All We All Want
I, I want to be open
But I, don't want to be a door
And you walk out of it.
I, I want to be equal
But I, don't want to be some math
that you calculate.
We all want to be adored
For all the things that we're ignored for
We want to fall asleep and then die.
Well I, I want to be your full house
But I, don't want to be a hand
That you use to play.
And I, I want to be awesome
But I, don't want to be some ore
That you excavate.
We all want to be adored
For all the things that we're ignored for
We want to live the dream before we die.
Ade Crossan
Back the Strand
For John B Keane at 70
Back the strand I have walked
between the remnants of bagged up pups
Bright blossoms of anemone
and washed back sheep's gut
A leveret has sprung
from where my foot would tread
Hesitant past a saint tombed isle
Archipelago of the dead
Distant bells have voiced their call
consecrating the wind torn hills
Over cloud chased Coomanaspig
curlews answered shrill
This path rising to a jagged grin
where moon and earth meet sun and sky
In the long grass there to listen
amongst shell and sea song I will lie
Brendan O’Neill
Burren
In Memoriam John Prine
I have harvested enchantment
in fields of stone
Under the shrill protest
of small wild birds
gathered shadows of dead heroes
into creels of bone
I have heard the laments
of childless women crowd
through dead forests
Traced the scrawl where bony fingers
picked out each patchwork rut and row
A bright mist shrouds
their faces. Gentle
the trickle of their tears
Remembering each flawed caress
nurturing cut flowers
Urging dormant seeds to grow
from ancient fissures
Brendan O’Neill
Carousel
Ashes and dust between my toes
I must travel again this broken road
Peering through windows of burnt out houses
Shocked out shells and basket cases
Searching for you amongst the jumble
Of truth and love, lie and fumble
Crowding through Mammon’s churches
Alone, amongst the painted faces
Grasping hands of well met friends
Wishing for their words to end
Hearing only distant voices
Whispers on the wind
Of circus acts, the carousel
That brings me on this trip through hell
Puts fragile hopes in broken slivers
Reflections drawn from heart shaped mirrors
An ill wind blows me in full sail
Past Reason’s Rock towards betrayal
Voiceless angers, snares of self
Cut glass peril, cut price Delph
Sleepless still talking
I’m tracing the fault lines
Through famined fields to tables of plenty
Walking on and crying gently
Drunk and stupid with despair
Knowing you cannot be where
I have placed you in my heart
Dislocated journey’s start
Signposts point to different routes
Clapped out lies and nascent truths
Hope’s a tramp up in the distance
But she won’t be offering assistance
Clowns surround me at way-station
Dicing only for frustration
A riddle on a gangsters collar
Red eyed dawn and bottom dollar
Winding up the backwards clock
Still reeling from the aftershock
Of Cupid with a rocket launcher
Quarter none, just hopeless slaughter
Homely bars then make the cage
Where I subdue unreasoned rage
Suspending my bad attitude
In contemplative solitude
Love’s a solitary confinement
When axes shift to realignment
Fallen angels lie in the clay
And I must wake another day
Ashes and dust between my toes
I’ll walk again this broken road
Brendan O’Neill
A Christmas Star
I filter autumn's blackberry brandy,
From wine bottle to brandy bottle.
I need to make sure it's OK.
It's OK.
Through the darkness I see a Christmas Star,
Which could be the Star of Bethlehem,
Which shouldn't be appearing until tonight;
But I doubt I will see it then,
As it looks as though it will be cloudy...
Jupiter and Saturn will be hiding from me.
I note that along with the blackberries,
There's still a wee bit of blackberry brandy left in the wine bottle;
So being such a good housekeeper,
I better test that out as well.
Yes that's OK as well.
Definitely OK.
The Christmas Star reveals itself to me,
As the light on the Wii games consul,
Shining through the darkness.
But it will do,
It will definitely do.
I have to go now,
As the guinea pigs are squeaking,
Demanding their morning carrot...
They need their fix as well.
