Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Pious Lady
You, with your classy high heel shoes
Who prefers to walk on soggy lawns
On your way to religious instructions
Rather than walk near me
Sitting on the bench near the concrete path
That leads to the church door.
Do you avoid walking past me because you are afraid
of your true self?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Pious Lady
You, with your classy high heel shoes
Who prefers to walk on soggy lawns
On your way to religious instructions
Rather than walk near me
Sitting on the bench near the concrete path
That leads to the church door.
Do you avoid walking past me because you are afraid
of your true self?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
You, with your classy high heel shoes
Who prefers to walk on soggy lawns
On your way to religious instructions
Rather than walk near me
Sitting on the bench near the concrete path
That leads to the church door.
Do you avoid walking past me because you are afraid
of your true self?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Valley Blue
Over valley blue
ancient bells peel,
And flowers beat
to the rhythm of the wind,
Blades of grass murmur
and caress,
And hay is on the air, teasing,
Birds prey in leafy trees,
Song muted
against drift notes
from stout church, quaint,
in this valley blue,
As they gather.
The old bull raises tired eyes,
And on a breath
retreats to comfort slumber,
Heavy as a whisper
lost in forgotten undergrowth.
Are there people in the mist
weighed by lavender,
Or souls eager for redemption?
Footprints in the dew,
Acorn lolls without fear at
bull’s moist snout,
And the wind,
Mischievous with messages,
Sounds as an echo
in the shifting graveyard.
The valley has changed now.
© Michael Garrad June 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Valley Blue
Over valley blue
ancient bells peel,
And flowers beat
to the rhythm of the wind,
Blades of grass murmur
and caress,
And hay is on the air, teasing,
Birds prey in leafy trees,
Song muted
against drift notes
from stout church, quaint,
in this valley blue,
As they gather.
The old bull raises tired eyes,
And on a breath
retreats to comfort slumber,
Heavy as a whisper
lost in forgotten undergrowth.
Are there people in the mist
weighed by lavender,
Or souls eager for redemption?
Footprints in the dew,
Acorn lolls without fear at
bull’s moist snout,
And the wind,
Mischievous with messages,
Sounds as an echo
in the shifting graveyard.
The valley has changed now.
© Michael Garrad June 2010
Over valley blue
ancient bells peel,
And flowers beat
to the rhythm of the wind,
Blades of grass murmur
and caress,
And hay is on the air, teasing,
Birds prey in leafy trees,
Song muted
against drift notes
from stout church, quaint,
in this valley blue,
As they gather.
The old bull raises tired eyes,
And on a breath
retreats to comfort slumber,
Heavy as a whisper
lost in forgotten undergrowth.
Are there people in the mist
weighed by lavender,
Or souls eager for redemption?
Footprints in the dew,
Acorn lolls without fear at
bull’s moist snout,
And the wind,
Mischievous with messages,
Sounds as an echo
in the shifting graveyard.
The valley has changed now.
© Michael Garrad June 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Last Bounce Of Sun
Snap at the window,
Like wolf jaws on prey,
This white dark
illuminated by breath-starved moon,
Still and freezing,
Snap, like crack
of neck on long rope drop;
Was it a break of iced limb,
succumbing to snow weight,
Or the mirror
that splintered quietly
in image of abomination?
Glass yielding to cold?
Fractured reflections
in tortured memory?
Last bounce of sun
on the other side?
Perhaps he listened too hard,
And stared where
there was nothing to see.
© Michael Garrad May 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Last Bounce Of Sun
Snap at the window,
Like wolf jaws on prey,
This white dark
illuminated by breath-starved moon,
Still and freezing,
Snap, like crack
of neck on long rope drop;
Was it a break of iced limb,
succumbing to snow weight,
Or the mirror
that splintered quietly
in image of abomination?
Glass yielding to cold?
Fractured reflections
in tortured memory?
Last bounce of sun
on the other side?
Perhaps he listened too hard,
And stared where
there was nothing to see.
© Michael Garrad May 2010
Snap at the window,
Like wolf jaws on prey,
This white dark
illuminated by breath-starved moon,
Still and freezing,
Snap, like crack
of neck on long rope drop;
Was it a break of iced limb,
succumbing to snow weight,
Or the mirror
that splintered quietly
in image of abomination?
