Blog Archives

Standing the Graveyard Watch, by Mimi Grouse

30/6/2023

I wonder, when I ran away to sea,
If anyone ever thought of me
Tossed and thrown on the wild, wild wave,
Rolling and listing and being brave?
(Make us some coffee, sailor, and make it strong
For the weather's wicked and the night is long.)
Ah! Better the deep with its cold embrace
Than to see the hatred on their face;
Better the locker of Davy Jones
Than to heed the insults they threw, like stones.
(That's my lad. The spoon stands upright in this stuff;
There'll be no nodding off at the helm for us.)
'Tis the irony of my life, old son;
When everything is said and done,
The Virtuous all rely on me
For their silks, their spices, and their tea.

The Car in Front, by Jeremy Leariwala

30/6/2023

His eyes glued to the 5.2 inch glowing screen,
And the engine roars blared off the tiny speakers.
He watched highlights of the beloved Safari Rally.

Man and machine battled it out-in the exciting,
The toughest and the most spectacular WRC series,
Where the home-grown, like Tundo, and the visitors shone.

Try as he did, he couldn’t read the racers’ names,
And the duplication of the speed-machines made it even harder.
He couldn’t tell the difference between teammates!

His memory opened up, again, to a distant past encounter.
And he recalled the thrill-awesomeness, of a skilful driver of North.
He smiled; his handling of the land cruiser at night was magical!

Then, on the finals day, he watched the highlights;
And marvelled at the racers’ last stunts and manoeuvres!
How lovely? The car in front was a Toyota. Viva Sebastien Ogier!

Dog, by K. J. Watson

30/6/2023

a dog concentrates
on a buzzing fly; canine
entomologist

To the Grave, by Christian Aug

30/6/2023

He just knew he was going to cave.
He wished more than anything that he were brave.
It was a no.
He had to go.
His love for her was going with him to the grave.

Titan, by Guy Fletcher

30/6/2023

Sinking down to the murky depths
as vulnerable as a spacecraft
the Titan came to observe history
but instead became part of it
joining the perished of the Titanic
long ago lost to the indifferent deep,
they will also find here eternal sleep.

I can't imagine the claustrophobia
trapped inside a glorified tin can
and then the horror of implosion.
Edgar Alan Poe would surely have penned
poignant lines about this terrible event.
No, all that wealth was unable to save
the occupants...from a watery grave.

Words, by K. J. Watson

23/6/2023

words blend and caress
then tango across the page;
I need new glasses

The Gift, by Robert P. Bishop

23/6/2023

The bee, too gentle
in the warm days of summer
to sting the old monk
dipping into the honey
with gnarled and misshapen hands

Penarth Beach, 1907, by Guy Fletcher

23/6/2023

Phantom figures in black and white
are in the foreground of the photograph
by the pier at the bottom of Beach hill.
Life was so different back then:
children pose next to a bicycle and pram,
a plethora of hats are on display,
some stare at the camera on this summer's day

each person now long passed away.
The paddle steamer "Devonia"
drifts by the end of the pier
and everything is right with the world.
Today all will be tranquil
with just dog walkers and perhaps a ghost
floating slowly along the South Wales coast.

Woodland, by K. J. Watson

16/6/2023

insects crawl among
damp leaves by a fallen tree
odour of decay

Death of a Young Poet, by Guy Fletcher

16/6/2023

The painting is set in a London attic
depicting a doomed youth in trousers electric blue
and face as pale as his shirt.
He lies on his side, flaming hair, peaceful in death
manuscripts ripped to pieces
and a phial of arsenic next to the corpse.
In this sad vista from long ago
I imagine the buzzing of flies
entering through the open window
ignoring the plant on the shelf
to settle on the indifferent boy
who is now beyond the reach of pain
yet it was not his words bringing him fame
but this tragic painting...which made his name.

Refuge, by Robert P. Bishop

16/6/2023

In the time of rain
someone lived in that old hut
abandoned last year

No Amigo, by Alex Blaine

16/6/2023

Somewhere in the
Spanish mountains
Humanity
has hung
its teddy

Stolen Spring, by Ivan Ristic

16/6/2023

The poor old Sun,
lost in the heavy aircraft clouds.
Down here I've been waiting
to feel again
its divine springtime blues.

Lamplight, by Robert P. Bishop

9/6/2023

In the shadow time
the old poet lights his lamp
the inkwell is dry

He Used to Be, by Guy Fletcher

9/6/2023

He used to be
immaculately attired but today
his coat is dirty and shoes worn out
rather like his poor old soul.

He used to be
wealthy but lost it all
and ambles to the coffee shop
with mind glued to the past.

He used to be
a man with boundless energy
yet he has learned humility
no longer with contempt on show

but now instead of looking to the skies
he wanders around with pavement eyes.

Unloaded, by Alex Blaine

9/6/2023

Blow down
a prayer
to God
hoping
he's
listening

The Temple at Karnak, by Guy Fletcher.

2/6/2023

At the winter solstice
a magical sight is on view:
the sun climbs over the horizon
awakening from its slumber
to shine through the temple's portal
lasting only a minute every year
in a truly wonderful atmosphere.

The Pharaoh Amun-Ra
would have witnessed the event
as well as many long forgotten souls
then the sultry sun drifts above
the famous temple at Karnak,
spectators departing with such awestruck eyes
never forgetting this supreme sunrise.

Poetry

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