Friday Flash Fiction - Poetry

A Winter Stroll, by Guy Fletcher

15/1/2021

I exit suburbia and stroll
over a quaint bridge, the stream
still full after rivers of rain
but this New Year's Eve morn
the sky is azure and the field
under the Wenallt is a transient white,
sun rises, birds flicker from tree to tree
I feel they are serenading me.

The branches, a giant's skeletal fingers,
are adorned with glistening diamonds
from the slowly melting frost
as a dog and owner pass by
and a grey horse stands on the crest of the hill
its breath replacing the morning mist.
In the solitude of this early hour
I can believe... in a higher power.

Before the Light, by David Walby

15/1/2021

Before light there was darkness,
before darkness there was the void.
Within the void the Old Ones slumber,
deep within the primordial deep,
before the onset of time,
The Old Ones sleep,
waiting for the time to cease once again.
Darkness engulfs the Earth once again.

Rags of Glory, by Adrian McRobb

15/1/2021

The pipes shrill out their epic story
of English shame and Scottish glory
so we might travel too arrive
back in time to the '45
of clansmen tall I tell the tale
who marched on London to no avail
from Glenfinnan to Culloden Moor
where bayonets flash and cannons roar
a breed of men who were never to own
a Scottish King on an English throne
and all that remains of this today
are empty crofts and livestock that stray
so hark to the pipes and if tears you would weep
shed them for Scotland, and not for the sheep!

My Nana's Netty, by Adrian McRobb

8/1/2021

Tea stained toilet, scented
with orange gentian oil
freezing in the winter
Izal toilet paper of skin toil
God and Goddess tiled floor
from an old Victorian mansion
helped my Latin and my Greek
an educational expansion

It used to be outside, until
the council built over the roof
not really any warmer
but of less wet reproof
the latch door got painted
so we might feel more posh
although the white porcelain
still got the tea-pot wash...

Rest, by Alex Andy Phuong

8/1/2021

Rise above the rest
Also, life is not a test
Try to be one’s best

Chasm, by Swati Moheet Agrawal

8/1/2021

She busied herself whenever he passed,
she’d evade him;
only then he’d turn smooth as silk,
amiable and warm,
he’d try to win her over.

He would hang around stealthily in her study
where she sat writing poems,
he never read a line of her poetry,
but knew she wrote deeply, sonorously.

What was it she sought?
So passionately, fixedly and silently?

Sometimes
when he looked at her,
he felt like he was gazing at a star –
distant yet dazzling,
a star he was too afraid to reach out for,
a star he’d have to put back in the sky.

The Gods Talked, by Michael H. Brownstein

1/1/2021

So the gods talked
and nothing really happened
until a storm from the south
breached the enclave and blackened.

Then the smallest god
stood up and spoke his piece:
Nothing will change ever.
The people are not geese--

Geese ride together in the sky,
each takes a turn in front.
They depend on each other
when the wind becomes too blunt.

If people could lead and follow,
a lot of this would be solved--
so my suggestion--
let the people evolve.

Whaling, by Adrian McRobb

1/1/2021

Lets write a poem
to help save the whales
it won't really help
but the air will fill sails

the slaughter has started
please try not to offend
our ecological policy
is right round the bend

we'd rather not see pics
of what really goes on
it spoils our breakfast
this harpooners song

they lure them to coves
and then cut them apart
a most terrible thing
is the cold human heart

Flipper the trusting
is skinned off the coast
please don't spill your tea
and pass me the toast

Alone, by Ana Marie Dollano

1/1/2021

A lone is the feeling within that seems to
L anguish deep in my heart, but my soul finds joy
O h, for silent prayer and pleasant thoughts at
N ight fly and charm their way to where
E vening candles illuminate through the mist of time.

Watering, by Alex Andy Phuong

1/1/2021

Watering is like
Forgiving, because they both
Clean both in and out

The Lost Weekend, by Guy Fletcher

1/1/2021

A famous author entered the AA meeting,
he had penned a novel featuring an alcoholic
based mainly on himself.
It was turned into a film noir starring Ray Milland,
(in another life a Cardiff schoolboy).
The whisky is more alluring than any woman
allowing dreams to blossom briefly
before his soul crashes down.
The author, Charles Jackson, relapsed
just one of the lost on plastic seats,
writing had not cured his psyche
and he couldn't face sobriety anymore.
But it was alcohol which made his name,
oh, but what a terrible price for fame.

