Blog Archives

FRED, by Mary Wallace

31/7/2019

I struggle with technology, I call my tablet FRED*
I bought a little cord for it, it’s messing with my head

Just plug this in to save your files, do this and then do that
“Oh darn” you’ll need another cord, give this one to your cat

I’m glad it didn’t cost you much, he says with a big smile
I’d happily pay twice as much, to save the bloody file

So now I have two little cords and neither of them work
It's time you bought a new laptop, he now says with a smirk

I take the brochure, see the price, consign myself to debt
So how do I transfer my files…there’s cords for that I’ll bet.

*"F***ing Ridiculous Electronic Device"

Syrup Drips, by Bruce Levine

30/7/2019

Syrup drips over the tower of pancakes
The last vestiges of Log Cabin
Empties the bottle
Morning begins with a plethora of carbs
A joyous start to the new day

Poetry Wasn't Enough in the End, by Guy Fletcher

29/7/2019

"Sleepmonger, deathmonger." - The Addict, Anne Sexton.

Anne Sexton drifted in and out
of asylums and a psychiatrist
encouraged her to write her feelings
with poetry to save her life.
Always with a cigarette in hand
this alluring brunette won the Pulitzer Prize
and drunk martinis with Sylvia Plath
yet never left the suicidal path

carrying "kill pills" in her handbag.
Anne was jealous that Sylvia
committed suicide first; the world of
troubled poets is a stange place indeed!
But one day after lunch with a friend
she donned her mother's old fur coat,
sat in her car, turned the ignition key,
the demons departed...her soul was set free.

Coasting, by Adrian McRobb

28/7/2019

Side parting of whipped grass
clings desperately to paths edge
cliffs look out with angry old faces
hopes dashed with next westerly gale
Rusted broken beacon smashed by
a hundred storms or wreckers hand
curlews wail their thin song of wasted tome
"Too late!" "Too late!" Wheel and dive in mourning flight
Wreathes of fog earth bound clouds
in sea fret wringing hands of grief
a bell bouy sounds peeling in the distance
upon still water like obsidian glass
but, with an undercurrent of movement
rippling in laconic samba...

Life, by Philip Galfano

28/7/2019

I feel like being no one tonight.
I had come to believe I knew the world;
all my life I have searched for something about me,
about people close to me
or about things far away.
Yes, tonight I really want to be no one,
an unknown face
among unknown people.
Leave me behind all alone
in the most remote solitude of my room
like an object created without poise,
silent indifferent unmoved
like death.

No Escape, by Ian Fletcher

28/7/2019

No, he would never spend
his whole life in bedsit land
for he’d surely make it out
of there one way or another
as the day replaces night
but the booze it got to him
in the end for he could not
ever hold down a regular job
or keep a steady girlfriend
so now wearily middle-aged
looking older than his years
he wakes day after dreary day
from his drunken dreams
hungover in a solitary room
to hear the four walls scream.

Life is Not Like a Box of Chocolates, by Arlene Antoinette

28/7/2019

I walked into the oncologist office
armed with boxes of chocolates
and baked goods, attempting to bribe
my way out of a of a possible cancer
diagnosis with gifts made of cocoa
powder and flour. Shaky hands and
a frozen smile betrayed my confidence
in my inducements, but I pressed on
and mentally crossed my fingers because
we all know; everything goes better
with chocolate.

A Tribute to The Roxy, by Ian Fletcher

21/7/2019

I remember The Roxy
back in the eighties
like it were yesterday
a club long since gone
although not forgotten
in the old city of York
that was then the center
of our youthful world.

Now we’ve all moved on
those far off days seem
bathed in a golden haze
we punks, hippies, goths
within that Bohemian crowd
reappearing frozen in time
in the landscape of the mind
the once beautiful people
who partied the nights away.

Yet the past is another country
I suppose and like The Roxy
its doors are forever closed.

London, 1994, by Hannah Welfare

19/7/2019

Patch me up
Sideways
To the shadow of the sun

We are two
Not one

This evening
Is a saw blade
Cutting
And
Shearing
Him speaking
And
Me

Somehow

Hearing

That bends me to the death of day

I am in a restaurant
In Soho

I will be okay
I say

To his blank smile and
Relieved eyes

And the forever I wanted
To live with him

Dies

A Dance of Death to Enola Gay, by Guy Fletcher

19/7/2019

He thought he was immortal
but the cigarettes, drugs and Stella
brought his downfall in the end.
He looked good in the 80s
with slim figure and platinum hair
but obese and sixty his heart gave way,
a dance of death to Enola Gay.