Glass yielding to cold?
Fractured reflections
in tortured memory?
Last bounce of sun
on the other side?
Perhaps he listened too hard,
And stared where
there was nothing to see.
© Michael Garrad May 2010
Eurpa Poets' Gazette No. 75, February 2010
We set so much by trivia. It becomes our sole focus. The most insignificant thing is an obsession, the whole reason why we live and breathe. It is all-consuming.
Who said what about someone; who inferred something about someone; who whispered at the wrong time. Shadows of discontent.
Suddenly, who we are counts for... well, not much. We cannot look up and out because the blinkers blind us.
Contemplate this washing dishes, looking out at a mortgage sprawl, wishing so much this and that was just that - in fact, nothing against life and death.
It is the now that counts, like good health.
Who said what about someone; who inferred something about someone; who whispered at the wrong time. Shadows of discontent.
Suddenly, who we are counts for... well, not much. We cannot look up and out because the blinkers blind us.
Contemplate this washing dishes, looking out at a mortgage sprawl, wishing so much this and that was just that - in fact, nothing against life and death.
It is the now that counts, like good health.
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Bacteria
I’m drifting along in plasma without the need for muscles,
though having to be careful to dodge those white
corpuscles.
This is such a grand life, as I just bob-bob along,
to now and then divide in two, there’s nothing could go wrong.
I say, here comes a mate of mine, it’s good old E. coli.
He’s looking very healthy, but then, so too am I.
We’re so happy in this blood stream, we’re verging on
hysteria,
Hi - ho! here comes another friend, my good old pal
diphtheria.
We can hold a grand reunion of bio terrorists,
this has to be the pinnacle of germ world’s
Mount Everest!
But wait! What is that up ahead? It looks like antibiotics!
I haven’t had a touch of that, since I was in the tropics.
Strewth! There goes me mate E. coli, it took him real quick,
and now poor ole diphtheria is looking mighty sick.
Just when life was coming good, I’m faced with mortal fear
Oooh! That stuff has got me too, and I reckon I’m a goner ’ere!
© Pete Stratford 2.3.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Bacteria
I’m drifting along in plasma without the need for muscles,
though having to be careful to dodge those white
corpuscles.
This is such a grand life, as I just bob-bob along,
to now and then divide in two, there’s nothing could go wrong.
I say, here comes a mate of mine, it’s good old E. coli.
He’s looking very healthy, but then, so too am I.
We’re so happy in this blood stream, we’re verging on
hysteria,
Hi - ho! here comes another friend, my good old pal
diphtheria.
We can hold a grand reunion of bio terrorists,
this has to be the pinnacle of germ world’s
Mount Everest!
But wait! What is that up ahead? It looks like antibiotics!
I haven’t had a touch of that, since I was in the tropics.
Strewth! There goes me mate E. coli, it took him real quick,
and now poor ole diphtheria is looking mighty sick.
Just when life was coming good, I’m faced with mortal fear
Oooh! That stuff has got me too, and I reckon I’m a goner ’ere!
© Pete Stratford 2.3.10
I’m drifting along in plasma without the need for muscles,
though having to be careful to dodge those white
corpuscles.
This is such a grand life, as I just bob-bob along,
to now and then divide in two, there’s nothing could go wrong.
I say, here comes a mate of mine, it’s good old E. coli.
He’s looking very healthy, but then, so too am I.
We’re so happy in this blood stream, we’re verging on
hysteria,
Hi - ho! here comes another friend, my good old pal
diphtheria.
We can hold a grand reunion of bio terrorists,
this has to be the pinnacle of germ world’s
Mount Everest!
But wait! What is that up ahead? It looks like antibiotics!
I haven’t had a touch of that, since I was in the tropics.
Strewth! There goes me mate E. coli, it took him real quick,
and now poor ole diphtheria is looking mighty sick.
Just when life was coming good, I’m faced with mortal fear
Oooh! That stuff has got me too, and I reckon I’m a goner ’ere!
© Pete Stratford 2.3.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Who Is Amy?
Who is Amy?
Where is Amy?
Is she busy today?
What is she doing?
I hope she is sad.
She wouldn’t enjoy sad.
