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Algeria 1958, by Adrian McRobb

29/3/2019

 
A grenade tumbles
outside the bar
only soldiers there
at this late hour

Who stare and gape
in drunk amazement
at the missile bouncing
across the pavement

Soon to explode
and from its mesh
sear red-hot shrapnel
in to human flesh...

Penguins, by Adrian McRobb

29/3/2019

 
Bow-tied
Ice floe
Waiters

Beautiful Boy, by Guy Fletcher

25/3/2019

 
"Living in a world of make-believe." - Daydreamer
In the 70s he fell into success
blessed or cursed with beauty,
girls fainting at his concerts:
David Cassidy once the greatest pop-star.
Yet it was all an image he couldn't escape
and as his looks faded so did his fame
easily replaced by another name.
 
A world-weary man records in a studio
face painted with alcohol,
in pain, a pale shadow of the beautiful boy
drinking to cover up the sadness.
He yearned to be a "serious" musician
but never became a rock n' roll star,
a tragic figure...as many of us are.

Divorce, by Adrian McRobb

23/3/2019

 
Guilty gin
fizzes in
bitter lemon

Bella Kotak, by Adrian McRobb

23/3/2019

 
sunlight lancing feathers
golden eagle
slicing through air
spirit of the plains
Bella Kotak
soaring and diving
almost, out of sight
her spirit
possesses the sky
as she spirals
framed at the limit
of the world
that freeze-frame emotion
at the edge of reality

The Silver Birch, by Guy Fletcher

18/3/2019

 
The silver birch collapsed in the night:
it must have creaked and groaned
with its mighty death rattle
toppled by a howling winter gale
as I was lost in the land of dreams.
In the morn the wind was no longer wild
but the silver birch I climbed as a child
 
lay slumped on the rain-soaked grass.
It narrowly avoided the greenhouse
and will have to stay, I cannot lift it away.
The ghost of a young boy sheds a tear
but the weather does not care.
Yes, the old silver birch fell in the night,
a giant carcass...a most forlorn sight.

Marshmallows, by Adrian McRobb

15/3/2019

 
Sugared
Pillows
Of delight...

Intrusions, by Adrian McRobb

15/3/2019

 
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 even have a plan
they've got knives too

The voices, in my head...

Trash Party, by Adrian McRobb

13/3/2019

 
Near a quiet house
teenagers gather
Blondie breaks the glass
their in...

'Get the party started'
booms out
a chair gets smashed
porridge on kitchen floor

Blondie sprays her tag
on walls

"BlondiE (heart)"

Jumping on beds
muddy boots and weed
foiled roaches

Short break
weekend away
Mr & Mrs Bayer (and baby)
won't be pleased!

A Balmy February Day in Bute Park, by Guy Fletcher

11/3/2019

 
I stroll past the Animal Wall
and through the West Gate of Bute Park
relieved to escape half-term crowds.
The Gorsedd Stones are in shade
but although it's only late February
there are petals of pink and white
on the alluring cherry blossom trees,
daffodils dance a waltz in the soft breeze.
 
It's the warmest February day in history
with the blue Taff reflecting the sky,
joggers, dog-walkers are out in force
and families enjoying picnics but later
the gothic castle will stare through the trees
at a magical carpet of frost
to confuse nature in the ghostly night
and melt to shine as if stars in the light.

The Skater, by Adrian McRobb

8/3/2019

 
Faltering steps on ice
clumsy, timid, testing
but
confidence growing
cutting through
permafrost
steel blades
tight laced
making curlicues
patterns cut glass

Mouse fur hat
bobs as she glides
spinning in arabesque
completing a
Swan Lake sequence
no witnesses
a private pond
in a Scottish winter
faster and faster
timing the snow flakes

Woollen leggings
against the chill
velvet collared coat
red pearl-back mittens
pleated tartan skirt
pirouettes on the turn
circling into herself
decreasing, yet increasing
a gyroscopic toy
in a frozen wood

Inspiration, by Guy Fletcher

5/3/2019

 
When my mood is at low-tide
my thoughts turn to the young woman
in a wheelchair who knew
that everyday might well be her last.
Yet her spirit soared
like a white eagle in a northern sky,
her body has gone but she did not die
 
and on this fine day at the edge of spring
I feel her spirit in the daffodils
and in the roses of the church path.
She is my inspiration,
her soul shines like the morning dew
reminding us how transient we are,
each one shining...like a miniature star.

A Misty Walk – 28th February 2019, Adrian McRobb

1/3/2019

 
The mist drifts
in wraiths of moisture
caressing cold stone
pausing as if
gossip was its mission

The spire disappearing
into the ethereal ether
delivers liquid messages
to the almighty

Drifting across the road
wetting leaf and shrub
phantoms appear
dissolving once more
on missions unknown

Walking in this other world
is a non-existence
is this what
death feels like
seeking relative comfort
in the world of life

Shadows of cars
pass in a grey wash
muffled engines
adding to the mix
exhaust fumes and mist
turning the streets
into dream-like memories...

    Poetry

    This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most.

    Poems submitted should be
    no longer than 160 words
    and contain
    no more than 16 lines.

    100 words remains the approximate target.

    Please submit using the Poetry Submissions Page.


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