Blog Archives

Bread Crumbs, by Fabrice Poussin

30/4/2018

It must be fun being a bread crumb
they are big travelers in a small world
talented in many sizes shapes and colors
they too flavor our lives with their pricks.

Furtive as the kitten, gifted with many more
lives. Some gray, some dark, some light
others purples red green, or even white
their large families all around.

The Streets of Yesteryear, by Guy Fletcher

30/4/2018

I have returned to the grim, grey Black Country town
where I used to visit my grandmother,
a child in a vastly alien world.
The old sweet shop is now just a house
and my grandmother's home completely changed
with different make-up, no clue to the past,
everything changes and nothing can last.

I see the ghost of a young boy
staring at me from a bedroom window
then I stroll to the "Rec," it seemed
so much larger many decades ago.
With local lads, my father and brother
I played cricket on a hot summer's day
in a park...a million miles away.

Spirits of Santiago Cathedral, by Guy Fletcher

23/4/2018

A myriad of weary hands
have fitted into the ancient stone
of sun-kissed Santiago Cathedral.
Its grooves are smooth with age, he senses
the spirits of travellers from deep in the past:
so many pilgrims with many a tale,
this mighty building the end of the trail.

Oh, weeks of walking cleansed his soul
from all the filth of modern life:
an electric hell, frantic rush...to nowhere.
He didn't believe he'd reach the finale
under a soporific Spanish sky and lofty paths
following ghosts, and on his face now brown
salty tears of redemption trickle down.

The Rose, by Arlene Antoinette

17/4/2018

The danger lies not
in its alluring beauty,
but in the thorns it bares
which pricks delicate skin.
For the rose is not satiated
by an abundance of water
but by human blood that it
consumes in order to satisfy its
morbid hunger and preserve its
beautiful crimson petals.

The Oracles of the Dead, by Guy Fletcher

16/4/2018

In the 1950s a strange place emerged
buried in time for thousands of years.
In Baia, near historic Naples,
the ruins of an ancient resort were uncovered
where Romans bathed but also
a sinister narrow labyrinth led
to the revered Oracles of the Dead.

Wealthy clients slowly descended,
the temperature increasingly stifling
in volcanic rocks on the way
to the legendary River Styx.
They arrived at the Sanctuary
where a priestess in the cramped stony room
then relayed her messages from the tomb.

The oracles were high on drugs
dancing with the zeal of the possessed,
a money spinning exercise from antiquity
like the mediums of Victorian times.
But perhaps a few saw the future
and were really in contact with a ghost
long ago...by the Italian coast.

In Memory of Ray Wilkins, by Guy Fletcher

9/4/2018

Another of my heroes has passed away:
Ray Wilkins, master midfield maestro
at the age of only sixty one,
so tragic and a bleak reminder
of my own mortality.
Chelsea captain at just eighteen years old,
his wonderful silky skills...pure gold.

I remember his goal in the Cup Final
way back in 1983
scoring for Manchester United.
He played for many teams
gaining 84 England caps.
The smell of cut grass brought joy to his heart,
pitch perfect, the season about to start.

He even strayed north of the border
appearing for Rangers and Hibernian.
Oh, Ray had problems with the demon drink
as so many people do
yet was poetry on the field of play
and his heart was painted a Chelsea blue,
Ray, the football world will remember you.

There Are Ghosts, by Guy Fletcher

3/4/2018

All things used to be effortless:
when her head met the welcome pillow
sleep arrived automatically
but now dreams are sad and disturbing
and dawn the cruellest time of all.
The memories are fading just like snow
when a soft southern wind begins to blow.

She resides on a cliff-top bench
with the warm sun caressing her brow
and hypnotic waves crashing against rocks.
Her handsome husband calls her name
bringing a surge of joy into her heart
but then he vanishes as if a ghost
and she's alone by the indifferent coast.

She views a young couple strolling past
with no thoughts of their mortality
as she stares out to sea with maudlin eyes
tears as salty as the ocean.
Her husband appears once again
for ghosts exist, created by the mind
when it is tortured...and reason is blind.