Blog Posts

Tongue-Tied, by Paloma Lenz

8/5/2020

My tongue only sways,
never sings
the tune - that
song of triumph,
an explosion of
splendid color -
so many others are
used to.

I only watch the two
dance cueca, laughing and
clapping, surrounding by
the cries of onlookers -

“La consentida,
amor de amores,
yo iré contigo”

The words surge
through my bones,
but
my lips fumble, not knowing
what to do;

I open my mouth, horrified
by the flat notes
that blandly ring out.

I fear Mamá has heard, her
tongue so well-rehearsed.

And so I remain silenced,
the glorious sound
just a hummed tune.

V.E.Day, by Adrian McRobb

8/5/2020

Dead soldiers lie still in ditches
broken buildings broken windows
orphaned children in uncaring homes
barbed wire and concrete teeth

Victory in Europe...scorched earth
parades and clinking medals
shiny shoes march in parody
tide still washing bodies
paid their ferryman
with dreams of life

Tell those with fly filled mouths
how we bravely fought
Brylcreem and perms
in dancehalls...

Dover's blue birds
starvation ration
egg powder
and Vera Lynn

Unmarked graves like confetti
at cruelties wedding
mass graves, unwanted humanity
more unremarked
damp basements rusting chairs
past nail pulling
furtive fleeing men hiding
lost art discovered
in a siding

Victory!

Envelopes with Windows, by Sandra James

8/5/2020

They tumble
through the weary chink
demanding, insisting
regardless of their intrusion
upon constricted ledgers.

Jostling for precedence
ahead of simple pleasures
they swallow
every last resource and hope
of freedom.

Compassion, by Mary Wallace

8/5/2020

Was it lack of attention
Did I not tend it enough
Did it storm out one night
Slamming the door in a rage
Or trickle out over a decade
Unnoticed and unmissed

Shadows of it remain
I catch glimpses as I watch the nightly news
Refugees, poverty, war
But youths in crashes fill me with rage
Thoughts of parents
Have been replaced with
"Lucky they didn't kill anyone else"
As if compassion can be negated by stupidity

It has gone
And with its absence
I am lessened.

The Soup Beckons, by Bruce Levine

8/5/2020

The soup beckons
Tantalizing strands of onions
in beef broth
Gruyère cheese melted
over a crust of bread
Steaming ambrosia
embracing the palate
Warming a gourmet’s heart
and stomach

Ode to My Dyson Vacuum Cleaner, by Janice Siderius

4/5/2020

Oh instrument of heavenly cleanliness
How thou hast transformed my days!
You hang there on my laundry room wall
Ever ready to aid my forays.

How wondrous are thy long-lived batteries
That allow me to do my job
In far less time, with much more ease,
The floor I no longer must swab.

So vanish dog hair! Dust bunnies be gone!
O’er the cord I no longer trip.
Ev’ry dollar I spent at the vacuum store
Is a tribute to great salesmanship.

I'm Sorry, by Mary Wallace

2/5/2020

I'm sorry I'm late
But I can no longer tell
Week days
From weekends
Facts
From fiction
Writing
From rubbish.

This Strange World, by Susan Brice

1/5/2020

There is joy concealed in
The secret nests of birds,
Tiny soon to fledge eggs
Pecking a way
Into this strange world.

There is joy concealed in
The tight closed buds of
Tree, flower, fruit:
Sap rises green,
Unfurling life
Into this strange world.

There is joy concealed in
These dark-clothed days.
Seeds of sunshine sparkle;
Light of love’s imagining
Liberates us from
The fears we feel
In this strange world.

Summer Garden Day, by Guy Fletcher

1/5/2020

He listens to classic FM
on a summer's day bright and blue
Reading H. G Wells' Time Machine.
He learns about Morlocks and Elai
Then pauses to observe a Robin perch
On his sumach tree's branch quite unaware
Of the human condition called despair.

His relaxation crashes
Entering his own time machine
Wishing he could have cherished
The good times so much more.
He attempts to return to the pages
But, alas, the damage has now been done
So walks away.... from the afternoon sun.

