Blog Archives

To the Lifeboat! by Gordon Lawrie

31/1/2020

"TO THE LIFEBOAT!" the shrill voices cried
"What on earth is the problem?" bemused, I replied.
"This ship isn't sinking,
What are you thinking?
I feel nice and warm on the boat, and beside,
I reckon I'm safer while I'm tucked up inside"

"But the cruise ship's a monster, don't you realise?
And it's not good for you be on something that size
We're under the yoke
Of some foreign folk
Who don't speak like us and with shifty eyes
Try to make us eat dodgy merchandise."

"Hang on a minute!" I said, "That's rather rude –
I happen to like their interesting food.
It's not all for me,
But you have to agree
That some of our own diet's not that good:
Deep Fried Mars Bar's a wee bit crude.

"And stuck on a lifeboat as we all start to freeze,
Who's going to rescue us? Answer me this!"
"But why do you assume
It's all doom and gloom?
While we're adrift on tempestuous seas
We're free to be rescued by whoever we please!"

That was all the dissent they chose to allow
I was dragged to the lifeboat anyhow
So if you hear my cry
And a rescue you try
It's easy to find us – this is how:
Our lifeboat has a Union Jack on the bow.

Eden, by Ana Marie Dollano

31/1/2020

Where beds of purple wreaths and
yellow bells flourish in disarray
and trails of flaming red peacock bloom
on a patch of land along a moss-covered stone wall
where tiny blossoms emerge
between the cracks,
down by a murmuring stream.
This perfect tangle of tropical charm
warms my heart on unfriendly days
and fragrance sweet and subtle rests
my soul on weary nights,
a peaceful little garden
inspires my dampened spirit,
then I wake and carry on anew.

In the crevices of my memory exists
a little hideaway.

Frost in January, by Guy Fletcher

31/1/2020

On the Wenallt the grass is white,
a low mist hovers like a ghost
and it seems gems sparkle as the sun rises
making it a most glorious sight.
It is early on a Saturday morn,
crescent moon in an azure sky,
intricate ice patterns on cars
on a day I feel blessed to have been born.

The ice-scrapers are out in force,
surprised as are daffodil shoots
as seagulls gather
on the frozen pond of the golf course.
My breath is like an old locomotive's steam
as an orchestra of birds greets my ears,
I am contented as I drift
as if inside...a beautiful dream.

Voices, by Adrian McRobb

31/1/2020

They first came to stay
uninvited, but quite ok
yesterday, they made me cry
forced me to lie

Tonight, they are shouting
squeezing in my brain
they've even got a plan
they've got knives too

The voices, in my head...

Why I Write, by Mary Wallace

24/1/2020

I have lived a thousand lives and still I crave for more
I have searched on library shelves, from Romances to War
I have travelled back in time, explored the Universe
Found desire, discovered love, felt pain, known plague and worse
I have lived a thousand lives, sojourned with thieves and kings
With my sword, slayed dragons fierce on quests for magic rings
I have lived some regal lives, journeyed to foreign shores
As Princess and as pauper I’ve walked through many doors
I have lived a thousand lives, from Astronaut to Spy
Still I think my ideal life, has sadly passed me by
Each of those one thousand lives have made my heart take flight
But none were written just for me, and that is why I write.

Frozen Tundra, by Bruce Levine

24/1/2020

Pasted in the frozen tundra of infamy
Held over the abyss
As time derivatives delivers cascades of sorrow
And fame lingers on the precipice of hope

Train (a poem for Holocaust Memorial Day), by Guy Fletcher

24/1/2020

What fear and despair the man must have felt
as the horrific rhythm of the train
rattled along the Polish countryside.
Through a gap in the cattle track
he viewed a boy in a field
put finger to his throat meaning doom
and this was becoming a rolling tomb

as yet another person expired
in the horrific heat of the crammed "carriage"
where the reek of human waste was inbearable.
He was not fearful for himself
but holding his terrified wife and child
he looked at them with hopeless, tearful eyes
as he heard weeping and inhuman cries.

The train came to a sickening, screeching halt,
harsh German voices told them to get off.
He noticed the station was Auschwitz,
a place which had never entered his mind.
None of the family saw their home again
and now only old photographs remain,
a time before...the world became insane.

Mowtaz, by Adrian McRobb

24/1/2020

Quintessential quixotic leather seated Roller
shimmering on the Coast Road in the summer haze
with a hamper full of Harrods bags, caviar and Vin-du-Pays

Slimline executive stylish Rover
hurrying from the airport in the autumn gloom
with a boot full of briefcases, data-tags and Dior perfume

Scruffy little taxi with broken 'for-hire' light
slithering supermarket ways in a winter gale
hoping for a tipping fare with bread buns, chocolate and own brand ale...

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...

Free Will, by Bruce Levine

17/1/2020

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.

War Memorial Sonnet, by Guy Fletcher

16/1/2020

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.

Postcard from Penarth Beach, by Guy Fletcher

10/1/2020

"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.

Reading the Blogs, by Bruce Levine

10/1/2020

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

Eastbourne Pier, by Adrian McRobb

10/1/2020

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?

Among the Stars, by Mary Wallace

10/1/2020

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.

More Than Today, by Mary Wallace

3/1/2020

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.

Holcombe on New Year's Day, by Guy Fletcher

3/1/2020

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.

The Derelict, by Adrian McRobb

3/1/2020

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...

The Town Crier of Comics, by Bruce Levine

3/1/2020

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.

Poetry

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