Blog Archives

The Dagger Men, by Guy Fletcher

26/2/2018

At the time of Christ and beyond
the Sicarii were in their prime:
an offshot of the Zealots
and unlike Jesus, peace was not what they preached
for they are also known as the Dagger Men,
the sultry streets of Judea their home
loathing soldiers and followers of Rome.

They carried knives under robes
and stabbed their enemies
in broad daylight then mingled
in the crowd feigning outrage
committing mass suicide in a cave
before equally brutal Romans came
and now few people remember their name.

Who Killed Those Kids Today? by Gordon Lawrie

24/2/2018

My apologies for this being slightly longer than the usual poetry contribution.

Who killed those kids today –
Cut them down in school that way?

Not I, said the man whose store
Sold the killer a weapon of war.
I remember it well, he just stopped by
Bought the gun and some beer like a regular guy
He might have been crazy, but how would I know?
When you're a kid-killer, it doesn't show.
No, I didn't cause those kids to fall
You can't blame me at all.

Who killed those kids today –
Cut them down in school that way?

Not us, said the NRA
We're pledged to defend the American Way
We need guns to protect, we need guns to fight
The 2nd Amendment is an American right
Shoot to defend is in the design
Give everyone guns – it'll all be fine!
No, we didn't cause those kids to fall
You can't blame us at all.

Who killed those kids today –
Cut them down in school that way?

Not I, said the President
Don't you see? It's evident
The guy was mad, the guy was sick
We need to arm the teachers Goddam quick
The votes of gunowners, that's what counts
And whatever I tell you on my Twitter account!!
No, I didn't cause those kids to fall
You can't blame me at all.

Who killed those kids today –
Cut them down in school that way?

This is of course a pastiche of Bob Dylan's song, which in turn was a variation on the children's rhyme "Who Killed Cock Robin?"

Running Gun Blues, by Ian Fletcher

24/2/2018

Arm the teachers some say
and maybe the problem
will then just go away.
Public men faking outrage
blame the security guard
who simply ‘didn’t engage.’
‘Guns don’t kill people
people do’ is the mantra
reeled out once again
by the most ignorant
of the wilfully inhumane
while the facebook liberals
rant and rage day after day
about the demonic NRA
who are tactically boycotted
by ‘concerned’ companies
whose CEOs have elected
to be politically correct giving
their brands an ethical image
in this most hypocritical age.
Whatever, it’s all mere words
going around and around
full of sound and fury
yet forever unheard by those
poor souls lying underground.

Like Blue Moon, by Sofia Kioroglou

22/2/2018

Smoke and mirrors
A snow job on my face
Fake news and frilly tidbits
I lap it up like Blue Moon
Smurf-like marshmallow blue
Front loops the same fruit-blend flavor
If wishes were horses, life would be a better place.

Winter On Amroth Bay, by Guy Fletcher

19/2/2018

My footsteps lead me past St Elidyr's church
over a quaint bridge and stream
then the magical sight of Amroth beach
enchants my eyes on this February afternoon.
I picture the floods years ago
as I walk over pebbles feeling free
heading towards a cold silvery sea.

There were cottages here once
that fell into the merciless waters
and I imagine the ghosts of the inhabitants.
Bruised clouds hang over Saundersfoot,
my reflection also like a spirit
on the wet mirror sand of the vast shore,
I listen to the wind and ocean roar.

A few hardy ones saunter on the beach
and dogs race across the alluring bay.
The tide ebbs and a procession of breakers sizzle
but no one is paddling today
yet I can breathe far from the city
with a bracing breeze as I gently stroll
a rich contentment...deep down in my soul.

The Temple On The Hill, by Ian Fletcher

18/2/2018

On the western side
from whence I came
the city of Taichung
sprawls over the plain
while over to the east
are the unspoilt lands
stretching ever onwards
to the lofty mountains
of central Taiwan
cousins of the great
Himalayas themselves.
The temple opposite
on the distant hill
that reflects the rays
of the setting sun
seems like a portal
to mysterious realms
in the deep interior
its golden Buddha
towering regally over
the valleys beneath.
My head warns me
to return home safely
before the night falls
but yet my heart
under the temple’s
subtle spell hears
the sage’s muted call
and is drawn eastward
longing to travel on
and on for might not
Shangri-La lie beyond?

Summer Fields Of Yesteryear, by Guy Fletcher

12/2/2018

I pretend, I pretend, squirming
at the table feigning nonchalance
but when her boyfriend tenderly touches
her hand it cuts like a razor.
I smile yet my eyes tell a different tale
and as my new lover caresses my hair
I rise, escaping into the fresh air

remembering summer fields of yesteryear
when we wandered for miles,
the future before us staring
at the city like an ants nest far below.
Through the pub window I watch her,
I took her for granted now have to pay
and with a rueful heart...just walk away.

Kate, by Adam Francis Smith

10/2/2018

A slightly longer poem than we would normally accept.

The daily papers played upon her fears:
Sometime soon the Earth would meet its ending.
Although she’d been an optimist for years,
She saw a world in dire need of mending.

To spare her child, she called upon the water,
consigned the toddler to its murky depth,
and marveled as this mystery; her daughter,
fought unto the end for every breath.

The struggle caused some doubt to slither in:
If one so young could fight so hard, so long,
was there perhaps a hope that Man might win,
and maybe she herself could be so strong?

Kate dragged the lifeless girl out of the drink,
pushed and prodded, pounded on her chest,
but no device cold turn her from the brink,
and so she slipped into her final rest.

Kate, confused and muddled, sought to flee
the guilt and grief that she could not confess.
She started over, but she was not free;
no means had she of penitent redress.

And so, alone, Kate died one dreadful night,
her baby’s violent struggles in her dream.
Forever now, she must endure her plight:
to hold her daughter’s face beneath the stream.

The Old House, by Guy Fletcher

5/2/2018

She listens to the ticking of the clock
in the silence of a suburban morn
as the loft drips bitter tears
into a bucket on the stairs.
Damp infects the house and her ageing bones
with the wallpaper now peeling away,
she wonders just how long she will stay,

remembering when everything was pristine,
children laughed and parties were held.
Ghosts haunt her, especially in dreams,
the old house creaking, a mirror of herself
and peers desperately onto the street.
But one day soon new owners will arrive
and the dying old house...come alive.

The Galaxy Inside My Mind, by Adam Smith

2/2/2018

In a galaxy inside my mind
forces fight for domination.
Despite aggressive intervention,
I must surrender. The dissention
is more than my mind can bear. How
can I be certain they are even there?
There's evidence that tumors grow:
the dementia that they sow. I feel
the pulses getting slow, the synapse
count becoming low. I have no option,
no place to go. And so the fight inside,
the symptoms of which I cannot hide,
rages on, and I cannot confide, for fear
that I might somehow harm my pride.
I've considered suicide, but cower,
for I cannot see the honor that's implied,
just selfishness and shame. The war
may overstep its bounds; already I hear
phantom sounds, of weapons fired, of
random rounds. As my head pounds
I fight to save my sanity, alone to save
my vanity. Damaged ego a calamity,
yet enough of it remains...

Poetry

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