Blog Archives

The Bones of Winter, by Mimi Grouse

26/1/2024

Fragmented and pale, the antelope lies
Sprawled on the forest floor,
And the wolf cubs howl at the gibbous moon
As its ghost glides on before.
Now dinner is done and bellies are full,
The cold seems less horrendous
And the bones of the winter sacrifice
Are a presage of something tremendous.

A Mountain of Glasses, by Guy Fletcher

26/1/2024

I view a heartbreaking photograph
of a mountain of glasses
stacked in a doom-filled room.
Each pair has a story to tell
from a normal life and into Hell.
I imagine sun-kissed days on the Continent:
weddings, wine and laughter
but then it all came down to this.
The glasses are different shapes and sizes,
some for women, men and children
yet all speak of a terrible fate
that we simply cannot comprehend.
Yes, each pair has a story to tell
from a normal life...and into Hell.

Malevolent Spirit, by Kevin T. Pearson

26/1/2024

Cast into a world of darkness,
the dusk sets me free.
So many years, remembered,
so many forgotten.

I’ll meet you in the darkness.
Hunt you in your dreams.
I move within the shadows.
It is abrupt for you to see.

I take it from you without asking.
You’ll clutch at my pale form.
Your yielding flesh gives without tearing.
Your warmth nourishes my needs.

I bring you within death’s reach.
Gazing into your lifeless eyes,
reflecting what I’ve become,
and what you are to me.

I'm in the Doghouse, by Alex Blaine

26/1/2024

I didn't go to the pub
I didn't go to the bookies
I didn't get drunk
I didn't place that bet at 100 to 1
The good old boys are having a wake for me
again
I did everything you asked
I stayed at home with you
But
I'm in the doghouse again
She ain't half yelling
The good china always flying out of the kitchen
I wish I had hearing aids
just like my grandad
So my batteries can always run flat

Letter tae America, by Gordon Lawrie

26/1/2024

A day late for Burns Night, of course, and sorry for the Scots. No apologies for the sentiments.

Muckle, inflated, jumped-up numpty
Whit sortae packaging fills thy heidie?
Ye’ve won the Republican race fror certain –
For de Santis and Haley it’s surely the curtain.
Ye mumble, ye stumble, ye drivel oan
Yet yer followers worship ye like yer on a throne.
Oan a throne? Maybe wan in a cludgie
Where yer empty crap is safe in yer duchy.
MAGA? Morons Are Germinating Again –
Whit are ye planning this time when
It doesnae gae yer way in November?
Riots – even civil war– in December?
For us o’er here it beggars belief
That a liar and sex-pest could be commander-in-chief.
Sae tae oor friends o’er there we send this letter:
America – and the World – deserves better.

Mudman, by Ivan Ristic

26/1/2024

Aurora Borealis is dazzling above us
but still no traces of snow under the feet.
Here is only barren soil carried away
by warm, ghostly breeze
or washed by the rain.

My kids hardly remember the touch
of Ice and Frost.
And our sled is locked in the shed
years ago.
Now we make snowflakes from styrofoam
because there’s nothing left to do.
Even the poor old Santa lost his job
years ago.

I miss you, Snowman...
So welcome, Mudman.

Solstice, by Robert P. Bishop

26/1/2024

In the cattail marsh
Yellow-winged blackbirds declare
Summer’s arrival

The Post Office Scandal, by Guy Fletcher

19/1/2024

It is the little person who suffers
when huge corporations are rotten
and this led to suicides, breakdowns,
prison and, of course, enormous debt.
It took a TV drama to awaken
the horror and anger of a nation
after decades of grief and frustration.

Alan Bates was one of the little people
who rose to become a giant
and now we can watch the bosses squirm
yet it's far too late to say sorry.
The real culprits should be incarcerated
and victims' paid proper compensation
after decades of grief and frustration.

Like the Sun, by Alex Blaine

19/1/2024

He got out of the shower
had food
then fell asleep
He was out cold
stone cold dead
until the morning
when he rose
like the sun

Aurora’s Hush, by Sterling Warner

12/1/2024

Sun
bursts
appear
muted though
a cataract lens
like Monet’s multicolored mist
floating over Olympic crests squeezing past cedars
nestling crowns, circling canopies
an impressionist’s
horizon
subdued
dawn’s
light.

Drifting with the Angels, by Guy Fletcher

12/1/2024

The evening was dark and gloomy,
sky the colour of depression
but she made it to the hall
where the choir began to sing.
Not all voices were mellifluous
yet it was still a beautiful sound
and a sense of tranquillity she found,

her troubles melting away
like snow on a spring day.
She became lost in a song
part of the universal mind
wishing these moments could last forever,
drifting with the angels for a short while
and upon her face...a radiant smile.

Poetry

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