Blog Archives

Worries Have None, by Daniel Aceituna

29/10/2021

A man on vacation just couldn’t have fun.
The water left running would cost him a ton.
He phoned his dear neighbor, “To my house please run.”
The neighbor gladly said, “Consider it done.”
“I give you my promise, so worries have none.”

In spite of the promise, no doubts went away.
So he got on the phone and called the next day.
“Is the water turned off? Is that what you say?”
The neighbor assured him: “It’s already done.”
“Go back to relaxing and worries have none.”

He phoned the next day: “Perhaps you have goofed.”
“So do me a favor, please send me some proof!”
The neighbor, insulted, just could not conceive.
Why this man kept calling and would not believe.
(CLICK!)

Sonnet for the Muse, by Ramon Oteiza

29/10/2021

The elder was a fool to drive on down
The path with such abandon. Hatred weighed
His soul, his pride, his ever-present frown.
What he could feel instead had he delayed!
The muse he sought was hidden from his sight
Because he placed his faith in faraway
Mechanical irrelevance 'til night,
Internal monologue to pass the day.
He did not find his muse 'til she found him.
Imagine what the fool had thought of that!
So old in years, and miles, and yet too dim
To sense her presence like a pyrostat.
And at their winding journey's hasty end,
They part as like a farewell to a friend

Peekaboo, by Marjan Sierhuis

29/10/2021

The sun appears from
behind fluffy white clouds
that float across the sky

P.O. Box 242, by David Chek Ling Ngo

29/10/2021

[Photo credit: Yi Chang]

In the photograph is the post office in Sibu,
with post boxes built into the exterior walls,

one – P.O. Box 242,
in the top-centre row of the wall facing the side road –
my father rented for his entire life since as far back as my memory,

which he would check daily, as if it had to be checked,
encouraging me to try to open while growing up in the 70s
from needing to be lifted to standing on tiptoe and reaching it,

which was to me the address I wrote
on envelopes of letters for home when living abroad in the 80s
to inform about address change, acceptance to university, first love,

which was stubbornly used as the address to receive exam results
even when I was thousands of miles from home,
but only few miles from the campus where I went daily,

which has been providing generations of my family
with a treasure of memories and experiences over decades.

Spiritless, by Kate MacDonald-Dunbar

29/10/2021

How can I miss what I never had, relate though I've never lost?

Feel cheated by a life I've never lived? I may as well be a ghost.

I'm afraid of what I don't know. I'm closed and have no faith.

I've avoided the world and all it holds. I may as well be a wraith.

I float, spin, there's no anchor. Try to keep me in chains if you dare.

If you have to hold me by force, I may as well not be there.

There's no joy, faith, or passion. I have no dreams, love, or ties.

A wraith, a ghost, a passing thought, who's born, who breathes, then dies.

After the Autumn Storm, by Guy Fletcher

22/10/2021

Bruised clouds tumble down the sky
as a rainbow appears across the city
where the spirits of the departed wander.
The sun bursts through a dark blanket
transporting the church into a glorious gold
as the bells ring on this Sunday morning.
The autumn sun illuminates
a spider's intricate web
where a doomed fly is trapped,
seagulls screech as they drift by.
There's a fresh aroma in the air
of fauna and flora after the storm
as raindrops drip like tears from verdant trees
and I relax...under a cooling breeze.

Space Within, by Kate MacDonald-Dunbar

22/10/2021

The quiet air around us should define the space
that enables those who write for pleasure or for gain,
to reconcile each action outwith this simple ethos,
permitting a breath, caught in wonder, to remain.

Our fingers, tapping, can bring to life fragile thoughts,
pause again while they rise as soft grey smoke, then fade.
We feel frustration when we cannot keep these forms,
captured inside the many, varied worlds we've made.

Though by the act of grasping tightly, holding on,
we nullify the contemplative space we need.
The smoke descends, not light but thick and smothering
thereby allowing negativity to breed.

That space within is ours to gently mold and meld.
In turn we shape and solidify the space without.
Our thoughts can eddy, lap the shore then dissipate
allowing positivity to flow throughout.

The Bees, by Susan Fairfax Reid

22/10/2021

They will be very busy today,
the bees,
When the fall temperature reaches 80 degrees.

Breathless, by Marjan Sierhuis

22/10/2021

A mighty wind blows
Butterflies cup and clap their wings
I am left breathless

Tears of Dusk, by David Chek Ling Ngo

22/10/2021

Looking beyond unique as though
she's just walked out of a fairy tale,
dusk senses I have more to tell,
so she lingers for but a little while,
listening patiently to what I have to say,
as I feel her tears of sympathy
falling softly on an empty heart.

Thistle, by Adrian McRobb

22/10/2021

Spiked with barbs that may draw blood
blue the flower of sweet natural bud
drinking dew in sweet meadows land
rather unkind to skin of the hand
grows anywhere there is a green field
this dread flower is Scotlands shield

The Flick, by Alex Blaine

15/10/2021

This is the L.A. Mafia.
One thing you need to understand:
This ain't Hollywood.

V Trichotomy, by Sterling Warner

15/10/2021

Ambient air currents
entice geese in flight.
Migrating Honking. Honking.
Honking. Honking. Honking.
Lightweight sky squadron
of three rotate leadership
the skein overhead defies
gust resistance…feathers float
on tailwinds, lead bird inching
forward, honking, encouraging
communicating, pulling each
avian crisis like an andon cord,
leaving no impaired fowl behind--
only flapping wings creating lift.