Andy Hider 21-12-2020 6am
Bird life
Across the green wastes, numerous birds are waking up;
Whistles, cries and chirrups can be heard across the city’s expanse;
Distant gulls scream mawkishly from treetops, roofs and chimney pots;
Smaller birds maybe blackbirds sound the reveille;
Geese honk, on their journey across the sky, imagined by me,
with their necks extended;
A clamour of whitters and peewits;
My mind goes back to Blakeney Marsh,
Where in the incandescent glow of red light,
Hundreds of birds find refuge in the reed beds;
Gathering at night to reach the sheltered roosts;
Multitudes of them,
Flocking from distant trajectories;
Heading for the comfort on the environs;
Magnificent and memorable
Judith Fleetwood Walker
Jelly, Jam and Buttered Toast
Jelly, Jam and Buttered Toast
I like breakfast food the most
Bagels, Cream cheese
Juices, freshly squeezed, make me say
‘Pass more here please’
Lunch will often make me mutter
I am not fond of peanut butter
I hate chips that wont go crunch
Truly I do not like lunch
Now dinner is another meal
I’ll take or leave that’s how I feel
There’s always veggies I can’t stand
I have to eat them on demand
If I could choose to have my way
Well I would eat Breakfast
All day long
Katherine Skinner
Canonhill Park-next instalment.
We leap through the opening- the back entrance.
Into the park with our trolley.
It is to be a visit on the way to Aldi,
My breath is bated.
In rapturous awe of what we are about to behold.
And there they are, a floor of pink rhododendrons!
They look as though they have been poured copiously over the bushes,
From a height.
As though God has emptied a bucket of them right over , cascading and dripping with colour!
They are saturated with viscous streams of bright flowers!
A virtual whirlpool of gaudiness,
And as we walked and peered this way and that,
in droplets all over the park,
A liquid tsunami of brightness!
A vivid red end of the spectrum-
And we are drowning in them!
Judith Fleetwood Walker
Choice
Today, I smiled.
Today I realised I took back hold of the pen.
Today, you no longer have coercive control; oh no not again.
When I was born, I was your piece of paper, you both had hold of that pen.
You wrote your toxicity, over and over again.
You left me with childhood trauma, do I need to tell you that again?
Today, I smiled.
Today I realised... I am braver.
Today I realised... I am stronger.
Today I realised... I will never become a carbon copy of you.
Because today I realised, I am smarter.
I can add more paper; I can create a book.
About the child who raised themself from the fire and ended the cycle of abuse.
But instead, I will use your toxicity and continue to publish books.
Elliot Emerson (Indie Author)
She Comes in Dreams (for Pat)
In the mist-spun murmurations
of my subliminal cafe,
Walls are calm as pastels
ambiance warm as sunflowers
and popsicle shaped chairs
host mint green cushions,
where dream catchers hold colour
like dazzling tiffany glass
painted on table tops of pearled linen.
You appear on scents of hyacinth and lilies,
we sit contented in easy laughter
and spoonfuls of secret memories.
She comes to me in dreams
and finds her resting place within.
Elaine Christie
Choice or no choice
We must tell you we are experiencing a high volume of calls right now.
If you want the department of pensions, press 1,
If you are enquiring about a letter press 2,
If you are enquiring about procedure press 3
If you have a private pension and are enquiring about it, please press 4,
If you would like to talk to an operator, please hold.
Loud Chopin.
We need to inform you this call is being monitored for surveillance purposes,
We must inform you, that you are being held in a queue, and you are caller number 8
Loud Chopin.
If you are ringing and maybe can use the internet, please contact us on www.pensions.org
We must inform you that you are being held in a queue, and you are caller number 7.
Loud Chopin.
If you would like to talk to an operator please hold.
Loud Chopin.
Because we are very busy, please leave a voice message, after the tone, stating your name and telephone number and we will get back to you or
Contact us on www.pensions.org
Judith Fleetwood Walker
Crowbar
Chance in the safe
and the strain is to break
All the pieces of dirt
that clog up the hinges of
Time in the stew
and the meat passing through
All he kitchens process
the fat that we chew off the
Bones
That we have to pick with you
it has shown
All the glitter and glint
but it's a crowbar
That prises the screw
off the spinning top fuelled
By the wave that you make
a riptide that's cruel
Enough of the glue
that just keeps me from you
Are a mirror that's fed
with trifles and neglecting the
Soul
That you wear on through and through
it betroths
All the sinning and saints
but it's a crowbar.
