Blog Posts

The Holy Ghost of Lincoln, by Sankar Chatterjee

4/10/2019

Our strongman can’t tell a lie:
“I'm the most presidential
Except for possibly Abe Lincoln.”
Caught in the treason of peddling self-interest,
He now threatens fellow citizens
Promising “A Civil War like fracture.”

*

Honest Abe turns over inside his grave
He touches the wound
From the bullet he took
Almost eight scores year ago.
The price he’d paid
Uniting the nation from fragmentation.

Winter, by Adrian McRobb

4/10/2019

Silver trees
frost rimed
frozen in time...

Sorrow, by Adrian McRobb

4/10/2019

A terrible weapon of darkest night
with edge that refuses to reflect light
forged in a mountain by demon made
has pierced more hearts than a human blade

The wound it gives will never heal
with an expert twist of poisoned steel
no shield can deflect its mighty blow
harvesting souls like a deadly hoe

Sheathed in misery and tears of grief
it drips with sadness there's no relief
wielded on high it keens in air
another victim is driven to despair

Rendezvous, by Ana Marie Dollano

27/9/2019

Let us sneak off, together
Into the shadowy night, and dance,
To the rhythm – of our beating hearts.

Spider's Web, by Guy Fletcher

27/9/2019

The spider's web is intricate,
a circular work of art
like a net with thin lines of wire
which shine silver in the sun.
It hangs on the front gate
bending and blowing in the wind
as if a tent or sails of a boat.
But there's no sign of its owner
who has left the property vacant,
only a solitary leaf and chaff
caught in its deadly jaws
yet a fly will be doomed soon enough
and as I stare at the web realise
a wonder of nature...lies before my eyes.

He Watched the Rain, by Bruce Levine

27/9/2019

He watched the rain
As it washed away the snow
And felt an emptiness for the earth
That transcends reality

Spider in the Garden, by Adrian McRobb

21/9/2019

Sophia weaves within my garden
teaching daughters while victims harden
a ballerina of the high wire
her body reflecting Autumns fire
fascinated by the things I fear
I noticed her the other year
while photographing her minute life
quite uncaring of worldly strife
her single minded purity of purpose
silver web turns in aerial circus
my spider friend has such a deft touch
deadly she is; pities not her crutch
a cross of Wolf and Harvest breed
I admire her and fuel her need
designed by a most delicate hand
she builds our bridges strand by strand...

The Bottom of the Sea, by Bruce Levine

21/9/2019

A starfish crawls across the wreck of a ship
The hull opened like a tuna fish can
Plastic bottles filled with water
Awaken the hereafter

Indian Chorus, by Sheila Ash

21/9/2019

Late monsoon rains
noisy frogs
rivalling train horns for length of song

Blue, by Guy Fletcher

20/9/2019

They called her blue for her eyes
were the colour of the Mojave sky.
He plays her only album once more
deep into a starry night
and peers at her photograph which shows
an alluring young woman with a grin
yet her eyes tell of a darkness within

and as another sad song draws to a close
he remembers her at her best
but the poison had enticed her again
after abstaining for so long.
He stares into the vastness of space
but the silver moon and stars do not care
and he does not feel her presence is there.

A Calling, by Ana Marie Dollano

20/9/2019

Soft moonlight, in the gloaming
Night birds call out
In greeting. Come, join the fun!

And Pigs Might Fly... by Sandra James

20/9/2019

A tree hit my car today
moved across into my lane
and scraped all down one side.
Must have grown legs
I guess.

Reminds me of that dog
who ate my homework
when I was eleven.

Truth is stranger than fiction.

Night On The Town, by Ian Fletcher

14/9/2019

They pour out
from their flats
and houses
into the maw
of the city
with Friday highs
as if existence
were all blue skies.

Soon they’ll be
out of their minds
on chemical beers
and non-vintage wines
these huddled masses
whose souls lie
in their senses.

And so the night
goes on and on
as life goes on
until they crash
coupled or alone
into Lethe-like sleep
and final oblivion.

In Praise of Older Women, by Adrian McRobb

13/9/2019

The slightly sagging breasts
that once promised ripeness
the faded bloom of an elder rose
that conjures impure thoughts
unlike love, this feeling more urgent, basic
feeling sullied in emotional decadence

This exciting taboo that breathless
quivers the spine, of younger man
having sex with an older woman
he will remember her forever
when all the bright young things
have been long forgotten...

Reverie, by Ana Marie Dollano

13/9/2019

Close your eyes, relax--
Rest your troubled mind, for fresh
Beginnings await!

The Fake Poet, by Bruce Levine

13/9/2019

A pretentious fraud
An aging hippy
Past his prime
Yet unaware
Of time he forgot
To remember

Rent Control, by Mark Tulin

13/9/2019

Morgan and Doug owned an apartment building together.

