Blog Posts

Atacama, by Rona Fitzgerald

18/11/2018

In Autumn shadows surround
Dolores González

her husband’s outstretched hand
father on his knees, pleading.

Her boy drawn out to manhood
by glooms.

Whispers seep into her heart
Mama, I'm here, I'm cold.

She sips water
eating seems wrong
in this sepulchre of the disappeared.

Sifting grainy soil she searches
for fragments of loved ones.

Overhead, observatories chart
boundaries of our world
track the death and rebirth of stars.

On Dawlish Sands, by Guy Fletcher

12/11/2018

The restless sea violently explodes
over the re-constructed sea wall,
a watery November sun
painting a silver corridor
as a lone swimmer emerges,
just in bathers, from the cold swaying sea
quite invigorated, his soul set free.

The unseen moon pulls back the tide,
breakers as white as frost
as we are pushed by the autumn gale
towards dramatic, red Langstone Rock
with holes in the limestone.
Tourists have gone yet I like it this way
but wish that the quaint Elephant Cafe

was open so I could cradle a hot drink.
The ocean retreats leaving seaweed strewn
on menacing rocks as seagulls
are forced back by the wind
as the sea roars on this melancholy day.
I pause for a while admiring the view
for wild stormy days...have their beauty too.

On the Centenary of Armistice Day, by Gordon Lawrie

11/11/2018

Let not your thoughts betray you while you bow your head
How can we remember when none of us was there?
At best we stand in silence and contemplate the dead;
At some point though, our minds drift like as not elsewhere –
These days a minute, perhaps two, can seem like hours
Not to check mobile phones for news we might have missed,
A text from a friend, or the latest football scores.
School kids might know that Dulce et decorum est
Is not ice cream, but gas – GAS?? Is that your biggest threat?
Aren't nuclear missiles or cluster bombs now the story,
Or napalm, or even a hijacked passenger jet
Crashed into a tower block pro deo mori?
We're no further forward, let's not try to pretend –
The war to start all wars is yet to reach an end.

Mist over Flanders Field, by Guy Fletcher

6/11/2018

"Their name liveth for evermore." – Artillery Wood Cemetery

The mist drifts over Flanders Fields
as if the ghosts of those who lie
in this foreign land across the sea.
A century has passed since the shelling ceased
yet conflicts still cast dark shadows.
I read the poem Rhyfel, Welsh for war
by Hedd Wyn whose grave I'm standing before.

There are no screams of the doomed today
only the gentle sound of cows and birds
as people plant flowers by the tombs
of young lads with dreams unfulfilled.
It is so peaceful now but I picture
terrified soldiers with dying breath
and the laughter...of the Angel of Death.

Red Leaves on the Maple Tree, by Guy Fletcher

1/11/2018

She peers out of the window
of the care home on the hill:
she can see the spire of a church
and beyond the sea where she swam
many decades ago but now only
in her dreams when she is young again.
She knows that in this place she will remain

but on this glorious Dali-blue
October day her eyes gaze
at red leaves on the maple tree
illuminated by the afternoon sun
and birch trees painted gold.
She views a robin on the maple's bough,
it satisfies her soul...it is enough

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.

Distant Train, by Kathleen Trocmet

28/9/2018

distant train --
sparrows skim the pond
for a drink

The Friary Gardens, by Guy Fletcher

25/9/2018

The monks from the forgotten friary
would be dismayed if their ghosts roam
over the pebbles of the Friary Gardens
to view litter and cigarette butts
but I prefer to admire the flowers:
a rainbow of colours, they gently sway
in the sunshine on this September day.

It's an oasis away from city streets,
hedges immaculate on the maze
as the Marquess of Bute looks on.
The bells of the City Hall ring
as I wander over to the hidden canal,
magpies perch on trees, I wish to remain
but must venture into the world again.

The Penarth Head Inn, by Guy Fletcher

21/9/2018

An old photograph of the Penarth Head Inn
taken way back in the 1860s
shows a woman in the doorway
and some men outside, all long since ghosts.
The top windows are open hinting at summer
and a figure strolls towards the inn
perhaps preparing for a night of sin.

Edwards the Smuggler enjoyed ale here,
what tales he must have told
yet now it has morphed into the Custom House
with two up-market fish restaurants
but I adore these ancient photographs
depicting life from a different age
decades before the pier...took centre stage.

The Moth of Pantmawr, by Guy Fletcher

17/9/2018

I observe the moth flickering
against the night window
as it tries to reach my bedroom light.
It's white like a spectre, not realising
a little window is open yet it zooms up and down
the closed one as the cat, equally stupid,
attempts to catch it from inside.
But if the moth succeeds in gaining access
on its journey towards the light
it will probably be killed by the cat
yet lack of consciousness can be a blessing
for we fear danger where none exists,
moths and cats have no thoughts of tomorrow
ah, but we have...and that is our sorrow.

Knee high to a…, by John Cooper

15/9/2018

Said the ant to the flea,
you can jump higher than me;
which seems only to confirm
my view.
That all creatures on earth,
have a very different girth,
especially around the knee.

Poetry-Ruined Beauty, by Arlene Antoinette

14/9/2018

I almost ran over a peacock while driving
this morning, as he slowly crossed the street
in front of oncoming traffic, leaving illusory
images of turquoise and emerald green feathers
floating unrestrained in front of my car hood, flowing
up toward a bird heaven.
The green and blue hues of his plume were spoiled
by a splash of liquid red, a natural source of color,
gained in an unnatural way. But do not worry for all is well,
Mr. Peacock still lives on to face another day and another
unskilled attempt on his life.

The Hottest British Summer for 42 Years, by Ian Fletcher

14/9/2018

Ah, that hot summer of ’76
I remember it so vividly
sunbathing in my garden
during the school holidays
before going up to university
chock-full of hopes and dreams!

Forty-two years hence
we have another such
one even hotter they say
which makes me reflect
on the vast abyss of time
between these two summers
that span my adult years.

Now, I wear a hat outside
to stave off this modern sun
which with our knowledge
of climate change and UV rays
is more dangerous these days
no longer the friend it was before.

Reminiscing about that season
of golden youth whose dreams
have never quite been fulfilled
this sun that beats down upon me
seems to burn up my very soul.

In and Out, by Arlene Antoinette

14/9/2018

So delicate
This feeling before it turns into love
The heartbeat flutters
The brow dampens
The tongue stutters

So passionate
This feeling of being in love
The heart pounds
The mouth becomes dry
Imagined halos grace the air
Above lovers’ heads

So poisonous
This feeling of falling out of love
Words are an annoyance
Glances cause concern
Touches are avoided
Lips hold in words better left unsaid

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