Her heart would clench
in her breast
and beat faster
and burst with tears -
tears that would
run down her face
crackle and fizz
in her waxy ears
her gut would clench
then spew forth
a burning acid,
cleansing release
jerky gulps
of cigarette-free air
would expand and dance in her lungs
and the skin
at the corners of her
mouth would crack and sting.
Her bruised face would ache;
her blistered and black-tarred feet
would rub tenderly
on the fur on the floor.
Her knotted hair
falling to her
shoulders in clumps
begs to be brushed.
The urgent, stinging
need to piss
would drag her to her feet.
Horrified and crying, crying,
she could decide
whether the last penis
in her
was there by consent.
The beautiful agony
of sober pain would come
in a colossal
leaden foamless wave
and gather her up
and flatten her down
till she fights to get up.
She is sober.
She wants to get up.
© Loretta Gaul 6.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Who Is Amy?
Who is Amy?
Where is Amy?
Is she busy today?
What is she doing?
I hope she is sad.
She wouldn’t enjoy sad.
Her heart would clench
in her breast
and beat faster
and burst with tears -
tears that would
run down her face
crackle and fizz
in her waxy ears
her gut would clench
then spew forth
a burning acid,
cleansing release
jerky gulps
of cigarette-free air
would expand and dance in her lungs
and the skin
at the corners of her
mouth would crack and sting.
Her bruised face would ache;
her blistered and black-tarred feet
would rub tenderly
on the fur on the floor.
Her knotted hair
falling to her
shoulders in clumps
begs to be brushed.
The urgent, stinging
need to piss
would drag her to her feet.
Horrified and crying, crying,
she could decide
whether the last penis
in her
was there by consent.
The beautiful agony
of sober pain would come
in a colossal
leaden foamless wave
and gather her up
and flatten her down
till she fights to get up.
She is sober.
She wants to get up.
© Loretta Gaul 6.10
Who is Amy?
Where is Amy?
Is she busy today?
What is she doing?
I hope she is sad.
She wouldn’t enjoy sad.
Her heart would clench
in her breast
and beat faster
and burst with tears -
tears that would
run down her face
crackle and fizz
in her waxy ears
her gut would clench
then spew forth
a burning acid,
cleansing release
jerky gulps
of cigarette-free air
would expand and dance in her lungs
and the skin
at the corners of her
mouth would crack and sting.
Her bruised face would ache;
her blistered and black-tarred feet
would rub tenderly
on the fur on the floor.
Her knotted hair
falling to her
shoulders in clumps
begs to be brushed.
The urgent, stinging
need to piss
would drag her to her feet.
Horrified and crying, crying,
she could decide
whether the last penis
in her
was there by consent.
The beautiful agony
of sober pain would come
in a colossal
leaden foamless wave
and gather her up
and flatten her down
till she fights to get up.
She is sober.
She wants to get up.
© Loretta Gaul 6.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Still Life
If I could smell the scent of those delicate roses,
Or taste the grapes, forever succulent and plump
on the vine
And pour myself a glass of rich red wine
From the elegant decanter standing sentinel behind -
If I could take just a bite
From one of the rosy apples in the bowl -
Those sweet tantalising juices
Might lull and soothe me in their seduction.
And if one more time I could hold the hand
That painted this picture
I could say - "Mother, I’m sorry."
I could tell her that her dementia
Plunged me into a whirlpool of uncertainty and fear
And now I know that if I felt this way,
How much more confused and afraid must she have been.
Perhaps then, I could quiet my growing doubt
That I might not have cared or done enough.
Her painting hangs on my wall,
The colours faded, the canvas cracked -
If I could only breathe new life into a still life...
© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2002
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Still Life
If I could smell the scent of those delicate roses,
Or taste the grapes, forever succulent and plump
on the vine
And pour myself a glass of rich red wine
From the elegant decanter standing sentinel behind -
If I could take just a bite
From one of the rosy apples in the bowl -
Those sweet tantalising juices
Might lull and soothe me in their seduction.
And if one more time I could hold the hand
That painted this picture
I could say - "Mother, I’m sorry."
I could tell her that her dementia
Plunged me into a whirlpool of uncertainty and fear
And now I know that if I felt this way,
How much more confused and afraid must she have been.