Ade Crossan
Tis a Cold Winter’s Morning
‘Tis a cold winter’s morning that greets the eye
Shrouded in hazy mist
I plod on without a sigh
As the foggy mist sets adrift
The damp soil makes for easy work
Tending my plot with spade and fork
‘Tis indeed a labour’s love I toil
Digging and turning the soil
Pausing I spot a fleeting visitor
With a chest of orange red colour
Perched upon a sapling bough
He’s come to watch me plough
And though wintery days are short
I’m filled with festive thought
Oh what joy when work is such play
For the robin has joined me today!
Eugene Egan
Seeds
The tanzanite sweater that matched Dad’s
knitted lovingly by Mom.
Awkward legs feel heavy
and move oddly in these red shoes.
The branded cattle path, that sand-shifts
through peridot gem fields,
molten copper kissing infinite topaz.
Dad paused by drystone
lifted me castle high,
saying “Look at the harebells”
I sought rabbits in riffs of blue violets,
unaware of the five-pointed star.
I imagined under tongue ferns,
hid mischievous bogarts and goblins.
Watched tufts of cotton grass, sift and snag,
these were feathers of a broken angel
who carelessly slipped from the clouds.
Stripping stalks of downy grain,
satisfied at their crumbling
wind blown dream-seeds, sprinkle from fingers.
Glorious scent of hay bales
dragon breath tamed and rolled.
Mother Earths amber eyes or
Rumpelstiltskin’s wheels of gold.
The metal ting-tap of my shoes on railings
hesitating - I return to firmer footing,
a spectre tinselled in lame threads,
alchemy’s sulphur and brairy spell.
Dad showed me how to feed him,
picking meadowland,
rolling my palm out flat,
a tender touch -
wonderstruck by my first horse.
Elaine Christie
Geese
There were still trees
Surrounded by drinking geese
We saw a rope
Is there hope?
The yellow daffodils welcome spring
With enjoyment we sing
We see the shy white egret
Now there is no regret
ujjayini choudhury
Freedom and The Bridge
Rain on the roof at 3am.
The muffled scream of distant sirens and wind through the open window.
Was there ever a lonelier time, I wondered. Lying in the dark and stillness with the wolves circling. I thought the rain would never end that night, although I knew it would, or at least transform into something else.
I’m not sure if I’d got tired of it all or was just plain exhausted, but at some point I decided to do things differently; stop evading and deflecting. The times I’d done that. Crossed off the days and trodden water. In retrospect it’s such a short-sighted approach. Side stepping circumstances gets you nowhere and it certainly won’t lead you to freedom. And, boy, I’m a hell of a lot more fun since I decided to be free.
And then it was early 2021. The song, however, was from 1994. There was a girl and a bridge and a news report which was broadcast as a radio appeal to the public for information on said wandering girl. Fragments of facts merged with imagination, resulting in a creative explosion, at least in my eyes. We’ve history; that song and me.
In real time, there was a girl and a bench and a world in pandemic, daily rhetoric, personal challenges and whatever else decided to show up unannounced, as was the nature of the time. The sun on my face, sultry swaying branches and the green gold hues of the grass carpet all around, just as dusk was falling and wrapping the day in half light.
A tiny corner of the world I managed to find that afternoon, when the rest of the planet was fading in and out of itself and reality was being pelted with curveballs.
I wonder what it was about that song at that time; why I found it, or it me. I think about that girl found wandering on the Severn Bridge; shoeless, mute and lost and what lead her there. I recall, at the time, the loud noise and bright lights of my own world, so maybe there was a mirroring of her life with mine and an affinity due to a sense of chaos for us both.
But, regardless of what brought us together, that afternoon I just needed my head to be in that place.
And so, I dived into the music. I sat on that bench, turned my face to the sun and closed my eyes. I dived as if it were my final listen, and I dived deep. As I do when I need perspective or to navigate, when I want to run away or run towards, when I feel too much or think I don’t feel enough; when I can’t figure out what I feel, or if, or why…or those times when there’s doubt or a sense of floating away. Or just when I’m having a tough time residing in myself. And some days it tranquillises, some days it lifts or inspires; igniting something that radiates. Some days it’s that familiar thing to turn to or escape to, to hold or be held by.
I might have turned to this song a hundred times for refuge, and scores of others over the years. You see, deciding to be free didn’t dissipate the anxiety, expel doubt, or alter my hard wiring. And just because I talk about freedom doesn’t mean I’ve a detailed plan or grasp of what it looks like. For me, it’s a sense of space and the absence of constraint; an illusive concept really and maybe more a process than a destination.