All Hallows' Eve, by Marjan Sierhuis

15/10/2021

Under a night sky
They dance around the tombstones
With bones that rattle

A Manuscript, by Kate MacDonald-Dunbar

15/10/2021

I have been meticulously built, and I flow.
I have a tale to tell that will truly melt your heart.
Or I might be tough, using fear to gain attention.
But get it wrong, I'm going nowhere from the start.

My font must be Times New Roman, size twelve, double spaced.
There's the title, word count, and a bio, slightly tweaked.
I'm a copy. There are more like me orbiting cyberspace.
One might land if an editor's interest can be piqued.

Times are different, all has changed, walls are closing in.
The pandemic caused a lot of people who were bored,
to remember we were each meant to have a novel in us.
Subsequently, this begat a whirling, swirling writing hoard.

However, it won't be long before a string of rejections,
will separate the keyboard wheat from the chaff, so to speak.
Those who bounce back, edit and re-write each sentence,
if then published, will experience something quite unique.

On Lea Mount, by Guy Fletcher

15/10/2021

She is overlooking Dawlish beach
observing the hypnotic swell
of the blue ocean at full-tide
remembering, remembering long ago
when they stared together at this view
before the great flood and new concrete wall.
They sat on a bench watching the sea
on a summer's day eyes full of hope,
just as well the future is unknown.
She admires the red cliffs
peering down at the quaint harbour
Exmouth far in the distance
then she imagines viewing his ghost
high above the picturesque Devon coast.

A Human Story, by Bill Cox

8/10/2021

Birth.
Open eyes.
Who am I?
What will I do?
So much to figure out!
The joy of being a child!
Puberty strikes, hormones rush violently, emotions seethe.
My blood settles, I ease myself into adulthood.
I survey the world, bend it to my will.
I am glorious, living at the height of my powers.
Then, unawares, I fall from the grace of youth.
Life becomes a comfortable routine, possibilities close down.
The repetition lets time pass easily, unnoticed.
Then the end seems uncomfortably close!
What was it all about?
I still don’t know!
So many regrets!
If only!
Death.

Autumn Leaves, by Padmini Krishnan

8/10/2021

autumn begins
flirting winds rustle
leftover leaves

Writing Poetry to Keep Insanity Away, by Guy Fletcher

8/10/2021

She should have more recognition,
this tragic and beautiful poet
who once drank martinis with Sylvia Plath
on Massachusetts afternoons.
Anne Sexton wrote Confessional classics
such as "The Truth the Dead Know"
and "Mercy Street", far too young to go

into the arms of The Grim Reaper
at just 46 years old
gassing herself in her mother's fur coat.
The psychiatrist had advised her to write
in order to placate the mental torture
but it wasn't enough in the end,
terrible scars...too powerful to mend

Blyth Spirit, by Adrian McRobb

8/10/2021

The cobbles have caught the rain in hexagonal polled patterns
green water rushing out to sea salutes the staithes in passing
slab cut steel silhouettes the history from submarines to wind power
the old jetty watches the blades describe giant swathes of energy
as breezes carry the scent of vinegar reminding me of lunch...
I two and six myself into the queue amongst the other battered hopefuls
uneven glass distorts the old lighthouse highlighting 'salt water baths'
memorials like ancient guards tell stories of Spion Kop and Dunkirk
Wensleydale Terrace to the bandstand, stone bollards promenade
the beach road sugared with sand describes the arc of the bay
toward the beach huts the colour of fishing cottages catching the light
sword grass in the dunes wave tourists past the shore battery
navigating the walked links, a final glimpse of Blyth masts in the distance

The Walk, by Marjan Sierhuis

8/10/2021

My coat is toasty warm
The temperature is deliciously cool
Birds chatter in the trees

The Bunny Run, by Marjan Sierhuis

1/10/2021

Across the dirt path
A white rabbit runs swiftly
I will wait my turn

Shed, by Mandy Meikle

1/10/2021

An old shed, a cold shed
A spider-webs and mould shed
But it's my shed, my place to escape

Through the roof I see stars
Through the walls I feel haars
I'm inside yet I'm out, part of the landscape

Cliff top view, the smell of mildew
Waves roar and thunder, fill me with wonder
I can breathe again, shed the red tape

The Mid-Autumn Moon, by David Chek Ling Ngo

1/10/2021

As the curtains are not completely closed
and they open enough to slide through,
she comes into the room,
when she sees him coming up to her,
throwing her arms around his neck
and drawing him close to her,
who’s wearing a dress,
elegant and majestic,
a train of silver light trailing behind her,
lit to form a pathway
that seems to lead to the moon,
measured a length
that seems to be made for a grand entrance
into the eternal light.

Wilder Things, by Adrian McRobb

1/10/2021

Wild trackless waste of reed and marsh grass a landscape where only the weather moves
its only inhabitants the Fell ponies, shaggy manes, long unkept tales, warm oily coats
they move with the cloud and as varied colours, huddling, frisking, fighting, mating, feeding
only the sky sees their wandering lives and the odd walker with a spare apple
ancient war horse of the Britons now indentured and counted by dim controlling bureaucracy
too busy conserving wild plants, the ponies are invisible on PC's no prizes for saving wilder things
a majesty of existence strangled, modern things have tags and numbers
can we not leave some parts uncounted?