Blowing in the wind,
but there are no answers here:
here, where the birds are silent
and the forest keeps its secrets.
A young woman’s body turning gently
in a winter breeze; the creaking branch
from which she hangs; the swollen polyp
of her tongue—what does it mean?
What tribal ritual, what brutal revenge
was enacted here? We may never know….
and the wind can tell us nothing.
Bill Fitzsimons
For days the ocean has unleashed its ire,
a frenzy born of elemental spite –
winds have raged that will not cease or tire
till all’s consumed in endless, blackest night.
The waves break fiercely on the rocks, and spray
flings lacy droplets in the screaming air,
while boats at anchor feel the lash and flay
of water whips – a scene of grim despair.
But in the depths where silence still prevails,
the shark yet glides and seeks the silver ghosts
of fish and other prey, their weaving tails
now teasing. While Poseidon drinks his toasts
to calmness down below, chaos reigns on top,
where banshee winds still wail – and never stop.
Bill Fitzsimons 2012
After 40 years of living in England, my parents retired back to Jamaica, Montego Bay. My father’s routine was to have an early morning walk to experience the sun coming up. On our visit, we joined him and were overwhelmed by the Paradisal beauty and reminders of a brutal past.
Come let we walk
Watch the morning rise
Pulsating Cicadas
drowsy fire- flies
Shrub alive,
last bit a shut eye
Come let we walk
Past Miss Eliot house
Veiled in luminescent grey
Vacant, veranda chair waiting
For occupancy
Come let we walk
Listen to the thud,
thud of mango trees
As fruit roll free
‘Keep away from the gate!’
Too late…
Snarling, growling dogs
Pitch against the gate
Pull against their chains
Setting off a chain reaction
Come let we walk
Middle a the street
Heart a beat
‘gainst rib- cage
Howls real close and distant
Cacophonous
Velvet darkness a drift
Rounded stone building
Looms into view
‘Oh that… the old sugar mill.’
From morn to night,
Witness to
unspeakable suffering
Vestige of another time
Come let we walk
Bells approach,
See man trek with tethered goats
Greet all with toothless smile
Light oozes sprinkling its warmth
Dazzling
Startling light
Come let we walk
See
Amber, lemon, russet
Hibiscus, Lantana, Cordyline and Yucca
Skirting the Mahoe tree
Abuzz with birds and insects
Our eyes feast on
Bejewelled blue fronds
Come let we wait
Iridescent
Shimmering green
Humming -birds
Hover
Flash
Feed
And are gone
Myrna Moore
A day of throbbing heat.
A storm simmers in the raging sky –
a brooding sky.
It swirls and eddies against the coruscating wheat
like a storm wracked sea on rocks.
A wreckers sky.
The promise of forgetfulness
in its depths.
Poised on the edge of change,
which road to take?
To new horizons
or an inescapable dead end?
And the crows, the crows.
They rise as one,
startled by the coming storm.
Their beating wings in counterpoint
to the softly shushing field of amber grain,
the distant growl of thunder.
The turning point.
Impending darkness or impending light.
The choice is yours.
van Gogh shot himself 17 days after painting this scene, in the same field.
Cate Anderson
He was Spanish, the man who served our breakfast.
He looked cool,
in a cool café.
Designer stubble,
Baseball hat backwards on his head.
We found he was to cycle 500 miles
for cancer research
The Indian family
outside the Scottish parliament.
Up from London.
The Fringe was a mystery to them.
Introduced us to his children,
his wife,
his brother,
his wife,
but only the men shook hands.
They were not keen to
walk the Royal Mile,
as we, 40 years older set off
up Arthur’s Seat.
He was Australian,
the man we met as we came down Arthur’s Seat.
He looked like an ageing hippie,
his wife, a comforting granny.
Touring the UK.
So friendly
we couldn’t get away.
Loved our land,
but, so crowded
In the West Bow Pub
on one side
the locals,
Sandy and Martha.
Didn’t mind the Fringe
“If you don’t like it, don’t go to it”,
she said.
Sandy, sat in jumper and thick winter coat,
recommended another pub
me, in my shorts and shirt, nodded.
On the other side
A young Spanish couple.
In struggling English
we conversed.
He and her from
La Coruna
sipped Whisky,
whilst I sipped
my beer.
When they left
seats taken by an older couple
from Morpeth.
Another ageing hippy male
and conservative looking wife.
