Blog Posts

Post Punk, by Ian Fletcher

23/8/2019

His eyes not tranquil
though tranquilized
his hair receding
like an outgoing tide
he’s slurring his words
after just a couple of beers
his past now but a dream
his future is no future
he’s living in a void
this reappearance
as unwelcome as
a nihilistic meme
that pops up on
my computer screen.

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Isolation, by Guy Fletcher

19/8/2019

They live on the edge of town
in a house on a windswept hill.
The husband watches his ghost reflection
in the dilapitated living room window
as a torrent of rain furiously sweeps across.
His wife is confined to the bed, soft tomb,
he has too much time to contemplate doom

imagining bleak scenarios to come
as the indifferent oak hisses and water
drips from the ceiling like tears
yet it was once a dwelling full of mirth:
a photograph shows the couple smiling
with their child, it used to be a good life
but he will smile for the world...and his wife.

Words, by Ana Marie Dollano

18/8/2019

Scissors through paper, cut
like words plain-spoken, some
leave you... broken.

Of Wine, by Ana Marie Dollano

16/8/2019

In steady stream
cup after cup after cup… I
am a figment of your imagination

Castaway, by Adrian Mcrobb

12/8/2019

Dialling the familiar number
hearing the ringing tones
that no-one picks up
sending letters full of love
to that address, known by heart
only to have them returned unopened

Standing outside the house
broken windows of the soul
declare there's no-one in
introspective in her room
no perfume now or familiar odour
nor dressing table clutter

Leaves underfoot crunching, wrinkled, spent
mottled tones fading as old skin
hushed thought and sudden realisation
that she-is-gone
trans-parent, through that other door...

Thunderstorm Over Roath Park Lake, by Guy Fletcher

12/8/2019

The sun disappears, a dirty orange
and bruised sky frames the Scott Memorial.
Thunder growls as if a god
is clearing his mighty throat.
The earth is shaken by a violent clap
on this soporific afternoon,
fawk lightning cracks the sombre clouds
and the lake is now free from summer crowds

as a torrent of rain descends
which the parched grass gratefully devours,
the willow tree swaying in a strengthening wind
as I wander alone like some
mad philosopher soaked to the skin.
It is frightening, yet exhilarating
and a thousand circles form in the lake
to vanish as swiftly as a snowflake.

Enlightenment, by Ian Fletcher

11/8/2019

In the early times
there was much hope
as if I were a part
of some great game
with my own special
destiny still unknown
although somehow
under my control.

Yet the long years
did bring nothing
except this truth
that it is not I
who lives life
but life that lives
me and all know
what the end
of life will be.

Absence, by Ana Marie Dollano

11/8/2019

Hush is the sound it makes
The silence resonates...

A trickle, faint tinkle, an echo
Of longing
I thirst
For that single drop
To warm my spirit
Enkindle my soul
A sprinkle, a drizzle
To fizzle
My empty cup

I’m hoping, yearning, oh
But no… not a drop.

The Angel of Anne Frank, by Sankar Chatterjee

10/8/2019

Hiding in that dark Amsterdam attic
Facing annihilation, Anne Frank still believed
“…people are really good at heart.”
Little she would have known
German Gestapo would reincarnate
In American ICE agents in Mississippi.

Lillian, a little angel to Honduran parents
After kindergarten, coming to a ransacked home
“Where did Mommy and Daddy go?”
No answer, adults marching to detention centre.
Nearby, the strongman grinning with a wounded baby,
Just-orphaned, parents gunned down by his “hate merchants”.

The Angel of Anne protecting Lillian under her wings
Whispers “….this cruelty too shall end,
that peace and tranquility will return once more.”

Poetry – My Heart, by Arlene Antoinette

9/8/2019

My arms are mine/ my legs are mine/ my eyes, nose and mouth are mine/
but my heart remains/ in a neighborhood in Brooklyn, N.Y./ with memories from my youth/ both of which
are tied together perfectly with a bow/ and left on a stoop in Flatbush/ not waiting for my return/ not even missing me.

Freedom, by Mary Wallace

9/8/2019

He took off lightly ‘cross the field, I followed close at heel
Green grass, blue sky, a gentle breeze, we did a scottish reel.

He rested near an ancient tree, leant calmly on a limb,
As if he thought I’d need a break to finally capture him.

This dance, it happened in my mind, not actually him and me
A sigh escaped my saddened lips, how lovely to be free

Instead my children rescued him, returned him with a laugh
I wish I didn’t need their help to rescue my own scarf.

For Jane, by Bruce Levine

9/8/2019

A bunch of chocolate morsels
Just perfect for a Queen
Who craves a special holiday
And every day between

Written in celebration of National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day – August 4, 2019

Arcot Lake, by Adrian McRobb

9/8/2019

Mist rises from black water
coalesces into vague shapes
which half glimpsed disappear

Souls of swans glide serene
while horses charge their riders screaming
lovelorn lovers stroll then sink
out of sight in the corner of memory

Wet air drools on clothes and inhaled
breathing haunted atmospheres as dreams
which break upon the shores of reason

Wraiths float above the dark mirror
not sharing their reflections or thoughts
becoming us when the life-thread breaks...