Morgan wanted to squeeze the most money from his tenants while Doug had more compassion.

“Raise rent too high,” Doug said, “and people won’t be able to afford it,”

Morgan replied, “That’s too bad. Let them move out. We’ll replace them with a better class of people.”

“It’s not ethical, Morgan. You have to treat people fairly. You can’t take advantage of them.”

In two years, the housing market crashed. Morgan and Doug couldn’t pay their mortgage and went bankrupt. Morgan ended up homeless while Doug managed with help from his friends.

Your Love, by John Cooper

6/9/2019

It
Costs you nothing
But
Is everything
To me.

An Ode to Bella...The Teapots of Comfort, by Adrian McRobb

6/9/2019

The teapots of comfort sail
across the darkened sea
of my id
places we keep things, or
make a warm drink, to soothe
a troubled kitchen

The teapots of comfort, where
I keep my memories
days out, bus tickets, past loves
trapped thoughts
images of relatives missed
to death

The teapots of comfort, march
like a Red Square parade, across
the shelves, a collection
collected
by someone else to fill
her empty life...

Devil's Bridge, by Guy Fletcher

6/9/2019

Deep in the heart of Ceredigion
a million miles from the bustling city
lies the sinister Devil's Bridge.
Local legend claims it was built by Satan
but in reality the benign hands of monks
who worshipped a rather different power
toiled in rain and snow hour after hour.

As I peer over this fine bridge
I sense their ghosts as I listen
to the sizzling soothing sound of the waterfall
cascading down the deep gorge
as the sun breaks through and shade
retreats across hills, breeze caressing my hair,
I'm free from chains...as I breathe the fresh air.

Images of the Night, Philip Galfano

6/9/2019

I thought of you tonight.
I was standing by the window
eyes gazing into space
while I watched the moon dance
over the multicolored rooftops.
From a chaotic nothingness
that tomorrow will always be here
I created blind images of you.
Meanwhile, a siren was heard in the distance
scanning the hours in the loneliness
of the night and beating incessantly
against my window.
From a nearby rooftop
the crumbling shadow of a chimney
suddenly came crashing against
an empty space and quickly vanished.

Muse, by Ana Marie Dollano

6/9/2019

The spark comes to me, and
without a trace she leaves,
quietly.

The Fall of Bury Football Club, by Guy Fletcher

2/9/2019

I picture men with grand moustaches
and long shorts over a century ago
scoring goals which would not stand
in this day and age of "techno" football.
I imagine a drab wet afternoon,
terraces weeping and supporters as well,
no games played, Bury trapped in hell.

Yet they were once a giant in the land
winning the FA Cup in 1900
and again in 1903
but Gigg Lane's glory days are far past
United and City shirts donned in the town.
The rain is the tears from fans' ghosts in the sky
recalling magic times... from days gone by.

No Horizon, by Adrian McRobb

30/8/2019

By the local highway
almost on the sand
there's a public by-way
which stands on private land

It's a kind of prison
surrounded by a fence
gives a nasty frisson
when you are passing hence

Caravans parked, neglected
of holidays unsure
no tow-hook detected
no engine's even purr

The Swifts looking for a Hero
the Avondale and Explorer too
tyre pressures nearly zero
they stand and spoil the view...

Mute, by Ana Marie Dollano

30/8/2019

Sharp ticking in my ears,
tick tock drumming, escalating, but I hear
nothing… nothing.

<<Previous

Forward>>

The Holy Ghost of Lincoln, by Sankar Chatterjee

Winter, by Adrian McRobb

Sorrow, by Adrian McRobb

Rendezvous, by Ana Marie Dollano

Spider's Web, by Guy Fletcher

He Watched the Rain, by Bruce Levine

Spider in the Garden, by Adrian McRobb

The Bottom of the Sea, by Bruce Levine

Indian Chorus, by Sheila Ash

Blue, by Guy Fletcher

A Calling, by Ana Marie Dollano

And Pigs Might Fly... by Sandra James

Night On The Town, by Ian Fletcher

In Praise of Older Women, by Adrian McRobb

Reverie, by Ana Marie Dollano

The Fake Poet, by Bruce Levine

Rent Control, by Mark Tulin

Your Love, by John Cooper

An Ode to Bella...The Teapots of Comfort, by Adrian McRobb

Devil's Bridge, by Guy Fletcher

Images of the Night, Philip Galfano

Muse, by Ana Marie Dollano

The Fall of Bury Football Club, by Guy Fletcher

No Horizon, by Adrian McRobb

Mute, by Ana Marie Dollano

Poetry

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