Blog Archives

Tom's Garden, by Sheila Ash

30/1/2019

The old broom head
like an elongated hedgehog
stoppers the rickety driftwood gate.

The shingle path
winds its way through
the garden tumbling to the river’s edge.

The tree house
bereft of children’s play
majestically awaits the next generation.

Elderflower cordial
sweetens suspended time.

Holocaust Memorial Day, by Guy Fletcher

28/1/2019

I feel ashamed, pathetic,
fretting about my petty woes
on Holocaust Memorial Day.
Almost 80 years ago
the devil ruled in Europe:
trains which had been used to transport cattle
groaned and screeched with an awful death rattle.

There was no food and just a bowl
as a toilet for the desperate people
crammed so tightly they could only stand.
An elegant finger pointed the way
to either the chamber of horror
where poison gas robbed the victims of breath
or work at the camp...a living death.

When I First Met Him, I Said There's No Way This'll Last, by Sally Armstrong

27/1/2019

We were damaged,
like parcels all worn away at the edges.
with brown tape,
all curled up.

We smoked roll ups.
Sipped pints of cider
in pubs with no name and
unpacked each other.

We flew to Amsterdam,
saw ‘Sunflowers’ in Van Gogh’s museum
We Ate green Thai,
all dressed up.

We bought our own place.
Derek Jarman’s garden moved us
to plant seeds,
make roots.

Angelic Flight, by Guy Fletcher

21/1/2019

The barn owl drifts as if a ghost
or an angel on this cold Essex day
soaring above the estuary
as white as the large snowflakes
gently dancing and descending to the water.
It's a magical sight watching them fall,
transient beauty by the sea wall.

In Epping Forest a woman carves her name
and that of a long lost lover
on a beech tree as she strolls
on copper leaves, relishing the peace,
an alluring place on the cusp of London
thinking again of the owl like a ghost,
nature at its best...on the Essex coast.

Lost, by Gordon Lawrie

18/1/2019

Are you lost, or merely on the wrong road?
Are you blind, or are have you only closed your eyes?
Are you deaf, or do you simply refuse to listen?
Are you speaking an alien language I cannot understand?

Reach out to me –
I want to help, I want to guide you
Show you the way,
Gently whisper words of comfort;
I'd like to communicate.

No?
It seems that my first guess was correct,
You are lost,
A lost soul.

Squirrel, by Adrian McRobb

18/1/2019

Kleptomaniac
Nut hiding
Hoarder

Dark Clouds, by Ian Fletcher

17/1/2019

Oh smile, Mr Fletcher, just smile
the young student says on seeing
my brow so furrowed with care
for she is but young in her days
happy awhile in her little world
this youthful soul open and kind
as yet unaware of the dark clouds
on the horizon or within my mind.

The Old Busker, by Guy Fletcher

15/1/2019

Once I spoke to the old busker,
I believe it concerned the weather.
He was famous for a shiny grey suit
and ditties from decades gone by:
"Hound Dog," "Shakin' all Over," "CC Rider,"
and other rock and roll classics,

a music machine to supply the beat,
he sang in the cold and sang in the heat.

I saw his photograph in the local paper,
it told of his demise
his friend claiming he was a sad old man
who came alive singing his tunes,
another character disappeared from the streets
with their soulless shops and muzak.

He no longer plays to the passing crowds
yet perhaps plies his trade...beyond the clouds.

Christmas Eve in the City, by Guy Fletcher

7/1/2019

Christmas Eve in the city:
a legion of lost lone men stumble
dazed and confused from one shop to another
as a homeless man huddled
in a doorway strokes his dog.
I wonder what unseen scars lie inside,
he's invisible to shoppers who stride

as he watches children skip, their eyes
such a contrast to his own.
A seagull picks scraps outside Burger King
under a sky as grey as the castle walls,
the reindeers not yet illuminated,
St John's Church a reminder of the birth
of the greatest figure who walked the earth.

I observe from inside Caffe Nero's,
many passers-by are glued
to their mobiles, some laden with presents.
I reflect on all those who've strolled
these city streets who wander no more,
people who are the ghosts of Christmas past
for life is precious...but nothing can last.

Resolutions, Resolutions, by Ian Fletcher

2/1/2019

New Year, new me:
all those petty faults
those peccadilloes
will be consigned to
the dustbin of history!
Alas, it is too late
to change these flaws
which are ingrained
within my character
like the deep roots
of an old beech tree.

Poetry

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