Blog Archives

Caerphilly Mountain In Early Spring, by Guy Fletcher

24/4/2017

High up on Caerphilly Mountain
the early spring daffodils are weather-tortured
by a wind still cutting like a razor.
Indeed, just a couple of days ago
snow made its last stand on the summit
and now grey clouds vanish like a ghost,
the shade darkening the golden heather,
it's my birthday we are back together

wandering in Wales as in the days of old
discussing Faith in the brutal breeze,
strolling up to the top of the world.
The town of Caerphilly lies far below,
each house with its own dramas.
On the other side is Cardiff and the Channel.
How I remember the innocent joy
with paper aeroplanes here as a boy

which glided gracefully in the wind
over bomb craters and verdant grass.
Oh my love, I shall recall this day
so that when my body is weak, bed-bound
my mind will be on the mountain again
with you admiring the panoramic view.
This is sustenance for the soul up high
near to the angels.. in the April sky.

Perfect Fit, by Arlene Antoinette

19/4/2017

He loved her imperfections.
One dimpled cheek, one iris
a deeper shade of emerald green,
her bottom lip much too full. She
was a composite of mismatched sets.

She loved his perfection.
The cleft in his square jaw,
his pale sky blue eyes,
his lean 6'2" frame.

Her imperfections made her
work a little harder for his love.
His perfection made him
love her more for trying.

Sea Mist over Penarth Beach, by Guy Fletcher

18/4/2017

It's early Saturday and the crowds
are still sparse as a sea mist
obscures the Channel view
twirling like a snake over the cliffs
of the famous North Beach.
It's as grey as the pebbles on the shore
but soon the blue sky will be back once more

yet the mist has a beauty of its own
as transient as snow in spring,
the water still, silver as a mirror
as a father and his small sons
stroll slowly over the soaking sand
as the mysterious mist drifts on by
and I admire seagulls as they fly.

Twisted Reasoning, by Arlene Antoinette

10/4/2017

Each man creates
The thing that he hates
It rises up from a well deep within him

Each man sedates
The thing that he forsakes
That it may no longer torture or forgive him

All men are crude
There is no “Golden Rule”
Men are creatures of darkness and of night

Kindness is a waste
Power has its own grace
Let the powerless suffer their self-inflicted torment

Sadness is man’s fate
Why bother to complain
A life filled with joy would be too fulfilling

Each man makes
And when he is ready he breaks
His bonds, his word and his promises

Men do not love
For love is truly a drug
And It is better to never love than to have loved and lost.

Vimy Ridge, 1917, by Guy Fletcher

10/4/2017

The two white towers dominate
a picturesque landscape this spring day
as if skyscrapers in a sea of green.
Of the carved figures the two
desperate Adonises move me most:
both peer up at an indifferent sky,
one with arms outstretched, one with torch raised high.

So much Canadian blood was spilt
and on this warm, tranquil April afternoon
it's hard to imagine the screams
of the dying so far from home
or the terrified Germans. A gardener
cuts the grass, I observe a tourist weep
and under the earth countless young soldiers weep.

Silver Mirror, by Guy Fletcher

5/4/2017

He has returned to the old family home,
rubs dreams from tired eyes
and rises, staring into the mirror.
Many who walked within these walls have perished
yet the mirror remains unchanged
unlike those who gaze into its soul.
The silver mirror tells only the truth
burying a child and a truculent youth

and now an ageing visitor appears,
bags under eyes and wrinkled brow.
It reflects different curtains now
but the ancient oak tree still stands
as he reminisces about those
who have peered into its honest face
and the silver mirror does not disguise
the sorrow etched in his world-weary eyes.

1917, by Ian Fletcher

4/4/2017

From here in 2017 it all seems
like some ghastly unreal dream
yet a century ago this vaunted
war that was to end all wars
had one more grim year to run
untold millions already dead
rivers of blood still to be shed.
The memorials are all around
in every city, village and town
monuments to the carnage
and bereavement scarring
this green and pleasant land
forever after it seemed then
though few now even look
at these sombre cenotaphs
the whole catastrophe
having been consigned
to the dustbin of history
or the dull factual pages
of high school textbooks.
Oh, our minds should be
haunted and full of ghosts
for across the Channel
not so far away in France
thousands of young men
were dying day after day.
Did they thus fall in vain
to be unremembered so?
Who of us cares anymore
about this forgotten war?