Unfeeling, by Ana Marie Dollano

9/8/2019

The fog muffled the sound of voices
Then emptiness filled me
Inside

Culver Hole, by Guy Fletcher

5/8/2019

A rainbow arcs over Port Eynon
on this bracing December day
with clouds like Middle-Earth mountains.
Waves explode with futility
against immovable rocks
and I am exhausted after my stroll
to the weird, mysterious Culver Hole.

A stone structure is built into the cliff
with portals dating back many centuries.
Now it is low-tide, rumours abound
of smugglers alighting,
wild wind howling carrying the ghosts
of rugged men who came here long before
to this eerie part of the Gower shore.

Praying for a Blizzard, by Bruce Levine

2/8/2019

Summer heat
Lassitude permeating every pore
Wasted days
Too hot to even think
And moving takes more energy
Then it produces
With after-effects of permanence
In a single place
Unable to raise one’s body
Beyond a reclining chair
Heat rising
Steaming up from the pavement
In unending streams of perspiration
The only respite is recumbent
Drifting into a semi-comatose mixture
Of suffering and gloom
As days become nights
With no relief
But
Around May
To begin
Praying for a blizzard

Mustique, by Adrian McRobb

2/8/2019

Where palms wave
guilty ribbons kiss

FRED, by Mary Wallace

31/7/2019

I struggle with technology, I call my tablet FRED*
I bought a little cord for it, it’s messing with my head

Just plug this in to save your files, do this and then do that
“Oh darn” you’ll need another cord, give this one to your cat

I’m glad it didn’t cost you much, he says with a big smile
I’d happily pay twice as much, to save the bloody file

So now I have two little cords and neither of them work
It's time you bought a new laptop, he now says with a smirk

I take the brochure, see the price, consign myself to debt
So how do I transfer my files…there’s cords for that I’ll bet.

*"F***ing Ridiculous Electronic Device"

Syrup Drips, by Bruce Levine

30/7/2019

Syrup drips over the tower of pancakes
The last vestiges of Log Cabin
Empties the bottle
Morning begins with a plethora of carbs
A joyous start to the new day

Poetry Wasn't Enough in the End, by Guy Fletcher

29/7/2019

"Sleepmonger, deathmonger." - The Addict, Anne Sexton.

Anne Sexton drifted in and out
of asylums and a psychiatrist
encouraged her to write her feelings
with poetry to save her life.
Always with a cigarette in hand
this alluring brunette won the Pulitzer Prize
and drunk martinis with Sylvia Plath
yet never left the suicidal path

carrying "kill pills" in her handbag.
Anne was jealous that Sylvia
committed suicide first; the world of
troubled poets is a stange place indeed!
But one day after lunch with a friend
she donned her mother's old fur coat,
sat in her car, turned the ignition key,
the demons departed...her soul was set free.

Coasting, by Adrian McRobb

28/7/2019

Side parting of whipped grass
clings desperately to paths edge
cliffs look out with angry old faces
hopes dashed with next westerly gale
Rusted broken beacon smashed by
a hundred storms or wreckers hand
curlews wail their thin song of wasted tome
"Too late!" "Too late!" Wheel and dive in mourning flight
Wreathes of fog earth bound clouds
in sea fret wringing hands of grief
a bell bouy sounds peeling in the distance
upon still water like obsidian glass
but, with an undercurrent of movement
rippling in laconic samba...

Life, by Philip Galfano

28/7/2019

I feel like being no one tonight.
I had come to believe I knew the world;
all my life I have searched for something about me,
about people close to me
or about things far away.
Yes, tonight I really want to be no one,
an unknown face
among unknown people.
Leave me behind all alone
in the most remote solitude of my room
like an object created without poise,
silent indifferent unmoved
like death.

No Escape, by Ian Fletcher

28/7/2019

No, he would never spend
his whole life in bedsit land
for he’d surely make it out
of there one way or another
as the day replaces night
but the booze it got to him
in the end for he could not
ever hold down a regular job
or keep a steady girlfriend
so now wearily middle-aged
looking older than his years
he wakes day after dreary day
from his drunken dreams
hungover in a solitary room
to hear the four walls scream.

Life is Not Like a Box of Chocolates, by Arlene Antoinette

28/7/2019

I walked into the oncologist office
armed with boxes of chocolates
and baked goods, attempting to bribe
my way out of a of a possible cancer
diagnosis with gifts made of cocoa
powder and flour. Shaky hands and
a frozen smile betrayed my confidence
in my inducements, but I pressed on
and mentally crossed my fingers because
we all know; everything goes better
with chocolate.

A Tribute to The Roxy, by Ian Fletcher

21/7/2019

I remember The Roxy
back in the eighties
like it were yesterday
a club long since gone
although not forgotten
in the old city of York
that was then the center
of our youthful world.

Now we’ve all moved on
those far off days seem
bathed in a golden haze
we punks, hippies, goths
within that Bohemian crowd
reappearing frozen in time
in the landscape of the mind
the once beautiful people
who partied the nights away.

Yet the past is another country
I suppose and like The Roxy
its doors are forever closed.

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