Now the crowd is together again,
well, the ones who have survived,
how decrepid they appear as I picture them
back in their prime but father time
I realise has disfigured me too.
I said goodbye to an old friend today,
a dance of death to Enola Gay.

Resistance, by Adrian McRobb

19/7/2019

Like a beacon lit by a warning hand
torch beam signals
small craft cuddled by night
starts its descent earthward
landing, it stutters clonking to a halt
rain coated figures some coming some going
inhabit the gloom in hurried industry
far off bark freezes the movement
who's listening pauses then scurries on
sliding canopy lock clicks into place
a wave, a torch's blink, engine restarts
like a swallow she rises to the dark
flapping coats and luggage disappear
to 'prosper' a secret alliance with a silent land
all through the provinces and parishes
its people ignited by a word...liberte!

Auschwitz, 2019, by Sankar Chatterjee

18/7/2019

I stood in the middle of a gas-chamber, well-preserved
At corner, inside jars sat cyanide-pills Zyklon B, unused
They came down the chute, above.
I stood in the middle of a bombed-crematorium, now in ruins
Showers, head-shaving rooms, gas-chambers, and furnaces
All testaments to annihilation of six million Jews.

History repeating itself, same hatred, different place
“Send her back” strongman instigated, crowd cheered.
Hey, whom you’re telling to go back?
This country mine as yours
Slaves and Immigrants, blood and sweat built this nation
Heading to self-destruction in slow motion.

In which America am I living in 2019?

Those Who Forget History, by Sankar Chatterjee

16/7/2019

In the beginning, natives’ blood made the soil soft
Arrived the African slaves, more blood and sweat
Rice, cotton, and sugarcanes, the nation got rich
Then, men from Orient built railroads and bridges.

In modern times, geniuses of all origins
Bringing diversities and cultural identities
Placed the nation to its highest pinnacles
In capitalism, literature, and sciences.

Along came the Ghost of Fürer, raised hand
Escaping buried bombed-bunker in Deutschland.
Thunders he “Go back to where you came from”
Burning history, America prepares to burn bodies.

Visit, by Rona Fitzgerald

15/7/2019

The woman is small with dark hair,
a smile never reaches her eyes.

She knows I’m asthmatic.

I never allow smokers in that room,
you’ll be grand!

In the night I wake hot and edgy.
Strong smells are wafting from the floorboards.

A cat purrs, the bed shakes and the room goes smoky.
Footsteps outside my door recede.

In the morning she says; I hope the cat didn’t disturb you.
She was chasing something all night.

I notice her eyes are two different colours.
One is sea green like a cat, the other, fuzzy brown
like a barn owl!

Her White Throat, by Adrian McRobb

13/7/2019

A vein
Pulsed in
Her white throat
Even
As she spoke
Hiding
My eyes
From
Her bosom
As
Her
Velvet eyes
Spoke
To me; of
Smoke

Children In Cages, by Sankar Chatterjee

13/7/2019

(Image courtesy American Academy of Pediatrics)

Parents promised new toys and lollipops
Crossing the desert and swimming the river
A new beginning in a land of plenty.
Little they knew
America building walls for parents
Hauling children to cages.

Liana, Jose, and their friends
Snatched from parents’ arms
Waking up in cages guarded by rifled men.
Mommies and Daddies
Nowhere to be found
Forgetting even to cry, they draw pictures.

Phony outrages, life goes on
Intellectuals argue, lawmakers debate.
Violated basic human rights
Flow along with children’s throw-ups.
No basic amenities or medical care
Strongman busy in Twitter war.

In America, children remain in cages.

The Tidal Title, by J P Garza

10/7/2019

You’re always searching for your next prey,

It’s like you can’t wait to watch them pray,

We already know everyone must die,

Keep looking at us as fabric you must dye,

You think your status is so much higher,

Like a stingy employer refusing to hire,

You’re a shrink without a patient to counsel,

Like a leader who is missing a council,

Forget trying to learn what you don’t know,

No matter what is asked, your reply is no,

The books in your house have never been read,

So, grab a paint brush and make sure they are thoroughly red.

Summertime at Whitmore Bay, by Guy Fletcher

10/7/2019

There's an artist's azure sky over Whitmore Bay
brush-stroked with white wispy clouds.
Two old men in wheelchairs stare silently at the Channel
and children, the other side of life,
laugh and paddle in the placid water
as sparkling silver waves sizzle on the shore
and high above Whitmore Bay seagulls soar.

