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Return To Shrewsbury, by Guy Fletcher

30/5/2017

I flick to a photograph a million years away
remembering our smiles as a stranger
froze us in time on that sunny Shrewsbury day.
The sun kissed our untroubled brows,
swans and their brood rested on an island
in the middle of the meandering blue Severn
as pink blossom floated down like snow.

But now I have come here alone,
the island is nowhere to be seen
for the Severn is in a menacing mood
threatening to spill over the banks,
bruise-coloured sky full of venom.
I recall with sadness that special day,
stare at her face a million miles away.

Red Splashed, by Edward Ganthier

24/5/2017

Crimson ran between my stubby fingers
and had a sheen like fresh blood. I licked
residue on my lips, knowing I was spreading
more than anything else. “Ahh!” I giggled.

My father feigned terror and held up his hands.
“You monster!” he laughed, bearded face smiling.
I made claws of my fingers and stalked forwards:
my footsteps were slow and lumbered like Frankenstein.

He fell on his haunches, hands protecting his face,
and I peeled them away to smush my red lips on his stubby cheek.
“Like the strawberries?” he asked hugging my small frame.
“Yes!” I exclaimed, kissing again.

The Headless Gladiators of York, by Guy Fletcher

22/5/2017

Near the mighty walls of the York Minster
headless skeletons were unearthed
from the Roman empire 2,000 years ago.
How amazed they would have been
to see themselves re-assembled on tables
with their age and occupation revealed,
gladiators dead in a foreign field,

one even hailing from the Middle East.
Where is your brutal violence now
as your bones lie in neon silence?
They slept unmolested for all this time,
I picture muscular bodies beheaded
dying in bloody ways to entertain
yet now only pitiful bones remain.

Quantum Echo, by O. L. Percivall

18/5/2017

What am I? Where am I? When am I?

Which answer is more important to you?

What if I said I am none of these but all of
them at once? Like a spinning coin that is
neither heads nor tails but both and none.

Would you believe me?

Should I care if you didn't?

I am here.

Patiently waiting for you to catch up.

Sunset Over Orford Ness, by Guy Fletcher

15/5/2017

Flaming sunset over Orford Ness
where tests were made for the A-Bomb.
Now these stone structures decay
like the cliffs and castles on this Eastern coast.
The wind bites bitterly from the North Sea
whistling as if the spirits
of those perished in the brutal depths
here in this cold and indifferent ocean.

The very sea seems to be on fire,
Nature has returned to Orford Ness
bringing Sea Peas and other flowers
as concrete cracks like ice in a thaw.
Seagulls emit a lament as the roaring sea
seems to mock humankind
with its flimsy defences and where
rusting warships lie impotent as an old boxer.

Searching for Jim Morrison's Ghost, by Guy Fletcher

8/5/2017

On a damp morning I enter
the magnificent maze of Pere Lachaise
searching for Jim Morrison's ghost.
Very few living souls are present,
an old woman wipes a tear
as I feel dizzy in the drizzle
strolling past sinister grey crypts
including one showing Fourier's face,

Oscar Wilde and many famous names
but a beggar and a king end the same.

Finally I reach Jim Morrison's plot
with his beautiful statue long gone.
Here a photograph was taken
reportedly of Jim's spirit,
arms outstretched like the Jesus
of Edith Piaf's last resting place.
I do not sense his presence
but Mr. Mojo Risin' plays in my mind

as I lay some red roses on the tomb,
a shooting star who left us far too soon.

Grandma's No, by Edward Ganthier

4/5/2017

“I’ll ask God for a favor,” my grandma said.
“Ask him to have mercy on my favorite grandson.”
We laughed at that, but her chest rattled
as if marbles rolled in her

chest. I pouted. “Take it easy, Grandma.”
She waved a liver spotted hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“Did you take your medication?” I asked knowing
she’d dance around giving me no.

Yes, I prayed and went for my morning walk."

Busker On Queen Street, Cardiff, by Guy Fletcher

2/5/2017

Busker on Queen Street
singing a sad song,
strumming her guitar
as people stroll along.
Yes, on this Bank Holiday
pass all shapes and sizes
as the sun briefly breaks through
grey clouds as it rises.

I throw coins into her guitar case,
her red hair kissed by the breeze
as she plays another sad song
underneath blossoming spring trees.
It's rather therapeutic
and for a little while I pause
but to some she's invisible
as the shops open their doors.

Poetry

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