In Isolation, by Ana Marie Dollano

1/5/2020

I hear the midday tolling of the bells
a deep dismal peal, that echoes
through the streets, bare and bleak.
I ache, staring at the quiet emptiness
hovering over the lonely neighbourhood

And the days are counting...

I pause to hearken to the silence, cold
and distant descending towards reality
whose gentle prodding
summons me to marvel at the heavens.
And so I stop to gaze at the birds
as they soar, at liberty,
twirling and wheeling past each other
how I yearn...

And I admire

from a distance, the forgotten splendour of flowers in bloom,
quivering with pleasure of gentle wind
and I lift my head to savour the moment,
delighting in the wind swirling,
whirling, around … me.

And I open my eyes

and I realise, the silence
and the bells, and the flowers,
and the birds gliding freely
And I, I remain
on the other side, looking out
through the window,
day after day until such time when
the days will reveal.

The Ordinariness of our Existence, by Adrian McRobb

1/5/2020

Whorls of thought lie
in absent rock-pools of the mind
as petrol winking in a puddle

Mirror who's stiffened glass
refuses entry to another space
as Alice-like we try to escape

Our butterflies pinned to display
the ordinariness of our existence
a fly trapped in a bottle of shadows

This Slow Life, by Mary Wallace

25/4/2020

I miss my family and friends of course
I grieve for the lives lost
And for the jobs lost
Yet a slow stroll through the Liquid Ambers
In their full Autumn glory
Along the path in my small town
Colours my world
Quiet time with pen and paper
And the cats on my verandah
Old friends from books revisited
The feeling of neighborly solidarity
Although we're social distancing
Hearing the birds
Smelling the flowers
This slow world suits me to a T

Cupped Hands, by Adrian McRobb

24/4/2020

I hold the water of my love in cupped hands
no matter how hard I try, it still drips through
love is pain and hurts, I refill it with my tears
one day I will pass the water on to another
but until then I must keep it as full as I can...

Redneck Protest, by Ian Fletcher

24/4/2020

When I see them standing
with their holstered pistols
clutching automatic rifles
holding up their placards
demanding their liberty
with their Big Mac bellies
and backwoodsman beards
refusing to be locked down
or to submit to authority
I think “thank God I’m not
part of the land of the free.”

Hoard, by Steven Holding

24/4/2020

A room, his room, slowly consumed
by the weight of rubbish and years of clutter.
In here you will find everything
that is of no real use, of no real purpose.
In this house he hoards
things to make sense of himself.

Milk bottles stand on windowsill, filled with dead flowers,
papers years old stacked against the wall,
page three girl Susan, nineteen, likes swimming,
she must be at least thirty-eight by now,
still smiles, blu-tacked on cracking plaster.

Balls of string, boxes of wires, broken televisions, at least six or seven
jostle for a place amongst the jumble,
make no sound or complaint about the mess only an
elegant silence when asked any questions.

This company is preferable to any other.

Supermoon, by Guy Fletcher

24/4/2020

There's a supermoon on show tonight
Much closer to earth than normal,
Proud and full, almost blood-red.
Thin languid clouds ghost by
Adorning her with temporary stripes
And I realise just how frail,
Insignificant all of us are.
This controller of the oceans
Frets not about our petty woes,
Admired by many a poet through the ages.
We're gone in just a blink of the cosmic eye
Yet the moon still reigns... In the night - time sky.

Among the Stars, by Paloma Lenz

24/4/2020

Up there lie
the most incredible worlds,

farther than everything
[we) already know.

Up there exists
what we’ve always
(look)ed for.

(Up) in the sky
is humanity’s
one true
purpose.

Life, and everything
below, between, (and)
above it’ll be discovered

Those far(away] lands
will one day become
our own homes

because
as the years go by,
this spirit of ours
will surely never die.

