The gray hurricane runs
the colors out of the rainbow;
confused is the mind
and empty is the soul now.
the colors out of the rainbow;
confused is the mind
and empty is the soul now.
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Writers who can’t think
Of anything to write about Write haikus instead. There’s nothing to do
while death is on holiday except be patient I have known you since you were a baby
We were inseparable We ran and jumped and played and worked We did everything together We felt the greatest joy and the lowest despair Then you betrayed me At first it was little things I could forgive you for those Wasn’t that enough for you I feel different - slower, achy, breathless, fuzzy When I gaze in the mirror I don’t recognize you anymore I don’t see me I see my grandfather Looking back at me And like him We will soon be someone’s memory Sinéad O'Connor's death came as a shock to many. Rather than repeat it, the video can be viewed at Stephen Goodlad's flash contribution.  It came as a shock to learn
about the demise of Sinead O'Connor, a wonderful singer cursed by tragedy with her son dying at seventeen and Sinead suffering from demons in the mind. Oh, she was far far too young to depart, a rebel with a cause with a pure heart. Yet it's the iconic video of her singing "Nothing Compares 2 U" that really touches my soul as she sheds tears with the saddest eyes. What a voice, tinged with melancholia, an Irish legend with so much passion whose music will never go out of fashion. Editor's Choice  "The trees are singing my music or am I singing theirs?" On the edge of the Green at historic Hereford Cathedral stands a statue of Edward Elgar holding on to his bicycle with a notebook and pen in his hand and as I stare with admiration I find I'm playing the Enigma Variations in my mind. He peers whimsically at the cathedral, how it must have inspired his work for he lived in this city for years. As the verdant branches whisper I have my photograph taken next to the great man and then relax in the summer breeze imagining Elgar...listening to the trees. And this is wonderful, if by some chance you've never heard it... Plucking love’s irrational urges
like guitar strings, romance indistinguishable from passion mixed on dance floors, soda fountains, Mercury make-out cars, and seedy drive-ins where we paraded our innocence amid a blacklisting world gone mad with fluoridation, police action generals sharpening viper-like teeth on television broadcasts, conspiracy theories—and the onslaught of electrical gadgets to replace simple tasks with plug-in promises; I look fondly on those nights making calls to friends, confirming movie plots, arriving home with stories to tell parents—omitting spoilers—resting up for next week’s convertible theatre tour de force. Where it concerns light and fins;
The closest sources, always, Will cast the darkest shadows! But in the long last, the sun wins. For no matter the distance, anyways; What is & is to be, nature endows! Bedraggled scarecrow
amidst the ripening corn, frightened by the birds I stare at the clouds
view a mother and baby and then they are gone. Those pesky termites
gleefully eating my house I’ll be homeless soon All is full of echoes
from the past and the spirits still walk among the linden trees like when the world was so very green and young. Cycling and daydreaming together with my firstborn son I'm passing again through the shadows of the Linden Street unlike when I was so very foolish, lonely and young.  (Photo: M. J. Richardson) I carefully descend the Dean's Steps
to magnificent Llandaff Cathedral. In the graveyard some tombs have split apart, forgotten souls with many tragic tales branches hissing as if their ghosts amongst daisies and dandelions which do not care about mortality, grief and despair. Statues of saints adorn the cathedral walls like spirits as I enter through the wooden door to be greeted by the fantastic Epstein's Christ and rainbow murals lit up by the summer sun. An elderly man recites a prayer as I touch a pillar steeped in history feeling tranquillity entering me. Spring brought forth the dusting of grandeur
The blossom exploding from baring bud, Showering lawns with lilac dander. A benediction bound in nature’s love. Branches laden, heavy with flowers Sweet Adulation in perfumed repose, Beauty distinct fragrant overpowers Consuming the senses is manic throes. Then it fruits, its summery shift To languish berries bright bursting red For us to pick at the seasonal gift Before the tree starts to Autumnal shed. Start again your sleep encrusted with snow Until the awakening when winter goes. There's a golden glow on the skyline;
Wild roses perfume the air, And the land sinks into silence As loving hearts join in prayer. The birds have all ruffled their feathers As they settle down for the night; And you are there with the angels, Walking, healed, into the Light. In the time of rain
the old poet at his desk waiting for the words |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any poems – writers appreciate it.
Just at the moment, though, we're moderating some of them so there might be a slight delat before they appear. 
Archives
October 2024
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