Friday Flash Fiction

Mr McGregor's Garden, by Adrian McRobb

17/1/2020

Neat rows
of military precision
calico bags gathered
move in moaning wind
shallow troughs like graves
potting shed shackles
manacled tools
manicured nails protrude
oiled and polished
peat bags brood
in sinister greenhouse
filling soiled bags
compost steams
in a rotting dream
leek-trench an altar
strange vegetable religion
Mr McGregor lives
in his blooming garden
always digging
always weeding
a grave place...

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Free Will, by Bruce Levine

17/1/2020

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The day languished before them,
as if suspended in time,
choosing a course
and yet not choosing,
but rather letting the course choose them
without care
because freedom
and abandonment to choose
presented itself
in its own inexplicable way
and their free will
became incapable
of deciding.

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War Memorial Sonnet, by Guy Fletcher

16/1/2020

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The trees are bare, leaves fallen,
scattered as if bodies on a battlefield.
The grey soldier leans wearily
on his rifle by Whitchurch Library,
a solemn expression on his face.
The names of the dead are listed
from two brutal wars, civilians
as well as the doomed soldiers.

After the autumn deluges
when rain dripped off the soldier like tears
the sun shines illuminating the statue
and the poignant plethora of poppies.
Oh, but the First World War was not the last
and humans have learned nothing from the past.

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Postcard from Penarth Beach, by Guy Fletcher

10/1/2020

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"We are having a lovely time,"
was written below the photograph of Penarth Beach
where hundreds gathered on a sun-kissed day
back in 1902 when the world was so different.
There were no bikinis or shorts,
hats were donned to avoid burning.
I stare deeply and imagine the noise
of seagulls, the laughter of girls and boys

but this time in the sun has passed
just like the writer of the postcard,
I wonder if she lived to a ripe old age.
Today the beach is all but desertrd
yet I picture the ghosts from long ago
waiting for the ferry on a summer afternoon.
Oh, we are all like waves heading for the shore
brief moments of power ...and then no more.

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Reading the Blogs, by Bruce Levine

10/1/2020

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Reading the blogs
Is a perpetual challenge
Wondering why something is there
Wondering if the author is scared

Are they writing to write?
Or writing for reason?
Or are they simply compelled
Just to put something up?

Fashioning fancy after
Reader’s approbation
Extending a handshake
To comments not meant

Reading the blogs
Of writers prolific
Joyous new wonders
A daily dose of cheer

Writers keep writing
And upload your treasures
The universe awaits you
To savour your gifts

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Eastbourne Pier, by Adrian McRobb

10/1/2020

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Palace on a bridge
jutting into angry sea
cruising on a budget
braving fires destruction
smooth decking charred
phoenix in new paint
Taj-Mahal of the coast
reflected geometric meccano
twisted iron howdah
on pachyderms back
double imaged in salt water
wrought iron band stand
commoners Royal Pavilion
flowers caste in iron
pagoda roof skylined
smooth grained sand
rocks and barnacles
spires and pinnacles
hold light at sunset
balustrades guard non-swimmers
the tide recedes
crabs scuttle into rockpools
googling at girders
glass roof reflects
light into inner space
so we promenade
in Sundays best
wondering...what the butler saw?

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Among the Stars, by Mary Wallace

10/1/2020

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Come walk with me among the stars
I thought your mind was torn
You pointed out the star like flowers
That twinkled on our lawn

Come sing with me there's music here
I smiled at you instead
But quietly you called the birds
Soft music filled my head

Come live with me and be my love
I thought it was too rushed
What if we failed and our love died
My heart it would be crushed

Come find me in another world
You said when illness came
And now I walk amongst the stars
And softly call your name

The birds still sing among the trees
Our love it never died
I wonder if the stars still shine
There on the other side.

10 Comments

More Than Today, by Mary Wallace

3/1/2020

8 Comments

Today only has twenty-four hours,

From start to finish, that's it, no more,

Yesterday blends with other yesterdays,

Long golden days melded together in our minds.

Remove the pain and golden yesterdays are the best.

But not for all. Pain can stay,

You try to disguise it, cover it with more gold and bandaids

Today is only twenty-four hours,

Tomorrow comes with promise,

It reaches towards the future pain free still,

Endless days endless possibilities

No past to hide with golden light.

Tomorrow is white, maybe tinged with blue like the endless sky,

It stretches forever, nothing to hide, ready to be discovered.

