had,
football talk with the lads in the break
and the blonde I may never see anymore,
it's night-time, I'm feeling sad

recalling how the choir relaxed my mind
singing from the heart only months ago
yet it seems like a century
that all those voices were left behind
and the church weeps in the rain
watching the urban streets with sombre eyes
as I wait and yearn to return
to sing Leonard Cohen...once again.

Armed Occupation, by Alex Andy Phuong

30/10/2020

Bearing arms
Raising Voices
Being careful
With personal choices
Occupational
Versus Sensational
Utilizing personal will
To empower until
Armed occupation
Offers control and possession
Of personal identity
Through professional maturity

Between Cotton Sheets, by Sterling Warner

30/10/2020

As eye open & shut, dharma resides in my pillowslip,
drool leaves distinctive silhouettes of rolling hills,
love doves in flight, pentagrams on knightly shields.

Disparate voices regale in my bedchamber closet
filter up the heating vents, muffled by magic carpets,
float freely from the downstairs living room far below.

Witches live beneath my bed, their pale, boney
arms, cling to dust balls, stretch out skeletal
fingers, grasp my legs, attempt to pull me under.

Spirits inhabit cream-colored, vintage venetian blinds,
possessed breezes squeeze between slim shutters,
refreshing & cooling my face, chilling my spine.

Wild Things crawl through my open window at midnight,
invite me to demonstrate defiance, dance a moonbeam jig,
jump on my box spring & mattress till wooden slats break,
wait silently, alone, for mom’s well-earned reprimand.

Doing a Dom..., by Adrian McRobb

23/10/2020

Dom; just does what he feels like
drives anywhere during a virus spike
building houses without paying tax
his local council, was 'very' lax
Albert Dryden didn't get special treatment
no let-off for him, or tax appeasement
he built his mother a nice wee home
they imprisoned him, and he died alone
so...this is what the country voted in
scared of Jeremy and his Commie-kin
a government that demands 'we' toe the line
breaks its 'own' laws, most of the time
one rule for them, and its tiers for us
while throwing the vulnerable, "under-the-bus!"

Blue Water, by Guy Fletcher

23/10/2020

I stand and admire the blue water
of Roath Park Lake, an oasis
close to the heart of the city.
No need to fret about social distancing
on this fine October week-day:
a woman reads, a couple amble by
as seagulls glide under a postcard sky.

Swans, the hue of the Scott Memorial,
create ripples, cumulus clouds
drift slowly across the horizon
as I allow thoughts to stray
recalling rowing on the lake
with an old girlfriend sadly lost in time
as I stare at a vista...so sublime.

Seasons, by Al Watt

23/10/2020

Where do the seasons begin?
In Spring with melting snow,
Life creeping out all over,
Slowly growing into Summer.

When the sun waits long and high.
Nurturing and feeding the food chain
That binds this World together
Before wearying to Autumn cider.

Bonfires cackle, with dancing Sparks.
And all the leaves are gone.
And all the trees grow stark,
And bitter Winter arrives.

To whitewash all the land,
As nature sleeps so deep.
And all is still and all is quiet.
Coming back to life in Spring.