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The War to End All, by Ian Fletcher

27/10/2018

Your country needs YOU!
If the cap fits you join.
Come lad slip across and.
It’ll all be over by.

The whistle sounds to go.
The stomach wounds are the.
In no man’s land screaming.
Third light, the trigger is.

Chlorine gas damages tissue in.
19,240 fatalities on the first.
The barrage could be heard.
Effects of shell shock are.

They dreaded the postman because.
The telegram says your son.
It is my painful duty.
By His Majesty’s command I.

November 11th 1918 they signed.
All quiet on the Western.
The cenotaph in the village.
Dulce et decorum est pro.

Haiku, by KEV Trocmet

26/10/2018

fireflies in the grass
my little world --
crescent moon

Autumn Sunrise, by Guy Fletcher

26/10/2018

My weary eyes fell upon
an autumn sunrise, magical moments
in an often dreary world
as if an enormous fire
had spread from the horizon:
pillow clouds and thin ones smoking along,
birds on golden trees sang their morning song

but the vibrant colours were eclipsed
by God's painting held in the sky.
Yet everything is transient,
clouds returned to their native grey
although some people ignored the scene
failing to view with wonder in their eyes
the sheer beauty...of the autumn sunrise.

Self-Portrait, by Guy Fletcher

22/10/2018

"She's not worth it!" exclaims
the young woman as she sensually rubs
a weeping man's shaking hand.
His emotions have oozed like pus,
alcohol letting the demons roam
as I watch with schadenfreude, alone.

But then I view a self-portrait
and my malice melts like ice
under the rising spring sun.
The mirth from other tables
might make torment even harder to bear
but perhaps the poor soul...is unaware.

O’ Gods of Call, a Doctor’s Plea, by Sunanda Chatterjee

18/10/2018

Hail to ye, O’ Gods of Call
by Your whim, we survive
You choose to work us to our bones
or let us sleep for five
Hail to ye, O’ Gods of Call,
by Your whim, we live
Those who show up at midnight,
help us to forgive
Let not the angry visit the bar
give not a knife to the crazy,
Hide from the drunk the key to the car
we’re tired, not lazy
The drunks will drink and punch and stab,
gangs will surely fight
Shooters will shoot, bleeders will bleed,
but keep them home tonight

She Made Her Way to Paraguay, by James A. Tweedie

15/10/2018

A story inspired by Rhyme Zone.

One summer day
at her café
a divorcée
(a famed gourmet
whose sobriquet
was Dixie Mae)
made a purée
and a parfait
with a soufflé
for the entrée.
She played reggae,
drank Beaujolais,
and with a “bray”
her dziggetai
took her away
to Paraguay
where on the quay
near her chalet
from March to May
she pays her way
with a plié
and grand jeté
in a ballet
by G. Fauré.
This story may
be mere hearsay
but anyway
that’s all I’ll say

(ou bien je vais
continuerai
pour l’eternité).

Storm Callum Over Barry Harbour, by Guy Fletcher

15/10/2018

The manic wind whistled across the bay
with the primeval roar of the sea
and torrential rain angrily hissing.
Airborne seagulls were forced to veer off course,
their screeches part of the symphony
of the seaside on this most stormy day
with the dark clouds coloured a depression grey.

A woman's umbrella was wrenched
from her grasp, turned inside out
and a plastic bag danced to nature's music
as ruined boats lay weather-tortured.
Waves crashed over the harbour walls,
I stood in awe in the autumnal gale
feeling so insignificant and frail.

Mole, by Adrian Mcrobb

8/10/2018

Tunnelling
Velvet
J. C. B.

The Ticking of the Clock, by Guy Fletcher

8/10/2018

Illness came on suddenly,
a demon in the night
and on this suburban
Tuesday morning all she hears
is the ticking of the clock.
The ghost in the window watches her stare
at dark grey clouds as bleak as the despair.

But the cursed clock continues
to click and tick, torturing her.
She used to feel immortal
striding as though she owned the world
but today her world is four walls.
Visitors are now few and far between
with time they've dried up...like a summer stream.

Have a Havana, by Ian Fletcher

6/10/2018

Have a Havana
Judge Kavanaugh
adjudged as fit
to serve, to serve
in the highest
court of the land
by the content
of his character
for that’s an end
of the matter
of his character
ah, his character
is the end
of the matter
so have a Havana
Judge Kavanaugh

Golden Tree, by Guy Fletcher

5/10/2018

The birch tree has transformed to gold
under a cerulean October sky
brush-stroked white by the gods.
A magpie perches on a branch, birds sing
and the sound of a mower can be heard.
This is surely the most picturesque time
storms will come but for now it is sublime.

But then he recalls years gone by
sitting with his love on this very seat
which crumbles like his ageing limbs.
Yet days such as this are to be savoured
and he locks sad thoughts away
for this is a sight to truly adore
when the tree has transformed to gold...once more.

My Baby Gone, by Kathleen Trocmet

5/10/2018

My baby gone --
lost, sudden without cause,
lost, no longer in my arms.

Hold me as I held her --
tightly against your heart,
hand against my back, stroking.

Soothe the ache,
release the flood,
my grief is about to drown me.

Poetry

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