Perhaps then, I could quiet my growing doubt
That I might not have cared or done enough.
Her painting hangs on my wall,
The colours faded, the canvas cracked -
If I could only breathe new life into a still life...
© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2002
If I could smell the scent of those delicate roses,
Or taste the grapes, forever succulent and plump
on the vine
And pour myself a glass of rich red wine
From the elegant decanter standing sentinel behind -
If I could take just a bite
From one of the rosy apples in the bowl -
Those sweet tantalising juices
Might lull and soothe me in their seduction.
And if one more time I could hold the hand
That painted this picture
I could say - "Mother, I’m sorry."
I could tell her that her dementia
Plunged me into a whirlpool of uncertainty and fear
And now I know that if I felt this way,
How much more confused and afraid must she have been.
Perhaps then, I could quiet my growing doubt
That I might not have cared or done enough.
Her painting hangs on my wall,
The colours faded, the canvas cracked -
If I could only breathe new life into a still life...
© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2002
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Giving Up The Ghost
Lying on a bed of alleluias
Sick with cords of shivers
Lead-shot with weariness
The warm breath of Jesus whispers,
"Give up the ghost."
As if there was a choice!
Gather it up, reap it from your life
Troll the outreaches of the body
Gulping and sliding through corridors
of sinews
Valves, tubes and mouldy cavities
Putty corralled in the throat
The larynx slammed behind it.
"Cough it into my hand",
An atrocious hand - a red colander
Of raw sinews, splintered bones
Blood-pain circled with lacy flesh.
The ghost slides out and Jesus
Moulds the spirit around the hole
Plugs it safe to hold the soul
From underneath the heart.
It flows warmly into its loving
receptacle.
The heart a cold, silent stone.
Gone now soul in holy hessian bag
Woven with prayers, good
intentions, kindness.
Holed with jealousy, unkindness, doubt
Darned with belief and trust.
Taken safely into the void and origins
anew.
© Patricia Turner June 2010
Lying on a bed of alleluias
Sick with cords of shivers
Lead-shot with weariness
The warm breath of Jesus whispers,
"Give up the ghost."
As if there was a choice!
Gather it up, reap it from your life
Troll the outreaches of the body
Gulping and sliding through corridors
of sinews
Valves, tubes and mouldy cavities
Putty corralled in the throat
The larynx slammed behind it.
"Cough it into my hand",
An atrocious hand - a red colander
Of raw sinews, splintered bones
Blood-pain circled with lacy flesh.
The ghost slides out and Jesus
Moulds the spirit around the hole
Plugs it safe to hold the soul
From underneath the heart.
It flows warmly into its loving
receptacle.
The heart a cold, silent stone.
Gone now soul in holy hessian bag
Woven with prayers, good
intentions, kindness.
Holed with jealousy, unkindness, doubt
Darned with belief and trust.
Taken safely into the void and origins
anew.
© Patricia Turner June 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Teachers
This is for the teachers
That stand before the class
For they help you learn
About the future
Or the past
They teach you modern technology
They push you along
So to the teachers of today
Hip Hooray, Hip Hooray
For you help me
To be what I am today. I say, thank you.
© Richard Griffiths 11.11.08
This is for the teachers
That stand before the class
For they help you learn
About the future
Or the past
They teach you modern technology
They push you along
So to the teachers of today
Hip Hooray, Hip Hooray
For you help me
To be what I am today. I say, thank you.
© Richard Griffiths 11.11.08
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75
Autumn
Autumn is moving on
Golden leaves swirling
Flower heads fading
Rotting apples on the ground
And I am still around.
Evenings now are chilly
Darkness coming early
Sun appears less brilliant
Biting winds abound
And I am still around.
To cherish every moment
Of ever-changing season;
To feel life’s earthly pleasures
In the autumn of my years I’ve found
I’m mighty glad I’m still around.
© Vi Woodhouse
Autumn is moving on
Golden leaves swirling
Flower heads fading
Rotting apples on the ground
And I am still around.
Evenings now are chilly
Darkness coming early
Sun appears less brilliant
Biting winds abound
And I am still around.
To cherish every moment
Of ever-changing season;
To feel life’s earthly pleasures
In the autumn of my years I’ve found
I’m mighty glad I’m still around.
© Vi Woodhouse
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