Red and grey cliffs show
time on an unimaginable scale
as I reside outside Bay 5 Café
just observing and most contented.
Here in all the seasons of the year
I feel unshackled and completely free
admiring the beauty of the sea.

My Life, by Philip Galfano

9/7/2019

My life is an impenetrable desert
of solitude,
barren
harsh
no boundaries,
a reflection of melancholy
drenched
hopeless
resigned.
My life is a sea of stormy water,
treacherous
rough
poisoned,
an inconceivable lake of sorrow
to no affections.
My life is a cow-web,
tenuous
frail
extremely weak.
I end there where I thought of beginning,
and in the fervor of who had believed
there is now no caress
nor simple smile,
just teardrops running down the face
and to the heart
before vanishing into the horizon.
Night is death
waiting wearily in the shadows,
not a thought crosses me
nor the joy of so many dreams,
the memories have disappeared
at the scent of summer,
one cloud has gone by
then another
and another......

Mr. Morris Coming to Town, by Sankar Chatterjee

9/7/2019

Mr. Morris, the gentleman coming to town
Not a Royal, still dreaming the jewel crown
Gaelic or Welsh, none wearing English gown
No country for an immigrant, black or brown
Hate with lies turning motherland upside down.

He takes his cue from a faraway Yankee clown
Leaving EU, he’ll change the capital to a shantytown
Jobs disappearing, businesses fleeing, factories blown
Citizens in amnesia, letting the country drown
All hail, Mr. Morris, the gentleman coming to town.

The Night, by Philip Galfano

6/7/2019

I hate the night
because it brings thoughts
that unveil doubts,
fears and uncertainties
deep inside its shadows
slowly settling to torture
my afflicted heart.
As I see myself wavering
between memories and remembrances,
I think of us together hand in hand
along the unsettled paths of our life,
and now as I quest for you in the dark
that peeks over my desolate life of today
the memory of you has slowly vanished.

City at Night, by Adrian McRobb

5/7/2019

Now the nightclubs empty
streets littered with rubbish
detritus that escaped the bin
neons stutter brokenly flashing
their unwanted welcome message

Silence now broken by odd shouts
as late go-ers drift homeward
lamps move in wind miscast shadows
letters darkly gesture in yellow paint
'no-parking' either needed or wanted

Ozone filters back exhaust gas
while in subway (much beloved)
of civic planners lurid graffiti
beckons in innuendo and slander
saving Facebook harassment in court

Silhouetted denizens disrobe, as
one-by-one lights extinguished
cats whine and patrol restless
walls topped with broken glass
the city hums into kilowatt slumber...

The Old Book, by Guy Fletcher

4/7/2019

Idylls of the King by Tennyson:
whose hands have turned the pages
of this little tome from 1878?
They escaped into the land of Arthur,
Merlin and Lancelot but whoever
bought this copy has long since passed away
yet this classic shows few signs of decay.

It is Aegean blue, page edges red
and I purchase it for merely a pound.
Its scent is from the past yet feels petal-soft
and now I too can lose myself
in a medieval world of kings, knights and magicians
wondering if long after I am dead
this fine hand-sized old book will still be read.

#UnwantedIvanka, by Sankar Chatterjee

3/7/2019

Image: from Paramount Pictures' "Forrest Gump", (adapted)

It was bound to happen, Forrest would traverse
From screen-life to viral-world of Twitterverse.
In a rendezvous in a park, Mr. Forrest Gump
Meeting new American Royal, Ms. Ivanka Trump.

No diplomatic skill whatsoever, she travels with dad
Greeting famous world-leaders and dictators gone mad.
Photoshopping in historical moments, Twitter now ridiculed
Forrest would remind her what his Mama had always said.

“Life is like a box of chocolate.
You never know what you’re gonna get.”

(Author’s note: The inspiration for the piece came from Mr. Gordon Lawrie.)

Why Do Trains Have Windows? by Adrian McRobb

1/7/2019

Why do trains have windows
when no-one wants the view?

They sit and stare at laptops
plugged in, connected, hooked up too
would the fares be cheaper
if the walls were no longer glassed
would we miss the cattle
and villages we passed?

Engineers would be happy
to alter the design
trains would be much faster
because of the streamline

You wouldn't notice tunnels
no sunshine on your face
on this blanked out journey
at this slightly faster pace

Someone would eventually be forced
to write a protest ditty
Why don't trains have windows
when travelling Intercity?

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