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Watching My Heroes Get Old, by Robert Bermudez

30/11/2017

I stand and watch the sunset,
Russet, then orange fading to pink,
The cloud’s gilded edges reflecting,
Like God saying good night.

Slowly it dawns as it always does,
With the inevitable ache of mythic echoes,
The end of the Day is the start of the Night,
The same spectacle through familiar eyes.

I can hear it whisper softly,
You are watching your Heroes get old.

The Green Crown, by Paromita Cirkar

28/11/2017

It was the nicest garden that I had ever seen,
Left there was an orchard-
Peach trees were with fruits of red-golden-
And in the middle there was a vineyard,
Also bowers of flowering jasmine and some fruit-plants-
whom I could not name but their smell was fabulous.
On the right there were some plants of herbs and vegetable
And among them was a big fountain where water was to sparkle.

But now I can not see them again-
It was a story of loss and pain-
Which was the worst curse of all-
The giant storm was so treacherous -
the surface lost its feet to protect all fruits,flowers and herbs,
The garden even let her guard down for that period-
And it was so sudden that it had no time to hoard.

The storm clashed like a giant -
which hefted the beauties of garden like a baseball bat-
The memory was so sour-
It was like a battle between green and storm's black roar.

Some days later, some nature lovers grabbed an oak tree-
And not much longer time,it was only remained to see,
Others were crumbled to dust-
but some seeds spotted here and there-
The swirl of wind scattered them fast.
Not very longer we had to see an awesome scene again-
The roots of new born herbs,plants and shrubs began to move from wreck's den-
they touched the earth deeper down-
to get back their crown.

A Picture Of Evil, by Guy Fletcher

27/11/2017

"Hell is empty, and all the devils are here." – Shakespeare

So the old maniac has descended to Hades
to join Pol Pot, Stalin and Hitler
whom he admired, wearing a swastika
on his forehead during his trial.
His followers murdered at least 9 people,
by a wild-eyed monster they were beguiled
butchering Sharon Tate and unborn child

even inscribing "pig" with her blood.
Manson sought to blame Afro-Americans
in order for a race war to explode
considering himself the risen Christ
yet he did not heal, only destroy.
Charles Manson has died at a ripe old age,
in History's book...an infamous page.

Charles Manson (1934-2017)

First Frost, by Guy Fletcher

20/11/2017

Surprised motorists scrape ice away
as I slowly stroll up Rhiwbina Hill.
A Sumach Tree possesses leaves poppy-red
and on a Silver Birch a few leaves cling
like a tormented priest struggling with belief.
In the high Welsh field the view is serene,
sparkling transient white covers the green

with the sky a deep Dali blue.
A horse's breath like ectoplasm
vanishes as a fox runs free
and the sun is impossibly bright over the city
down far below like a giant ants nest
but I feel like a god standing up here
on this November morning...fresh and clear.

Across The Universe, by Russell Conover

19/11/2017

The astronomers, gazing through their telescopes, were determined to make the journey someday. They could see the orange surface of Titan, Saturn’s moon, though they could only dream of what awaited there.

Were any regions hospitable for people? Did some kind of extraterrestrial life already call Titan its home? Could humans someday colonize Saturn’s moon and expand their solar exploration?

These questions remained unanswered for now. However, the astronomers maintained hope that they would someday set foot on not only Titan, but also other previously uninhabited space locations. The possibility kept them up at night with excitement. Never give up.

(Thanks to Eric J. Smith for e-mailing a photo of Titan that served as inspiration for this story.)

Homage to Malcolm Young (1953 - 2017), by Ian Fletcher

19/11/2017

“Hell ain’t a bad place to be” you sang
and few fans of the band on hearing
your hypnotic rhythms would disagree.
You played hard on - and off - the stage
a true symbol of rock ‘n roll’s golden age.

But, alas, your personal hell arrived
unbidden while you were still alive
with dementia taking its relentless toll
so finally you could not even remember
those simple chords you struck so well
when you died at the age of sixty-four.

Maybe people are right to ease the pain
of your passing, believing you’ll live on
in the sublimity of your riffs forevermore.

Yet we who’ve known you since your heyday
refuse to be consoled in this anodyne way
as news of your death matters a great deal
for, like your music, it’s hard, raw and real.

Melancholia, by Guy Fletcher

13/11/2017

"If you could just have my head for half an hour, you'd know why I go mad." - Robert Enke

He seemed to possess an emerald life:
a German international goalkeeper
with a beautiful wife and daughter
but he suffered from an unseen insidious disease
and couldn't keep malignant thoughts at bay,
they had returned like a thick poisoned mist
and he felt it was no way to exist.

But he wore the mask of serenity
then cast it aside for the acting
became too difficult and he left the stage.
On a Tuesday in November
he desperately drove for hours on end
before stepping out in front of a train
so the Furies...would not come back again.

The Shovel, by Guy Fletcher

7/11/2017

She displays a grim memento from Flanders Fields
where they sell poignant artefacts to tourists
who thank their lucky stars
returning to cosy coaches and cars.
Bones are still being churned up
in green Flanders Fields once covered in mud,
cries of despair, soldiers dripping with blood.

The bullet has made a round hole
in the rusty shovel. I wonder if its owner
survived the war or perished like so many.
I can't imagine his fear in that grim place.
Perhaps he is buried in Tyne Cot
never to return to his own front door,
another victim of a gruesome war.

The Dreaded Hollow, by Marlene Goldberg

4/11/2017

Our horses feared the dreaded hollow
Where those who followed
Would be seen no more.
The wind whistled through the trees
Echoing across with the slightest breeze.
Ebenizah led his willful nag
Until tripping on a snag
He fell face first
In the muddy earth.
“Rebecca, save yourself”, he cried
Unable to rise as hard as he tried.
The cold sent shivers
Down the backs of the motley crew.
But all were assuaged by Sarah’s jerky stew.
Then Jeremy picked up a walking stick
Defiantly refusing to be licked.
Slashing the branches to carve a path
They yielded docilely to his wrath.
The sun set in a fiery blaze
As yet to yield an exit to the maze.
But then… day break
After a fitful sleep
Survivor will continue this time next week.

Transparent, by Marlene Goldberg

4/11/2017

Oh Moslem woman
Draped in burka
Folds so thick you sweat and chafe but
Your shape cannot be seen.
Windows translucent let in light.
But you cannot be seen.
You spend your days, alone, within his home.
Your thoughts are all you own.
No music, no pictures, just bare walls and floors
You wash and scrub.
You cook up his meals
Lay by his side at night.
Your eyes, limpid pools of brown, awash with tears,
The lenses transparent.
But no one sees.

Poetry

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