The trees sway
flowing loosely
where the wind carries them
Me,
I dig my feet in against the gale
till it snaps me asunder
So I land
like a dead leaf
or an acorn
ready to rot,
or to germinate.
What would you do
if they were your only choices?
Would you nourish the compost heap
or become the oak tree?
Even if
the getting there
was slow.
Eileen Neil
Below the great gleaming
Roundel of the moon
Tonight
I see my shadow
Encircled
By light
Eileen Neil
Aubade – an acrostic
Doubting not the day will come
And rebirth the green garden you still
Wonder at the vanishing stars of the
Night sky, the emerging lilac
Shifting to rosy pink
Knowing each moment marks the turning of this huge planet
You bow your head to the dawn
Eileen Neil
Only time will tell
Only for show
Show as it is
Show what will happen
Happen will be
Happen can’t stop
Stop never
Stop start
Start where it begins
Start this way
Way beyond the horizon
Way forward
Forward to enhance
Forward to destiny
Destiny to arrive
Destiny to to the end of time
Time to look
Time is history
History to believe
History should be truth
Truth is a sound
Truth has to be right
Right thinking
Right words
Words are written
Word can mislead
Mislead can corrupt
Mislead isn’t led
Led can be straight
Led can be unruly
Unruly is not forward
Unruly can reverse
Reverse is opposition
Reverse attracts rebels
Rebels invite mutiny
Rebels resist
Resist the whole story
Resist to find the facts
Facts can be lies
Facts can betray
Betray can be denial
Betray can deny
Deny or refuse
Deny it
Refuse
It
Jim Malin
My skin prickles, my eyes glisten
Turning my head, following its trajectory
crab-like it crawls towards the door
following its slithery tail
Out of reach but glinting still
Disappearing round the door
Outside the smack of the sun glares
Unable to focus clearly, I stumble on
Cinnamon, Sandalwood and lime
Assail me urging me on
Candles – she’s made candles
A fine dress, curtains, decoupage and murals
All brilliantly hand-made
Is there nothing she cannot do?
Sprawling down the front of an up-scaled cupboard
Mucha’s resplendent women
stare out triumphant in their beauty
A panoply of skills I do not have
Others look on and ooh and aah
And point and touch
As if that were not enough
Perfect life, perfect children
Perfection?
Slithering, twisting, glinting green
Still I follow
The sun bathes my skin
I feel its sweet caress
Somewhere gentle water ripples
Murmurings from time immemorial
‘Nothing is ever as it seems.’
Celebrate what you can do
And be grateful
Myrna Moore
Seeing the statue of Edward Colston removed in such a dramatic way, last week, felt like poetic justice though I would normally disapprove of daubing, let alone pulling down statues adorning the British landscape. Images of black children, men and women being dumped in the sea during the middle Passage from Africa because they were ill, dying or pregnant, on their way to the greater hell of British slave plantations, are haunting. Once there branded, set to work from sun-up to sun-down. In earlier times chains wrapped round Colston’s neck had created a better narrative.
I was reminded of our trip to Jamaica, August 2013. We were trying to finalise the sale of my parents’ home in Montego Bay.
Dawn comes suddenly in the tropics, like a light being switched on at 6am and switched off again 6.00 pm. A pint of water and a cup of tea is the only way to start the day. The irony of forgetting to bring sugar had not escaped me. I would learn to drink tea without sugar. Showered, mozzy-prepped, we sat to eat a fresh fruit-salad of pineapple, mangoes and guava, followed by toast and coffee on the kitchen veranda. Perfect timing for a pair of iridescent green parrots to swoop across our vista and set up a chat room in the Bread-fruit tree, opposite.
Our appointment with the solicitor would be at 11 am. Dishwasher loaded, water -bottles filled we set off. We would have a look at the town centre, visit the Sam Sharpe memorial.
A pristine sky, turquoise sea glistening between the houses. The warm–bath-air made us scuttle for shelter in the air-conditioned car. From Coral gardens, on down through lush vegetation, past pastel coloured mansions with sweeping verandas, waving to Mum and Dad’s friends sitting on their verandas, shopping villages, private beaches, we followed the signs to Sam Sharpe square. Flowers, benches Georgian buildings and in the middle, seemingly ignored by the locals, 3 figurines cast in bronze. One, Sam Sharpe, holding a bible preaching to an audience. This was supposed to be a hero, a freedom-fighter yet he looked so ordinary. Sham trial followed by execution in the square and buried in obscurity. There would be no hero worship. Fourteen whites were killed; five hundred slaves died. This was the man who led the Christmas Rebellion of 1831, precipitating the end of slavery. The British were fighting abolitionists at home and regular uprisings on the plantations. The promise of massive compensation for the slave-owners finally (completed in 2015) secured freedom.
1838 saw emancipation. British rule continued until 1962. Jamaican Independence arrived Sam Sharpe was remembered. I still think about that low-key image and I wonder why the Jamaican people have not made more of their heroes, like they have with Bob Marley. Maybe surviving the atrocities is its own tribute. Massive outcry for a man who made a fortune from slavery; apathy and shame for a freedom fighter.
Myrna Moore
Paint what you have seen
Telling how it all came about
Let the world know what you mean
Paint what you have seen
They can’t be no in-between
Clean your brush and let it out
Paint what you have seen
Telling how It all came about
Jim Mallin
This triolet relates to an earlier poem by Jim A Picture Shows a Thousand Wounds inspired by a Paul Nash 1918 painting We Are Making a New World.
We Are Making a New World (1918), collection of the Imperial War Museum, London. Artist: Paul Nash
I venture out for my permitted walk.
A tentative glance to the left and right.
Dog walker to the right, all clear to the left.
Decision of direction made, I set off.
Other decisions have already been made,
my world mapped as a patchwork of no-go areas
and permissible paths. Avoid the park, narrow ginnels,
the canal tow path, wide berth to shops and bus stops.
I tread the urban pavements and back streets,
never more than a mile or two from home,
avoiding other humans as if walking through
a leper colony, or crowds of importuning beggars.
My route zig-zags across the empty roads,
To overtake or get past others in my way.
Often a hesitation. Are they crossing? Who’ll move first?
Often a smile, sometimes a wave, a murmured thank you.
As the weeks have passed, mild embarrassment
has given way to a sympathetic recognition.
We’re all in this together, all in the same boat
on a journey of unknown length to an unknown place.
To a future that no doubt will contain echoes of the old ways,
but some lingering habits and lessons of our journey.
In the meantime, we must adjust to a world where
any one of our fellow travellers could be our killer.
Terry Wassall
Defying its heaviness,
the circle face defaults to a water lily
in her withering hand,
a sudden reminder of her father’s pond
trickles forward from childhood.
Through a case of metal and rust,
she’s floating back
to the days when dragonflies danced
on lustrous leaves
and white flowers opened
their waxy mouths to the sky,
every July.
Barbara Lawton
Low in the east,
dawn silvers the taut canvas
of a summering sky
and birds,
attuned to imperceptible clues,
send their song soaring
towards new morn.
No lockdown for them:
they sing where they please
and travel unknown journeys
without guilt or fear
while we huddle here,
embracing our privilege,
latterly stumbled upon,
by virtue of birth year and education.
Suddenly, the sun punches a hole
behind the cherry tree
and a myriad of upward light
sweeps through to greet another day
and I turn, watching you sleep,
wholly grateful for the unplanned eloquence
of the life we’ve created
without really noticing,
till now.
Barbara Lawton
We were set the task of writing an Aubade by our creative writing tutor recently. An
aubade is a poem set at dawn, celebrating or lamenting love.