Is that a ‘thing’?
We shared an interest in music.
Then they surprised us by saying
“We are going on a cruise”.
They just didn’t seem the type.
They both drank Ginger Ale,
I sipped my beer.
Eating chocolate brownies
after the play
She,
beautiful,
an American Dance Therapist
going home the next day.
No train ticket booked.
Shared our thoughts on
England
and the USA.
We had Trump and Johnson
in embarrassing conformity.
All of these conversations
and other shorter ones
were fringe benefits.
They lifted our already
raised spirits.
People talking to each other
from many countries.
From all walks of life.
Not ignoring each other,
not suspicious,
coming together,
sharing.
And all the time
Arthur watched approvingly, from his seat,
the global crowds
scurrying on the cobbled streets beneath,
in his shadow.
Malcolm Henshall [August 2019]
Your eyes sparkle like Spangles.
When life is anything but a Picnic
you are my Turkish Delight.
To see you is a Treat.
I know some times
I come across as a Smartie pants,
but you will always
Boost my mood.
When I need a Time Out
You Wispa in my ear,
“You are my Dream”.
Flaky is my love
but you never Fudge it.
You would run a Marathon,
catch a Double-Decker,
travel to Mars,
via the Milky Way,
to be with me.
You will listen to me whatever
Topic I am Snickering
on about.
I am not a Yorkie
but you have welcomed me
into your Galaxy.
Your love for me
Is Bounty-ful.
It is the Blue Riband of loves.
When I unwrap your silver foil
You become
my selection box of happiness,
my Willy Wonka
Of Desire.
Oh….
Let me into your factory.
Malcolm Henshall – January 2021
That oil painting course I meant to take,
letters unwritten, library books unread,
a special message for a birthday cake,
scores of poems imprisoned in my head.
Those posh dinners that remained uncooked
the room unpapered, the marathon not run,
holidays and theatre trips I didn’t book,
photographs not taken, the diet failed again.
The ends of years are dusted with regrets –
stillborn and stunted things, half formed schemes,
drawers stuffed with forgotten projects,
shapeless thoughts and embryonic dreams.
Time now to sweep them all away –
New Year, new resolutions, another day.
Liz McPherson
Child bending over flowers:
a perfect picture of Pre-Lapsarian
innocence; the product of a painter’s
palette and a yearning for
the simplicities of life
before the long fall from grace.
Oh, child—you do not know,
nor should you, that you,
like the flowers, will fade
and lose your bloom.
Smell the blossoms while you can;
enjoy your short-lived honeymoon.
Bill Fitzsimons
With apologies to Credance Clearwater Revival
I am loup garou, shape – changer, werewolf.
When the full moon silvers the earth,
my bones begin to warp, ligaments crack
and lengthen and my skin furs over.
My jaw twists and groans, a muzzle
thrusts forward and razor-sharp fangs appear.
Soon I am loping through the night,
hunger gnawing at me, blood – lust hammering
in my heart,my brain. Instant death awaits
any prey that I find, teeth tearing
warm flesh, bones crunching, the iron
taste of blood. But … as daylight
floods the forest floor I awaken,
naked and shivering with shame,
and remember that I am a man, not a beast.
I AM NOT A BEAST!
Bill Fitzsimons
Such joy, as the call came
‘Girls who are on drinks duty – off you go!’ –
release from the torment of times tables
spirited skip down the stairs
chattering and laughing.
Here the sanctum staffroom door –
but we swing it open, smacking its stopper with
a free-flowing flourish
to make the teachers teas,
Miss’s milky coffee
Sir’s sugary tea.
Details of the order hidden inside a small panelling door.
On the hob the milk boils
rising and bubbling, puffed up.
Just as it reaches the top
about to break free and burn it’s scorch mark on the world,
up and off, the pan, brandished –
just-in-time.
10 minutes later, drinks made,
the bell clangs,
waltz out to play
with the times tablers.
The teachers arrive
full of their mornings’ fretful endeavours
and how some of them were not fruitful.
They push the door steadily.
It does not bounce but labours.
The drinks are drunk routinely amid
much exclaiming on the inexplicable idiocy
of pupils.
Just as well, the ones who made the drinks
had not ingenuity, luckily,
to make them as unpalatable as
some of the lessons.
The door clicks comfortably
behind the refreshed and mystified Misses and Sirs.
Rosie Cantrell
