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Francis Farmer, by Guy Fletcher

31/10/2016

How poignant and sad photographs are
capturing a single moment of a life
in the lost land of the past.
The youthfulness had disappeared
from Francis Farmer's elegant features;
no longer a glamorous movie star
but a poet finally finding peace
after such troubled and turbulent years

in and out of asylums
as she approaches the journey's end,
red lips and figure still enticing.
Yet age has brought a beauty of its own.
Her eyes ignore the camera's lens
as she caresses a white kitten.
She was a Hollywood rebel who yearned for more
than the shallow glory she received.

Inside the Mind of Goedel, by Guy Fletcher

24/10/2016

Kurt Goedel was a master mathematician,
a colleague of Einstein, no less,
logic for Goedel was paramount
yet madness dwelled inside his mind
for he feared accidental poisoning.
His wife tasted his meals before he ate
but she became ill and in no fit state

to sample his food anymore.
This man of mathematics starved to death
proving the fragility of the human psyche
for there is no logic in madness,
an irrational obsession
which could be viewed as Lucifer's friend
drove him to a sad...and untimely end.

Moonlight in Alexandra Park, Penarth, by Guy Fletcher

17/10/2016

The moon is circular, mysterious,
a mirror image of one many years ago
when I caressed her golden hair and our eyes
melted together but now only her ghost
is blown on the soft summer breeze
which makes the shadows of the roses dance.
The tide-master cares nothing for romance

shining on me with total indifference
unaware I have grown much older
with beautiful memories cutting like a razor
whilst it's as majestic as when pharaohs ruled.
My bliss was transient, a blink of a star
burning brightly but vanishing too soon
and now gloomy clouds have covered the moon.

The Rising, by Siobhan Christie Vanessa Luff

11/10/2016

A Rising of beasts, a Rising of dreams
A Rising of chance, by any and all means.

A fateful night, a terrible fright,
A forthcoming fight, an upcoming light.

Death rocks the world, till the world is grey.
Barren and lifeless, night and day.
Death is the norm, death is the fate
Death takes form, heaven dissipates.

A clasping of hands, a gripping of clothes,
A murderous rebellion takes its toll.

1969, by Ian Fletcher

8/10/2016

Oh, don’t you remember them, the hippies,
those gentle souls who worshipped nature,
birds and trees, with their stoned-kind eyes,
faces so fair, who’d wear flowers in their hair?
Yes, they really did believe the LSD could set
them free while tripping on yellow submarines
in strawberry fields amidst the purple haze
which still bathes those long-forgotten days.
So, you won’t know they imagined a world
of love and peace with a universal liberty
in which all wars, all strife, would cease.
Thus, you are not aware that as children
they appeared more like demigods to us
these spiritual beings who would surely
one day be the future lords of humanity
in the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.
Alas, I find the years have not been kind
to the beautiful people now old and grey
a tired generation passing silently away
their vision ignored by our modern youth
who seem no longer to seek after the truth.
Yet know, though my own sand sinks fast
there is a certain consolation in my decline
in that I can allow my mind to travel back
to the past and dream with the hippies
all summer long in nineteen sixty-nine.

My Shadows, by Skylar Fischer

6/10/2016

This belongs in the 100-word stories section, of course – sorry. Click on the link below.

http://www.fridayflashfiction.com/100-word-stories/my-shadows-by-skylar-fischer

Lifeblood, by Lisa Heidle

6/10/2016

This belongs in the 100-word stories section, of course – sorry. Click on the link below.

http://www.fridayflashfiction.com/100-word-stories/lifeblood-by-lisa-heidle

The Old Soldier, by Guy Fletcher

6/10/2016

They laughed and mocked the old soldier
as he strode down the road, head held high
but his eyes inwardly wept
a thousand tears on this fateful, hateful day.
A thug with a most inane grin, not fit
to share the same table as the old soldier
punched him in the face, he fell to the ground,
shaken and yet rising without a sound.

He was forced to clean toilets with his hands,
they cared nothing for his age or his medals
which a brute ripped and threw casually
away as if merely chaff.
A madman from his own land was to blame
and when he limped back into his flat
he took some pills never to wake again
escaping a world...which had gone insane.

Poetry

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