Artifice, by Alex Andy Phuong

25/12/2020

Deviously
Chillin’
Like a villain
Heroes sometimes lose
But never underestimate
What people do
For behavior
Is character

The Last Letter, by Guy Fletcher

25/12/2020

There are tears forming in his eyes
as he writes a letter on a basic desk,
the last letter to his family
professing adoration for his boys.
Is this the man who ran the trains
leading millions to their deaths?
He did not halt the transports
even when Himmler ordered him to cease
yet does not appear like a monster,
no frothing at the mouth with insane eyes.
Oh, the banality of evil
a phrase synonymous with Eichmann
and soon under an Israeli sky
a balding man will be taken to die.

The Blue Pool, by Guy Fletcher

24/12/2020

I stroll in the winter sunshine
past picturesque Castell Coch :
a fake fairy-tale castle
constructed by the Marquis of Bute.
In Fforest Fawr lies the Blue Pool,
legacy of an old iron mine
and nowadays boarded-up.
But I remember back as a youth
coming here with a long departed friend
believing tales of ghosts of the drowned
conducting a séance on a warm afternoon
yet the only spirits now are
two boys who sought to conjure up the dead,
one gone and one an ageing man instead.

George, by Miya Yamanouchi

24/12/2020

Your phone had been off for days.

I called the hospital
to see if you were there,
not expecting
you actually would be.

Gave the lady your name,
not thinking I’d hear:
“intensive care, love.”

Messaged your brother,
not ready for:
“induced coma, darl.”

This isn’t you.

You who at 61,
sprints to betting houses
without breaking a sweat,

who traipses 50km daily
just to feed the cats,

who carries boulders for a living,
who does 100 pushups in quick succession.

This isn’t you.

And you have to wake up.

Under a Sunset Moon, by Guy Fletcher

19/12/2020

Mountain clouds are painted
orange and gold in the sunset sky
as the sun casts its last shadows.
Starlings bend across the oval moon
which is indifferent to his woes
for the reason he stares above
is that her eyes have lost their love.

Light fades and clouds
shed their alluring colours
returning to an urban grey.
There is a chill in the autumn air.
They wander streets in silence
when once they said so much
yet now...they do not even touch.

Store, by Alex Andy Phuong

18/12/2020

It could be a chore
To visit a store
But still salute
The ones who provide
Salutations
As customer service
Requires both
Patience and speed
While these workers
Serve anyone in need

Christmas Ghosts, by Liz Heron

15/12/2020

Crunching along the canal path, breath visible still
Icicles on the bridge fuelling expectation
Anticipation growing; boots unable to keep pace
Protesting, the wooden, icebound gate resisting our eagerness,
the icy path beckoning
We tumble past granny
A crackling fire throwing up magical sparks, illuminating a sea of parcels
Christmas Eve.
The spinster aunt emerges, smiling
Lovingly she removes his leather cap, earflaps first
Beaming innocence, he had not yet lost his way
The icing on the wholesome Christmas cake
this gift of giving
Two children, two suitcases filled with love
Laden, we trudge homeward, snow swirling in the lamplight.

What They Don't Tell You After the Party, by Kenneth Edmonds

15/12/2020

he has to remember to drink water in the morning.
this is not an innocent habit.

he is glad his hands do not shake any more.
that was a not so subtle reminder that he didn't drink water.

THEN he knew water had its place.
it cooled the open sores where acid pooled

washed the stale scent of bile
off his teeth, thinning from corrosion.

NOW he understands that he has been marked
the vultures trailing his scent.

he still struggles to drink water in the morning.

From Darkness to Light, by Jerilyn Kadison

15/12/2020

Oh heed these words - do not despair

The end of your suffering is near

As we forge on your journey - take my hand

You are not alone – do not despair

Have courage - trust -we’re going back to go forward

We go into the cave - first dark - then a glimmer of hope

We clean the wounds - let them go - do not despair

Illumination is here – the end of your suffering is near

Silent Night, by Guy Fletcher

11/12/2020

Electric blue and white snowballs peer
sadly down on St Mary Street,
there's only the sound of weeping rain
from pre-Christmas Cardiff rooftops
surely a parallel universe
for it's late on a weekend evening
and raucous revellers by rights should roam
but, alas, most people are trapped at home.

Will a ghost choir fill the midnight gloom
singing carols from St John's Church?
A lone drunkard zig-zags by the castle
throwing his empty can with fury,
there's no-one to listen to his rants
as he breaks the silence of the night
but the illuminated reindeers do not care
as a distant siren punctures the air.

Academy, by Alex Andy Phuong

11/12/2020

Educational institution
Cinematic judges
Of artistic achievement
Beauty all around
That surrounds
The learned
For utilizing the mind
Can help the ones
Willing to learn
Appreciate the sublime

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