A Strange Kind of Easter, by Guy Fletcher

17/4/2020

This is a strange kind of Easter:
are the Italians still singing
or have they too fallen silent
like ghostly St Peter's Square?
The rug is pulled from the feet
of this materialistic world as I
stare at flowers under an azure sky;

lesser celandine, a silky pink rose
sway softly in the warm breeze;
oblivious to the suffering
of humankind whose technology
is impotent in every nation
oh, the thin ice of civilisation

Escaping from grim news inside,
here I am caressed by God;
resurrected flowers on a sun-kissed day.

Mr Adams, by Adrian McRobb

17/4/2020

His taste is impeccable
his dress is quite superb
eats from gold trimmed china
with manners that are reserved

cleanliness is his watchword
he always wears white gloves
no-one has seen him without them
they are both as white as doves

some say he is eccentric
he only strolls at night
a very sinister purpose
he seems to shun the light

although, in the morning
he sits in the early sun
surveying his neat garden
its his idea of fun

he cuts a handsome figure
never seeming to get fat
the epitome of relaxation
Mr Adams...is my cat

Static, by Paloma Lenz

17/4/2020

We are
blind
toward what
we will
not permit.

Charm, by Ana Marie Dollano

17/4/2020

Simplicity is the flower
that exudes a fragrance
far more distinct and extraordinary.
It captures my heart.

Hart Island, by Ian Fletcher

17/4/2020

REUTERS/Lucas Jackson/NY Post

Who are these people
these nameless corpses
sealed tight in body bags
pathetic plastic mummies
so infectious their bodies
cannot now be touched
nevermore to see the light?

What God, what Allah
would leave them thus
abandoned and forlorn
pitied by none but us?

Remains to Be Unseen, by Cindy Patrick

17/4/2020

Out of the corner of my eye I see Miss Morgan
Ambling around my chair. Gone these 11 years
Her black ears turned grey, belonging now to Gracie, who came,
no bigger than a cup,
meowing from an apple box
Deer chomped the Japanese cedar
rooted in Morgan’s ashes,
chewed the purple smoke bush
rooted in Wee Baubee’s remains
Not knowing what deer bone meal lies
under the rest of the garden,
that George walks along and urinates upon
Dragonfly corner may be where he gets to sleep
forever, in decades of ash legacy,
feeding the up and comers.

Script, by Sandra James

17/4/2020

What if…
there was no Higher Power
God, Krishna, Buddha,
Jehovah, Holy Spirit,
Supreme Being?

What if…
there was no
Big Bang Theory?

Perhaps we are simply the scribblings
of a manic, cosmic author
who penned his, or her, narrative
at the far end of the universe
in response to
his weekly writing group prompt
‘Bat’?

Zoom Rooms, by Tim Dadswell

10/4/2020

In a forest of magnolia walls,
under lighting to appal Dietrich,
tech-savvy Samaritans assist.
Between skew-whiff volumes on shelves,
and filing cabinets wedged into corners,
curious toddlers intrude.

Our height variations are basalt columns.
Wild concentration contrasts abound.
There’s a dawn chorus of unmuting,
chatting, sharing, and saving.

I’ll type it up later.
I’ll tweet about it now,
and forget it all tomorrow.

<<Previous

Forward>>

Tongue-Tied, by Paloma Lenz

V.E.Day, by Adrian McRobb

Envelopes with Windows, by Sandra James

Compassion, by Mary Wallace

The Soup Beckons, by Bruce Levine

Ode to My Dyson Vacuum Cleaner, by Janice Siderius

I'm Sorry, by Mary Wallace

This Strange World, by Susan Brice

Summer Garden Day, by Guy Fletcher

In Isolation, by Ana Marie Dollano

The Ordinariness of our Existence, by Adrian McRobb

This Slow Life, by Mary Wallace

Cupped Hands, by Adrian McRobb

Redneck Protest, by Ian Fletcher

Hoard, by Steven Holding

Supermoon, by Guy Fletcher

Among the Stars, by Paloma Lenz

A Strange Kind of Easter, by Guy Fletcher

Mr Adams, by Adrian McRobb

Static, by Paloma Lenz

Charm, by Ana Marie Dollano

Hart Island, by Ian Fletcher

Remains to Be Unseen, by Cindy Patrick

Script, by Sandra James

Zoom Rooms, by Tim Dadswell

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