Blog Archives

The Flood, by David Chek Ling Ngo

28/1/2022

It’s when you saw the water entering your house,
destroying everything,
when you didn't think it could ever happen,

when you were trapped and started calling emergency lines for help
and when you couldn’t get through any, started tweeting,
“Please help, we’re trapped”,

when you could feel the heaviness of the darkness
weighing you down like a suit of armour
on a night that would otherwise be just like any other Friday night,

while waiting on the rooftops for someone to appear,
together with people you couldn’t see in the distance
but could hear them crying,

that you realise how your soul yearns for an approaching light
and your heart longs for a comforting voice coming from the light.

Rejection Haiku, by The Editor

28/1/2022

Your story’s not there? –
You might have messed up the form.
Lot's of folk do it.

Rayleigh Scattering, by Michael Leach

28/1/2022

small, scattered waves
of blue light enter green eyes:
the Blue Mountains

Hope, by Marjan Sierhuis

28/1/2022

Though your loss is painful
and your tears flow like rivers
words will see you through

Nuclear Warheads at the Breakfast Table, by Alex Blaine

28/1/2022

You can't talk peace
as you bring your tanks
and nuclear warheads
to the breakfast table.
However, I will remain calm
as I drink a cup of tea.
I will win the war
with just one gentle
glide across the toast
with the butter knife.

A Squirrel Sonnet, by Guy Fletcher

21/1/2022

A squirrel scurries across the road
narrowly avoiding a roaring monster
unlike many of its counterparts.
I can only but stare in awe
at its acrobatic motion
as it ascends a steep fence
to reach a barren winter tree.
If it limped like me a predator
would indeed have a rich feast.
Sometimes consciousness is a curse,
too much time to ponder whilst the squirrel
has a purpose which I envy:
a wondrous sight, graceful and swift too,
it descends the tree... and disappears from view.

The Devil's Advocate, by David Chek Ling Ngo

21/1/2022

When you conduct a viva voce,
you can play devil's advocate,
have a licence to kill,
pick holes in everything
while sounding smart,
and in the name of scientific inquiry,
post questions–intelligent or not–
you yourself have no idea how to answer,
but expect an answer to
with the right kind of rigour,
for you’re now the devil's advocate.

Mollification, by Sterling Warner

21/1/2022

We initially kissed as a compromise
no long-term commitment nor strange bed
in the morning—only fractured choices.

Weeks—months—passed by without consequence
company well met bred contentment—not expectations--
till autonomy’s strings frayed in the quest for more.

Days and nights should have nurtured negotiation
yet enhanced concession’s battle ground, a place
where stalwart adversaries met halfway to nowhere.

Summer freedom found autumn chill too much
to endure—we conceded independence and solitude
left us incomplete, found solace together priceless.

2022, by Marjan Sierhuis

21/1/2022

Go soar to new heights
I just know you can do it
2022: memorable

When the Fog Came, by Alex Blaine

21/1/2022

When the fog came
it came in thick and fast
couldn't see the ground
under my feet
my hand in front
of my face

Life Play, by David Chek Ling Ngo

14/1/2022

She pulls herself back
only to be launched anew,
with a leap of faith.

Inevitable
it seems as he tries to keep
his spirit alive.

[Photo credit: Tan Eng Hock]

Dreechit Decembers, by Sheila Ash

14/1/2022

Fog, rain, drizzle, drizzle,
Fog, rain, drizzle, drizzle,
Rain, rain, fog,
Rain, fog, rain,
Drizzle, fog, rain, fog, drizzle,
Fog, fog, rain, fog, fog,
Drizzle, fog, rain, fog, drizzle,
Fog, rain, drizzle, drizzle,
Fog, rain, drizzle, drizzle.

Fog in Bute Park, by Guy Fletcher

14/1/2022

It emerges suddenly from a blue sky,
silent and sinister, melting the frost,
the castle barely visible,
even more gothic than before.
It is a cold January fog
that chills my bones and chills my very soul
with not a single tourist here to stroll

just a man and dog and jogger.
The only visitors to the Gorsedd Stones
are seagulls who screech a lament
as a squirrel leaps up a barren tree.
Yet this mysterious vista does not last
and the wintry sun returns to the scene
as if the gloomy fog...had never been.

Shy Dusk, by David Chek Ling Ngo

7/1/2022

[Photo credit: David Chek Ling Ngo]

Playing hide and seek,
she tries to hide her beauty
behind her pipa.

(Note: Held vertically, the pipa is a traditional Chinese string instrument that has a pear-shaped wooden body )

The Community Vaccination Clinic, by Michael Leach

7/1/2022

we wait in this full
room for our COVID shots
‘Brave’ plays on the screen

The River, by Guy Fletcher

7/1/2022

"I feel certain I am going mad again." - Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf suffered with the mind
facing many a mental collapse
and spells of contentment made this disease
all the more unbearable,
cruel voices echoing inside her head.
Virginia was obsessed by water
writing "To the Lighthouse" and "The Waves"
observing the hypnotic breakers bend
as they crashed on the Cornish shore.
But then bombers flew over from Germany
and the "furies" returned
yet her books shall not be forgotten.
She headed out on a bitter March day,
the river Ouse...taking her life away.

Holiday Poetry Submissions...

7/1/2022

...have now been transferred to this page and appear below this post. Thanks to all for your contributions while I've been having a break.

Her, by Alex Blaine

7/1/2022

Her lips her smile
her cold feet
against my skin
her nails driving
down my spine
her rusted locks
flapping in the wind

A Poorer, Yet Richer Christmas, by Alyce Clark

7/1/2022

In Christmas’s past, the coins jingled much more-
As we carried our packages home from the store.
“Bigger and better,” we practically cried,
Now, “less is more” we gratefully sigh.
Tables were filled with sumptuous treats.
No cost was spared for our time-honored feast.
Now we’ve pared it down to our most favorite dishes.
Enjoying God’s love with these granted best wishes.
Our hearts have grown full- while our wallets hold less.
No spectacular gowns, we’re more casually dressed.
Warm memories and smiles when we think of the past.
And now we know the true meaning of Christmas, at last.

NOW OPEN TO SUBMISSIONS

4/1/2022

Because of the Christmas Competition, and the editor's need for a long-overdue holiday, no stories are being published here at present.
However, we are now are now accepting submissions through the normal submissions pages.

Short poems will appear here from 7th January.

Poetry

Archives