Blog Archives

Eyes For A Broken Heart, by Sophie Fleetwood

28/7/2017

He had those eyes,
Those eyes of heavenly blue,
Those eyes of beautiful lies,
Not blue for love,
Not blue like the heavens above
Not eyes of gentleman behaviour,
But eyes of deceit with no redemption,
Eyes concealing those lies he never mentioned,
Eyes of golden cold,
Those eyes of cold and my broken heart,
Those eyes that tore my strength apart,
Length from length his eyes of blue ripped my heart in two.

After The Pink Blossom Falls, by Guy Fletcher

24/7/2017

After the pink blossom falls
you will be far away,
the oh-so transient silky petals
will turn rusty and crumble
in my hands like broken promises.
We wander in the fragrant woods,
pass a breathtaking sea of bluebells
as if a reflection of the spring sky.

But after the pink blossom falls
I'll stroll here on parched summer days
tortured and haunted by your memory,
recalling us only at our best
for no text or phone call can replace
the feelings I experience right now
before blossom drifts down like snow.

The Lost Canal, by Guy Fletcher

17/7/2017

Sun-kissed Mill Lane on a balmy Saturday,
the sound of merry diners and drinkers
fills the somnolent city air.
On the terra firma which my feet tread today
barges used to bring iron and later coal:
tough workers travelling all the way down
from Merthyr to the then small Cardiff town.

Journeys began back in the 1790s
passing the castle and then Queen Street
but the underpass by Kingsway
holds a hidden remnant of history
with a sad jigsaw piece of a great canal.
Now just ugly concrete covers Mill Lane
and old photographs...are all that remain.

The Literary Cat, by Maria DePaul

15/7/2017

There was once a cat
Who lived in a bookstore.
He adopted it by chance
After his owner
Had passed away.
He had lived in the alley,
Surviving on scraps
Left behind from picnics
In the park and workers
On coffee breaks.
When gradually those
Workers began gathering
At the bookstore for
Readings and the
Families went there
For story time,
The cat followed them
At a safe distance.
One night, a sudden
Thunderstorm soaked him,
So the cat huddled by
The doorway, and a cashier
Let him inside.
The cat hesitated by the frame,
Reluctant to re-enter the
Lives of humans, who
Tend to come and go.
Still, he became a frequent
Visitor during coffee breaks
And tea times, so that he
Could get snacks of his own.
Finally, during the next storm,
He came inside for the warmth,
But decided to stay as
The mascot of the shop.
He enjoyed the adoration of
Kids, who loved his playfulness,
As well as adults, who loved
His hunting skills.
The owner named him Jack
Because he was great at
Many trades: he was a champion
Mouser and an ace entertainer.
He could play the roles of
Coy and aloof or warm and
Patient, depending on who
Was in attendance.
Everyone grew to love
Him so much that a sketch
Of his portrait was hung
In the window as a
Welcome sign.
Eventually, he slowed
Down as he grew older
And he retired to the
Shelter of his owner’s home.
When he too passed on,
He was mourned,
But he was also remembered
Fondly by everyone
In the neighborhood
As a symbol of the
Community, and the
Warmth people felt
When they saw him
At the bookstore.
So, if one stormy night,
You should see a cold wet
Cat in an alleyway,
Maybe you will consider
Leaving a dish of food
On your back steps.
You may never know
If that cat could need a friend
Or could possibly become
The friend you need too.

A Rainbow Of Umbrellas, by Guy Fletcher

10/7/2017

I should feel contentment on such a day:
wispy clouds stroll across a summer sky
as we pass Quiet Street and Old Bond Street
and saunter past quaint Lilliput Court.
Many times I have paused to admire
the massive plane tree in the courtyard.
It has witnessed generations come and go
whose tears and smiles vanished long ago.

We would often relax in its cool shade
but not now; dreamy days are in the past
yet even this mighty tree will fall one day.
My eyes scan the park where a giant open book
proclaims, "Oh! who can ever be tired of Bath?"
But we do not wander by Austen's river
and I envy tourists with thoughts benign
as I approach with dread the railway line.

We walk under a rainbow of umbrellas:
a magical arch by Bath railway station,
umbrellas also above St Lawrence Street
competing with vibrant flowers weaved
on the old-fashioned red telephone kiosk.
But I'll recall all these views with rue,
it's the last walk, the saddest one of all,
yes, even the massive plane tree will fall.

An Ongoing Outrage, by Maria DePaul

7/7/2017

Rage is ugly..
It can surface
In unpredictable ways,
Like getting fed up
With petty squabbles
Such as infighting
Over positioning
At office meetings,
While homeless people
Can be seen outside
Conference room windows,
Or tiring of endless
Bickering over who
Holds “alpha” status
During quarterly presentation.
Does anyone realize
That such things are
Completely meaningless?
Oneupmanship empties
People of connection,
Whether in the Boardroom
Or the courtroom.
While the only
Resolution to such
Quotidian outrages
Is to Unite to improve
The Human Condition,
The tragic reality is
That we continue
Pursuing status,
While poverty and loneliness
Plague humanity.

The Shifting Sand Dunes Of Freshwater Beach, by Guy Fletcher

3/7/2017

It is a blistering June day
as I wander on Freshwater beach
by the ocean on the edge of Wales
imagining I'm Laurence of Arabia.
The dunes are transient, as we all are,
shifted by the south-west winds
and imperceptibly moving in time.
I pause in wonder for the view is sublime.

A grizzled skipper and common blue butterfly
flicker on yellow irises,
violet southern marsh orchids and water mints
under a cobalt Saharan sky.
The sea is placid today, waves sizzle
to their doom on the sun-kissed golden sand
and I feel like racing into the sea,
waves of tranquillity sweep over me.