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Talking About My Generation, by Ian Fletcher

28/12/2016

So, another one’s gone, then,
this one a long way from
his three score years and ten.

In their prime they bestrode
the whole world, their music
to some trite, to others sublime:
whatever, they were of our time
and there were enough of them
to satisfy everyone’s taste
before the Grim Reaper
began to take his toll.

This year I’ve announced
their deaths in my classes
to bemused stares from
a new generation of teens.
“Who, sir?” they ask,
“Was that rock’n roll?”

Ah, as we did, they live
in the present, not the past
having their own idols
while ours are dying fast.

Like the fallen stars
we’ve had our day
those not dead yet
merely withering away.

Self-Portrait In An Asylum, by Guy Fletcher

28/12/2016

I stare at van Gogh's self portrait
in an asylum, noting blazing blue eyes
full of desperation, red lines in the background.
He produced over 2,000 paintings
yet only sold one during his lifetime,
the alcohol could only numb the pain
as he fumed with frustration, quite insane

spending time in hell as Saint-Remy.
I peer closely at The Starry Night
admiring the rich, dream-like azure.
Van Gogh's replicas now hang on walls
in almost every part of the world
painting alone with a sad, troubled mind,
famous after death for fate was not kind.

After a row with Gauguin he cut his ear
and when life became too much to bear
van Gogh shot himself in the chest
to perish two days later.
He was only 37, a tragic figure,
but his soul was old, he gave up the fight
and drifted up into the starry night.

Bright Star, by Guy Fletcher

21/12/2016

Keats was indeed a "Bright Star"
crashing out of the constellation too soon,
forcing a weary frame to pen poems,
endless eyes weeping at their beauty.
Blessed by genius, cursed by TB
so that he moved from his damp English home
to sunnier skies in glorious Rome

but alas, it was all to no avail.
Yes, he truly was a "Bright Star"
and I imagine him peering at the heavens above
on a cloudless Roman star-freckled night
writing wonderful words to grace any page
and long after my body has expired
his works will continue to be admired.

The Seafarer's Memorial, by Guy Fletcher

17/12/2016

The sea is tranquil on the Bay,
a distant cousin of the awesome Atlantic
with waves as high as houses.
I admire the Seafarer's Memorial statue,
grey steel, quite beautiful and stunning,
poignant reminder of sacrifice;
a forlorn shipwreck you can look inside,
a fallen sailor on the other side.

We can't envisage the terror they faced,
caught between flames and the remorseless sea;
so this is a fitting memorial
behind the Senedd and splendid Pierhead.
On this peaceful Tuesday morning,
with warm sunshine just for a change,
I picture mighty seas and screams of doom,
cruel, indifferent ocean the sailors' tomb.

'Twas The Night Before Christmas – 2016, by Fliss Zakaszewska

16/12/2016

(Image: Microsoft ClipArt)

T’was the night before Christmas, when all through the house…
Yes, a creature was stirring, ye gads! T’was a mouse.
It ran ’cross the floor just as bold as you please
Looking ahead at a great lump of cheese.

The cat o’ped an eye and observed as it ran
Past the leg of the chair, up the wall to a pan
And he smiled a big smile – t’was more like a grin
At the small extra supper that soon’d be within.

And, shivering slightly, he paused then he jumped,
Grabbing that mouse, then down they both thumped.
Then from out of the chimney, a jolly voice boomed,
“Bad kitty, down kitty! Your Christmas is doomed!”

And picking the mouse up, this man dressed in red
Breathed life into mouse, he was no longer dead.
With mouse in his pocket, the gifts he bestowed
Except for bad kitty, who was out in the cold

And laying a finger aside of his nose
And giving the nod up the chimney he rose.
And just as they rose, a small mouse-voice said
“Nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah-naya! Going with Santa instead!”

The US Ambassador At The UN, by Ian Fletcher

16/12/2016

(Photo: Wikipedia)

A worthy woman, that’s quite plain to see,
with her concern about the fate of humanity,
admonishing the Russians with a passionate
intensity about their turning a blind eye
to the tyranny in Syria and her laments
for the doomed city of Aleppo, a place
of ruins, starvation, terror and death,
a fact, she says, that should appall us all,
yet words without actions are a waste of breath
and will do nothing to stop the barrel bombs fall

Zelda, by Guy Fletcher

12/12/2016

She was alluring, the original "Flapper,"
capturing Scott Fitzgerald's drunken heart
and they dwelled for years in a hedonistic
land of parties and endless liquor.
"Tender is the night," "The Great Gatsby"
portray Zelda but ironically
when she penned a novel of her own

Scott accused her of using his character.
With alcohol mirth always turns to tears
and not even becoming a dancer in France
could save her from the asylum
where she painted to soothe a troubled soul
until one day fierce, indifferent flames
devoured one of the 20s famous names.

Triathlon, by Chris Cole

12/12/2016

Steel grey dawn

Waves lap gently at a thousand toes
Nervous glances, shifting weight

Calm, peaceful beauty without
Collision of hopes and fears within
Waiting to be unleashed by the starter's gun

Regret, by Chris Cole

12/12/2016

Cold, steel grey skies

The door closes behind her
Teardrops on the floor

Damaging that which I most need
Victim of my own carelessness
So cold here, under steel grey skies

Final Edition, by Guy Fletcher

6/12/2016

The last copy of the poetry magazine
I hold as delicately as a kitten
and re-read the editor's sad farewell
feeling I have lost a dear friend,
though of course we have never met.
The same names have cropped up time after time
but this is the digital age
and alas I've now reached the final page.

Yet perhaps many years later
it will be resurrected somewhere,
pages bent and withering
like an old man...and just maybe
someone will admire verses from long ago.
Oh, how true nothing lasts forever;
so to this magazine I say goodbye,
but even the mightiest of stars will die.

The Church Of St Mary, Angle, by Guy Fletcher

3/12/2016

I wander into the churchyard
of the 15th Century grey stone church
where an old grave tugs at my heart:
an epitaph to a man drowned at twenty
on Angle Bay just down the road.
Some names are erased from history,
washed away by storms over many years,
now nobody comes to shed any tears.

Hidden behind a bush I spot
a stone Angel peering sadly
at the departed, locked in silent tombs.
I enter through "the gates of Heaven",
where white walls, a mural of Jesus,
and other religious icons greet my eyes,
letting the Angels wipe troubles away,
alone in the church on a summer's day.

Poetry

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