Category Archives: Poetry

Flowerpots for Africa by Pat Francis

A sunny English summer stirs up
a jumble of feelings now
in our revolving world
 
but the heart still expands
in the warm green of it
settles like a bee on lavender
when shadows sidle
across evening gardens,
we stroll our small terrain
pick up discarded plastic pots
we find under bushes
behind the dustbin.
 
Tomorrow we take them to
a charity that sells plants
to other comfortable gardeners
touched by guilt
at the easy way we help
children under and unflinching sun
who need a bowl of porridge
before they can sit and learn
from random books
we have donated
 
Food    books  flowers
old pleasures
new configuration
 
May they be blessed.
 
Pat Francis

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That Smile – Doig Simmonds

Oh!  See
Oh!  Beyond
Those shining eyes
Glancing.

Look and see
Gold hair halo
Softly warm
Flowing

Finger tips touching
Cool and loving
That smile giving
The welcome
Of living

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Counting Magpies – Martin Choules

One for nada,
Two for nowt,
Three for a shrug,
And four for a doubt,
Five for zero,
Six for oh,
Seven for knowing there’s nothing to know.

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Spring List – Nick Barth

Cherry blossom, check.
Book of verse, jug of wine, check.
Loaf of bread, thou, check.

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The Exhausted Poet – William Morton

The exhausted poet went to bed
and there she laid her sleepy head.
Rhyming tried she in repose
but none there came – just boring prose!
Half wakened by her snoring nose,
a rhyming couplet I suppose,
had tangled uvula and airway,
but to Parnassus came no stairway!


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Time, Ladies & Gents – Pat Francis

It’s Christmas time at Questors,
let’s have a glass of wine;
it can’t be eight already –
the readings will be fine.

It’s party time at Questors,
you’ll find us in the bar;
my sonnet’s nearly ready;
let’s have another jar.

It’s Christmas time at Questors,
let’s dive into the fray;
I forgot to bring my glasses;
let’s read another day.

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The Dreamer – Alan Chambers

Who is the old woman
curled warmly into sleep?
Her dreams are the shadows
that gather in the street.
She wants no awakening
to this cold, dim day,
she is only the guide
through another way:

Where the paths are thorny,
where the rivers run deep,
where the sea is forever
and mountains steep,
where a castle towers high
on its smooth black rock,
where a key rusts slowly
in a broken lock.

Only a brave dreamer
can venture this land,
with a badge of truth
in a clear left hand.
A sinister dragon
waits below the crag
and the sea’s armed might
with its blind tides’ drag,

Beware of the song
that the dragon sings,
beware of the pedlar
and the Fisher King.
A courageous dreamer
may climb the rock,
to turn the key
and loose the lock,
then enter the castle
that has no end,
to meet himself,
to call him friend.

ALAN CHAMBERS

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