Category Archives: Poetry

My Mother’s Album, Pat Francis

My Mother’s Album

In her best frock, posed grinning
by an improbable plant; her grandmother
when studio portraits were a novelty.

Turn the page:  thin legs by the sea
caught by cameras that were now their own,
and a week at the seaside was a novelty.

At the back, the postcard collection;
sepia, soldiers singing about home –
‘There’s a long, long, trail awinding’.

No more pages.  No ‘land of my dreams’
as the song promised, but the slump and a war
that brought its own shattering novelties.

PRF

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September by Martin Choules

Birds are flocking,
Doors are locking,
Autumn’s knocking once again.
Seeds are podding,
Berries nodding,
Workers plodding from the train.
Skies are frowning,
Leaves are browning,
Hats are crowning, coats are on.
Days are cooling,
Rains are pooling,
Kids are schooling –
Summer’s gone.

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Caroline Am Bergris – Sea Diamonds

Sea Diamonds

Shoals of migrating sea diamonds
undulate
under over
under over
searching for the promised sea:
relishing the openscope of melting icebergs,
tantalising land artists on the Riviera.
Here be
gem gypsies of the wash –
travelling wide, travelling free,
travelling light, travelling me.

Caroline
Am Bergris

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Caroline Am Bergris – Cursive

Cursive

I wish I had never met you,
slithering from my head
into my heart
in one night,
coiled in residence.

Over dinner, similarities glided
in a perfect arc,
differences collided,
forming something new.

We both had our hands on the pen
writing the story of our meeting,
and the script flourished,
ceaselessly.

I smoothly undressed the mind
under that gaze,
found the nearest thing
to a damned fairytale soulmate
that a cynic could never wish to find.

You are the impossible –
the natural black rose,
the sound in space,
the move to beat checkmate –
making love a possibility,
even for someone like me.

But now the memory of our connection
is a cold sweat.

I read it back wrong –
making everything else right.

Caroline Am Bergris

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Untitled by Peter Francis

The Pulse at your neck is a caged bird
That has no way to sing.
And hardly perceptible now
The movement of your lips.

Yet you attempt a smile
That once was all the world
For one who tentatively followed you
Into a harvest field of wheat.

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Alcohol by John Hurley

Ten past twelve, the phone kept ringing,
“We must catch up”, that’s what she said.
Half-asleep, I agreed to meet her.
Perhaps the past wasn’t really dead.

Then again, I began to wonder,
There had been two husbands in between.
Would I have to listen to the shortcomings
Of two men I had never seen?

I took camphor balls from an old tuxedo,
Polished black shoes until they gleamed,
Arrived at seven in the hotel foyer.
Years fell away, or so it seemed.

She swayed a little walking towards me,
No air-kissing, but a sexy hug.
Tinkling laughter and a smell of brandy,
Then almost tripped on a fireside rug.

A waiter said “Take care, señora.”
She said “Don’t be a bloody fool!”
A quick exchange of knowing glances,
He flapped his towel but kept his cool.

She said “John, it’s so nice to meet you…
You were nicer when you took a drink…
Our time together, so much laughter…
A hazy of booze, that’s what I think.

I sipped coffee, she drank branmdy,
Discomfort grew with her maudlin tears.
Decades ago, I loved this woman…
I cried inside for the wasted years.

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Tiger-Hawker by Martin Choules

Zigger-buzzing, flitter-flying,
To and fro and fro and to –
A dragonfly is zagging-by,
His body shiny-new.
Ready for the slaughter,
With his goggles on and paint-job dry –
For three years, underwater,
He has somehow learned to fly.

A fighter jet, a microlight,
With wings of cellophane –
Drunk yet nimble in his flight,
He circles round, and round again.
A regal blur, a day-glow streak,
Who never rests from his deploy –
But when he does, he’s plastic-sleek:
This summer’s latest toy.

I meet him, though, in hot July,
Some distance from the river bank.
So jealous in his patch of sky,
He watches for a rival’s flank –
But they won’t come, and neither will
The ladies that he’s longing for.
So here he is, patrolling still:
A soldier who’s misplaced his war

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