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Holcombe on New Year's Day, by Guy Fletcher

3/1/2020

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We saunter by St Gregory's Church, Dawlish
where some epitaphs are eroded,
weathered away, souls forgotten
on this silver-sky New Year's Day.
The hiss of the stream is soothing
and bare branches rise up like monsters' claws,
at the top of a hill I stand and pause

to stare at the grey ocean down below
as dusk drops down, a most sinister time,
lights of a tanker illuminating
the horizon as we reach Holcombe village
drinking tea in the Smugglers Inn
contented to be with my dearest friend,
talking of God...watching darkness descend.

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The Derelict, by Adrian McRobb

3/1/2020

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Sun setting
on the estuary
water ripples
blistered silvering
on an antique mirror
golden light illuminates
cracked wood
bare ribs
crazed paint peeling
a patina of neglect
nails which hang
heads bent
pushing from the rot
half in half out
stern dragging mud
bow amongst reeds
once nets rubbed thwarts
tarnished rowlocks witnessed
pipe smoking fishermen
trawling for herring
the missing mast hung sails
speeding them home
with a full hold
smiling into the sunset
on the estuary...

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The Town Crier of Comics, by Bruce Levine

3/1/2020

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There once was a man
Who thought he’s a comic.
He didn’t need logic
‘Cause still he dreamed on.

He’d open for this one
And open at that.
On sidewalks, in nightclubs
If they’d pass the hat.

He followed his plan
And eventu’lly made it
On cruise ships and Vegas
He moved right along.

Through ups and through downs
And fights with his agents
He fought and he battled
And weathered the storm.

And now he’s retired
From stand-up and show-rooms
And calmly announces
As comics move on.

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The Trees are Burning, by Guy Fletcher

28/12/2019

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On the other side of the world
the trees are burning, wildlife
and people die but the sun doesn't care.
The landscape is scarred, the trees charred,
whole communities destroyed
and everyone rational knows what's to blame,
on television I watch the flames

but can't imagine the feeling
of householders staring at a blackened space
where they spent so many years,
so many years and so many tears.
Helicopters spray water with scant effect,
when the fire dies it might well return
and the parched earth...once again burn.

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Caverns of Eternity, by Adrian McRobb

27/12/2019

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Before torches
cold crested breath
noisy boots
damaging silence
daggers in ears

A time of quiet
lasted centuries
no light, no noise
just the drip drip
of a water clock

Counting down eternity
in saltine structures
every six inches, a hundred years
stalactites meet stalagmites
a century in gypsum salt

Ballerinas dance and sparkle
in crystalline tutu's
legs in Swan Lake tights
on point in rock salt shoes
in darkness chimes

We savour the surface
embracing light
names echo
in silence
and are still

Water drips
splashing trickles
salt climbs on salt
years continue
an unstoppable clock
in the dark...

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Snowy Night, by Bruce Levine

27/12/2019

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It snood, it snowed, it’s snowing
The ground is covered in white
And even our dog’s footprints
Will certainly not last through the night

Children are outside playing
Choosing up sides left and right
Piling up mounds of the white stuff
In preparation for a snowball fight

Looking out through the window
Safe and warm inside
I cast a giant shadow
Happy where I can hide

And so I’ll leave the day to the snowplows
Who struggle along in their plight
Smoothing the roads and the sidewalks
And to all I wish a good night

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A Tribute to Martin Peters (1943–2019), by Ian Fletcher

22/12/2019

2 Comments

The deaths of men like these
come like body blows to me
for he was my boyhood hero
a player then in his golden prime
a part of Alf Ramsey’s sublime
Three Lions football team
one of only two Englishmen
to score in a World Cup Final.
Ten years ahead of his time
his wise old manager said
of this attacking midfielder
a pioneer of the modern game.
But though the ref has blown
the final whistle on his life
for me and my generation
he has achieved immortality:
we shall not see his like again.

2 Comments

A Winter Evening, by Guy Fletcher

20/12/2019

A winter evening, dark and dreary:
rain weeps down the window pane
and the circular bedroom light
is poor compensation for the sun.
The gale whistles a sinister song,
he feels claustrophobic trapped in the room,
too much time to contemplate thoughts of gloom.

A cloud like a giant soaking duvet
had stretched from east to west
but then sinks onto the horizon
allowing moon and stars to bless the night
so he wanders into the fresh air,
breathes deeply with his problems flying high
to the bleak clouds...which once menaced the sky.

A Woman's Tale, by Julie Achilles

20/12/2019

Who is this woman standing here?
tis not a lady of conscious clear,
whose time on earth was not spent praying,
of dubious character so many are saying.

As death takes hold and her spirit vacates,
she stands before the pearly gates,
and, as they open she enters in,
St. Peter smiles and tells her 'is not all mankind full of sin'?

