Wednesday, 12 March 2014


After mopping the fruit shed floor

I wonder how much of life
is pushing round piles of dirt
for them to blow back.

by Ella Borrie

Burning With Tired

The shadow man thinks
On machines past and present
Has another drink
Angelic music
An all-species nocturne worm
Half-sleep vandalism
Etches on paper
Bored gulls flying in the sky
Crossed words and scared crows
The assassin drinks
Intoxicated by night
Not a thirsty merc
Happy book burner
Writing something obsessive
One side of the page
At solar eclipse
A crowd gathers, observes, cheers
Hail the eaten sun
Explosions at night
Never really liked fireworks
Smoky tomorrow
Kanji characters
Lazy Anglo-Saxon man
Beauty in sleep too
Hirosaki sun
The thought is unbearable
These days hot enough
I will not pretend
To understand a language
I can barely speak
Education, dust,
Strained muscles, tired brain, weak age
I think I’m too late
But how old are you?
I nearly laughed when she said
I look twenty four

by Campbell Calverley

Pearls of Hyde

Begging a threat to demise
Getting too wet in her eyes
She’s just not set to get better
Not yet
But yet she still tries
Until her will dies
Or kills this ill feeling
She will not survive
Worse yet not even alive in this world
No returns for the wicked
She’s got more burns and she’s sick
She turns and learns that the feeling is echoes dying not healing
Nostalgia burns but still breathing
Breaking this Jekyllish feeling
Making more messes and stealing time from divine signs to help
Her cursed parents still reeling
From first drives to the shrine
The gate just lying on its side
No knowledge open to hide
A sign of fabric unfurled
A whole new magical world
For girls like her and their pearls
Of wisdom, Hyde and turns of myths and pages held by a crutch
A foreign power-seeking sage has got her thinking too much
Making her sour in an age of building minds over guts
No monster from the lion cage could make its silence corrupt
Leviathan hides in the foliage but the chimera winks
From tired holy bridge to camera the flatliner sinks
She thinks of shrinking but the ether makes the ambience stink
Dramming the man up so hatter mad even the Cheshire cat blinks
Shinto messenger passenger darkly blessing her essence
Messing with matters bad are pressing down and breaking deliverance
Taking a millionth frown and crushing it
Feeling flushed from the rush of it
Stealing much on the cusp of a worse koan
The floodgates burst open
She’s choking
Stained glass
The rhythmic souls pass
Predicate holds
Letting it go
Saying it so
Praying for snow
Taking a hold on fast powers
Freezing cold in her last hours
Running on empty through the clouds
Window of shrouds
Tender soul towns

by Campbell Calverley

The Pastor

Compassionate cry fit for fire
to strike from heaven and consume
the congregation; discard it, immolated,
and lay charred and bare the old bedroom.
An anguished minute passes and he finds
that he's a lot less like Elijah
and more like Moses:
feeling foolish,
asking stones for water;
more like Peter:
stepping out of the boat,

by Giles Graham


They drift in the breeze
Bright petals swaying to a golden-yellow melody
Their fair hews blend together as one
Ones garden becomes a ray of sunlight, in dance
Moving to and fro with Mother Natures breath
In her bosom they rock
Their colours a precious gem, alive and unclaimable
Their sight like honey for the spirit
Their growth a gift from the soil, given freely and with joy
Beloved Dandelion

by Rory Herd

The Wizard’s Garden

Upon a sky-flung hill, in the arms of mountains tall and white,

The world goes by

Rich grass rolls ever onward, where feet rarely tread

From which bright flowers sway to and fro 
Caressed by a passing breeze

Clouds sail over them On High,
Their shadows traverse the land below
Gliding across the fields, soft and silent

Sunlight bathes the earth

Captured as bright jewels in small streams
That wink and dance in the vibrant waters

They run down to small lakes, clear and smooth,
A perfect mirror of the vast blue, and white nomads ever adrift
Where lone islands of natural hues rise above the surface

The streams gather before a cottage, lax and quaint
With windows gazing out in contemplation

Drinking in the lofty vastness, through lucid eyes

Its water-wheel similarly oblige the tarn at its feet

Lapping softly with each passing day-dream
Nestled in green, amid a tranquil tide of wind and light

All is warm, and still

by Rory Herd

No comments:

Post a Comment