Sally Kidd

New paths

The sound of the sea
against the hull
and my breath
is all that I can hear.
I’ve never sailed the sea
at night before.
Never left the warm land
for the cold stars and sea.
The moon rises in a dark sky,
I taste salt on my lips
like a lover’s kiss,
and silence. Silence at sea.
I know the destination where
I’m bound,
but the sea at night is a
foreign place.

 

Copyright © Sally Kidd 2018
Sally Kidd lives and writes in her beautiful native Hampshire, which inspires a lot of her writing.  When not tied to a keyboard she explores its many paths and byways sometimes on a bicycle, sometimes with her dog.

Advertisements
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged | Leave a comment

Sarah Chidgey

Two verses for Bruce

The rectangular slot swallowed another world

Squeezed onto black tape, like a python, whole.

It squeaked magic-full films, Saturday kids’ TV

Creating our history.

Entranced, we watched while outside

Baboons flaunted themselves to the glass doors

That our girl had polished, her hands

Pressing the newspaper’s slippery words into

Its blinking surface.

Copyright © Sarah Chidgey 2018

Sarah Chidgey is from Bristol and lived abroad as a child.  This poem is the result of her being challenged by a Scottish poet-friend to come up with two verses.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged | Leave a comment

George Robertson

HEIR LOOM

‘It’s a family heirloom’, ma mother said
She never explained an Ah didnae spier
it has lain forgotten for mony a year
in a shoe box o keepsakes alow ma bed.

‘Fits been discovered’, ye micht be winderin
‘A tea towel’, quoth I, but ane that’s historic
wi woven-in wirds that’s maist in the Doric
scenes frae poesy, a patchwork meanderin.

This linen legacy has been hand woven
folded uniquely tae mak it attractive
when Ah opened it oot, ma thochts were reactive
for here’s a masterpiece that Ah’ve been give.

It has now been framed and hangs in the stair
an jist naebody kens very muckle aboot it
Ah’ve been on the web, but Etsy concluded
we’ve nithin like that here, so it must be rare.

Ah’m on Scotland’s People and Find My Past
Ah’ll shout it out loud from here tae Longforgan
if my ancestor’s Walter o Bogjorgan
when the missing link’s deciphered at last.

Copyright © George Robertson 2018

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged | Leave a comment

Gordon Meade

Minnow, Havana, Cuba, 2008
“The fish was motionless and I told the woman that I thought he was dying. ‘No’, she replied, ‘It’s been like that for two years.'” – Jo-Anne MacArthur.

This is what happens
during the early stages
of awakening; things begin.

This is what happens
during the early stages
of awakening. Things begin
to stop; almost everything.

This is what happens
during the early stages
of awakening; things begin
to stop. Almost everything
grinds to a halt – I have.

This is what happens
during the early stages
of awakening; things begin
to stop. Almost everything
grinds to a halt. I have
been trying to awaken.

This is what happens
during the early stages
of awakening; things begin
to stop. Almost everything
grinds to a halt. I have
been trying to awaken
now for almost two years.

This is what happens
during the early stages
of awakening; things begin
to stop. Almost everything
grinds to a halt. I have
been trying to awaken
now for almost two years.
Look into my eyes.

This is what happens
during the early stages
of awakening; things begin
to stop. Almost everything
grinds to a halt. I have
been trying to awaken
now for almost two years.
Look into my eyes;
are they dead or alive?

Gordon Meade is a Scottish poet based in Fife.
His most recent collection, The Year of the Crab, was published by Cultured Llama Publishing in 2017.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged | Leave a comment

Arlene Antoinette

On Bended Knees

Memory plays
Hide and seek
With your history
Making today
Yesterday
Rearranging yesterday
Into the present

Sanity wants in on the fun
So he uses and abuses you at will
You dress yourself,
A green sock on one foot
A white sock on the other
Left foot in bedroom slippers
Right foot in red pumps

Hunger takes a back seat
To them both
With no memory
Or appetite
Meals consist
Of stale cream crackers
And moldy cheese

Whispers begin
Is grandma okay?
But you don’t hear them
You’re frantic
Searching for your little boy,
Who is now a fifty year old man
Married with three sons
And a daughter of his own

You call the police,
Report a missing child,
Knock on your neighbor’s door
Ask if they’ve seen Davey
Return home
Blame yourself for him running away
Get on your knees
And pray that God will keep him safe.

Copyright © Arlene Antoinette 2018

Arlene Antoinette writes poetry from a broken down folding table which motivates her to keep things brief and a bit off-centered. Additional poetry may be found online in such places as: Sick Lit Magazine, Boston Accent Lit, The Ginger Collect, The Feminine Collective, Foxglove Journal and GirlSense and NonSense.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged | 1 Comment

Stefanie Bennett

LATITUDE    

Santa Rosa was the favoured haunt
In early fall.
My Aunt, grey eyes

Flashing like moon arrows
Sought out
Humming bird and quail – her

Dilapidated camera
Balancing on
Bedrock mortar – the snapshots

Surely a breath
Of yesteryear
Unchanged,

Post-holding postscripts
Coachella bound
And pending.

Later… we drank
The water-flask dry.
A toast

To twin-horned Toro’s spires.
The way it’s done.
Operable. Received.

Copyright © Stefanie Bennett


Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry
and worked with Arts Action For Peace. Of mixed
heritage [Italian,  Irish, Paugussett-Shawnee] she was
born in Queensland, Australia in 1945.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged | Leave a comment

Grant Guy

He Loved His 1956 Ford

He loved his 1956 Ford and hated his father.

His mother went to church every Sunday   She did not believe in God.
She did not until she was on her deathbed.
(Just in case.)

His brother was dead but rode his ass every day.

He could not play hockey very well,
But that’s okay, he did not like hockey.

He stole but hated it when people stole from him.

He had a girlfriend and she had several boyfriends.
He ate his vegetables but preferred Cheese Whiz.

He was seventeen and the best years were behind him.

Copyright © Grant Guy 2018

Grant Guy is a Canadian poet, writer and playwright. He has over 3 books and hundred poems and short stories published internationally.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged | Leave a comment