Blog Archives

Unrealistic Expectations, by Liz O’Shea

24/2/2023

You wanted a stay at home wife
You got me !
You wanted a woman who’d make you her life
Not me !
You wanted a Stepford mate
You’ll have to wait
A long long time for that
I’m not suited to a doormat.
You should have chosen ‘her next door’
I saw you watching as she washed the floor
What you need is a traditional wife
What you’ve got is trouble and strife.

Shivering Fest, by Ivan Ristic

24/2/2023

In the name of Harmony
I shall drink mead, sing and summon
another season of gloomy lights
and sparkling darkness.
I shall celebrate the cruel beauty
of the coldest days and longest nights.

Cheers to Blizzards
a long time gone!
Cheers to good old Frost
chilled to the bone!

Glacier, by Guy Fletcher

24/2/2023

It is an alluring vista
yet the ageing climber views only tragedy
as the ice has retreated
like hair on a balding man
but the lake behind him
has expanded and today
sparkles like stars and is painted blue
under a deep azure Arctic sky.
He came here thirty years ago
now he is standing on a barren rock
where an ice-sheet used to be
and as an eagle gracefully glides
the climber exhales yet another sigh
and pauses...remembering days gone by.

Bvlgari’s Window Display, by Sterling Warner

17/2/2023

Gilded fingers on plastic sculptures
& ebon hands in glass display cases
invite common eyes to imagine
the feel of 24 caret gold rings
inlaid with diamonds, sapphires,
rubies & pearls slipping down
their aching, weathered fingers
displaying opulence & grandeur
elevating practical unadorned digits
to the realm of high extravagance—if only
for a moment—before removing baubles
to clutch coffee cups & strike keyboards.

Windows, by Lynda Lee

17/2/2023

Your windows dark
like sightless eyes
stay fixed on me
from high above
the frozen graveyard
where I stand.
Hands red raw clutching
cold metal railings.
Puffs of icy breath
a bridal veil
billowing softly upwards.
Heart thudding
seeking searching
always longing
for just one glimpse.
Of You. My forbidden love.

Presage, by Robert P. Bishop

17/2/2023

The cemetery,
peacefully green and serene,
waits for all of us
with a calm and knowing smile
impossible to ignore

Musical Styles, by Michael Leach

17/2/2023

The earbud in her ear
resembles a pearl earring.
She embodies
style
while
listening
to whatever she wants.

The Peaceniks, by Ivan Ristic

17/2/2023

War,
get some rest
and leave us alone.
Or find your rest in peace
and rust in dust.

The Old Painting, by Guy Fletcher

10/2/2023

He stares at the painting again
which has hung in his lounge
for decades, often invisible:
a lane stretches into the enticing distance,
trees on one side bushes on the other,
a tranquil day in the summer it seems
and sometimes he saunters there in his dreams

in the sunshine with his love
who often admired the scene.
But she has gone yet it remains,
the old clock ticking monotonously
on a wet Wednesday afternoon
as the sombre man drifts back in time
remembering moments...sweet and sublime.

Beast, by Alex Blaine

10/2/2023

The Orange Beast
Thumb-tapping
His Bible . . .

Ghost in the Pews, by Guy Fletcher

3/2/2023

I am in church on a cold Sunday
peering across to where she always sat
stating once that she had worshipped
in this very church for sixty years
and how it used to be full.
Now far fewer stroll down
the path to God on a Sunday morn.
She discussed travelling to Yorkshire
to visit her sister but today
there's an empty space where she used to be
and as the first hymn begins
I imagine I view her ghost
but she will not be singing anymore,
departed like so many here before.

A Roxette Triolet, by Michael Leach

3/2/2023

My fave part of that Super Mario Bros. flick
is Marie Fredriksson singing ‘Almost Unreal’.
Though I love making Mario jump into bricks,
my fave part of that Super Mario Bros. flick:
a pop/rock track about romantic magic tricks.
It pays to stay and listen while credits unreel.
My fave part of that Super Mario Bros. flick
is Marie Fredriksson singing ‘Almost Unreal’.

Old Shabby, by Mimi Grouse

3/2/2023

In time-poor people's way,
Old Shabby shuffles to one side
So as not to spoil the day
For those with jobs, a home. A child.
He trips and drops his shopping bag.
Now the street is full of laundry
And his silk shirt's just a rag
Draped across the boundary
Of esteem.
Invisible, annoying Shabby,
The once successful go-between
Relegated, by the dictates of Economy,
To the comforts of the rubbish bin.

Poetry

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