Christmas Wishes, by Bruce Levine

20/12/2019

Christmas wishes
Happen once a year
In times of joy
And times of cheer

Lending mem’ries
And sharing dreams
Happy endings
With friends it seems

Brightly lighting
The festive yule
As children enjoy
Days off from school

To good companions
And to all those dear
A Merry Christmas
And Happy New Year

Of Age, by Julie Achilles

13/12/2019

The threads of the woman's life unravel-
like an old garment no longer of any use.
She will not look into the mirror anymore,
the mirror lies and she does not trust it.

She sits alone at her rickety table to admire-
the signs of its age, its scratched surface.
Her eyes close to the view through her grimy window,
denying how the moon sparkles over the sea.

Crumbling walls and rusted nails hold up nothing,
youth and beauty lost and days of laughter gone,
But in her mind there are memories,
Age- like an advancing army destroyer of all.

She knows her homeland will survive, its beauty lasting,
this land of sparkling seas and orange sunsets,
It is her that must bear the decay,
and still her eyes linger on the image held by a rusted nail.

Evergreen, by Sterling Warner

13/12/2019

boughs
hang
pinecone
heavy as
silhouette Christians
adopt traditions align the
nativity with winter’s solstice, adorn tables
with yuletide camellias, Christmas
haggis, teaming neeps,
tatties, toast
auld lang
syne
days

Mountain Evening, by Yash Seyedbagheri

13/12/2019

over snow-bathed peaks
across the valley, wide and sparse in numbers
of souls
evening casts slate-blue shadows
mingling with moon, white over the snowbanks,
through rising pines
along unpaved country roads and winding trails filled with
mud and ice-patches and old pine needles
clear and sharp
air cool

Snow on Aberystwyth Beach, by Guy Fletcher

13/12/2019

Starlings shelter under the picturesque pier
as snowflakes dance to their death
in the cold indifferent Atlantic
which has swallowed countless ships and sailors.
The snow is as white as the breakers
sizzling on the sand of this western shore,
a young woman listens to the sea's roar

admiring the rare sight of snow,
forgetting woes for a while.
A dog rushes into the freezing depths
then shakes water from its fur
as starlings take-off into the grey sky:
in swirling formation like a black ghost,
a magical sight on this windswept coast.

The Eyes Have It, by Ian Fletcher

6/12/2019

Look into another’s eyes
and hold fast their gaze
whether that of a stranger
or of one more familiar
and note as the thin veils
of humanity strip away
what you will observe
in this mutual equipoise
is that we mortals are nights
solitary darknesses containing
the whole vast universe
and all imaginable thought
voids merging into voids
of elemental nothingness.

War Criminal, by Adrian McRobb

6/12/2019

They said you had enough
of war
bodies in lime
"Welcome to Sarajevo!"
they said

The Hague, mumbled
but...didn't see
the blind eyes
in lime

Chalk blind ears
origami birds
deaf, to all but
business as usual...

Stars, by Julie Achilles

6/12/2019

A sky lit by a thousand sparkling stars,
And a moon full and dominant in the night-sky,
Sand that is made-up of billions of tiny fragments-
of diamonds- sent down from the gods as a gift.
I listen to the gentle sounds of the sea and recall-
the laughter of children when the brightest sun-shone,
and scorched their skin.

Now I stand alone with only the stars for company,
I know what lies beyond the sea and I do not seek it- as you did,
My tired eyes look to the heavens and I cry out to the gods-
as they reign there as they once did on this land-
I hear the owl on her nightly search for prey-
and, I think of all that I have lost.

<<Previous

Mr McGregor's Garden, by Adrian McRobb

Free Will, by Bruce Levine

War Memorial Sonnet, by Guy Fletcher

Postcard from Penarth Beach, by Guy Fletcher

Reading the Blogs, by Bruce Levine

Eastbourne Pier, by Adrian McRobb

Among the Stars, by Mary Wallace

More Than Today, by Mary Wallace

Holcombe on New Year's Day, by Guy Fletcher

The Derelict, by Adrian McRobb

The Town Crier of Comics, by Bruce Levine

The Trees are Burning, by Guy Fletcher

Caverns of Eternity, by Adrian McRobb

Snowy Night, by Bruce Levine

A Tribute to Martin Peters (1943–2019), by Ian Fletcher

A Winter Evening, by Guy Fletcher

A Woman's Tale, by Julie Achilles

Christmas Wishes, by Bruce Levine

Of Age, by Julie Achilles

Evergreen, by Sterling Warner

Mountain Evening, by Yash Seyedbagheri

Snow on Aberystwyth Beach, by Guy Fletcher

The Eyes Have It, by Ian Fletcher

War Criminal, by Adrian McRobb

Stars, by Julie Achilles

Poetry

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