I still remember that night with the rain in the dark, and others like it, but now they’re more like a bunch of meetings with old friends I’d rather forget than potential triggers or landmines.
Because I changed and grew. Realised emotions pass. Fear disintegrates and night becomes day. I know it really helps to remember this.
The bench is still there, sat in the neatly kept garden on paving slabs with a birch tree hanging over. It’s one of my favourite spots. And the songs are a constant; making up the patchwork soundtrack to my life. Humming along with their bouncing melodies and breathing life into words.
Valerie Theay
Happiness Recipe
2 heaped cups of patience
1 heart full of love
2 hands full of generosity
A dash of laughter
1 head full of understanding
Sprinkle generously
With kindness
And plenty of faith
And mix well
Spread over a period of a lifetime
And serve everyone you meet with love
Katherine Skinner
Harborne walkway
There’s a hidden place, a forgotten world
Between the houses, a mirage of light and shade
High and low paths, straight lines and steps
Watery valleys and high tracks
Echoes of an old railway with dark tunnels,
Now a roost for bats, with spooky spider webs
There’s a wildlife sanctuary behind a fence
And intriguing plants with mushrooms on trees and lacy moss
Amid a carpet of fragrant garlic, a flower exploding with taste
Bluey green stones can be dug up and treasured
You can stroll along but does it lead anywhere?
There’s rumours that it did once serve a useful purpose
but now it’s best for dreaming and escape
Away from the busy world
Based on words gathered from a Mindful walk group
By Cathy Crossley for Arts All Over The Place
April 21
In Highbury Park on a day of four seasons
With sunshine and bright blue sky, followed by clouds and hiding from the hail
We walked past colourful bunting and crochet circles, crafty and decorative.
On the spring equinox tunnel
Heading for the orchard there was a place to leave wishes.
The wind chimes, dancing and dazzling in the breeze
Along with daffodils giving a real sight of spring
With parakeets in the trees and the chance for a social chat
We were grateful to look at others in real life
And safely and therapeutically gather together
This is a Bohemian, hippy park
and we left the happier for the visit.
A group poem, curated by Cathy Crossley for Arts All Over The Place
Hollow
It’s the permanent flux of polar nights,
ceaseless wind rises
stroking away footnotes of snowshoe hares,
hidden in a gauntlet of scrub.
It’s the Snowy Owl
Grigori warrior on a knuckle dusted dune,
tomahawk raptor in a frozen papoose.
Watcher angel with gimlet eyes
her barcodes are counted sorrows,
scripted poems on parchment.
On haunting pipe sounds of the Chinook,
in the upward rush she extends her wings,
is swept softly by distance,
till just the wind remains.
Elaine C Christie
Invocation
Just as the fly
she too
had expended time
flickering her wings
merely to be left
relinquished
entrapped in the webs around her.
Held
disturbed
of what exists
lying in wait,
her mind spun
in analysis paralysis
wholly tangled up
in time.
In her despair
she whispered
a plea
invoking
her escape
nevertheless
came the spider
who sat down
beside her
confided
in her ear
and
with a little tear
crept down
inside her
evoking
forth its power.
Channelling
through
metamorphosis
her essence
shapeshifting
eyes
gaining clarity
and
like the shattering
of glass
the veil of
illusion
disintegrates
before her.
Gazing inward
she saw her
fly-like self
imbued
in a vast
interconnected
pattern
of energies
an etheric web
of geometrical design
connecting
all elements of life.
A changed
perception
she altered her web
with
gratification
an architect
of her own
she spun
harmoniously
bridge-lines
switching
connecting
in sync
with
all that ever was
all that is
and all
that is yet
to come
By Melissa Walters
Follow me on Facebook and Instagram @Melissawalterspoetry
You are not alone
Every inch of you is waiting to get out of your body.
Thoughts bubble up to the surface,
Crossing the boundaries,
Willing from your very soul.
Clear of contaminant.
Whether you have won a game of cricket,
Or won a medal,
Or completed a long journey,
At this moment in time, you are not alone.
Judith Fleetwood Walker
If Love
If love could break dark
I would hope for my first
Whim to be a hopeless night
Time of spark-less void.
To me you are the brightest thing
A quasar of light
Energising me.
To me you are an event horizon
Swallows all of me
Brings about rebirth.
If love could erase past
My life would be painted black
With hot coals and broken hour
Glass and hells ash.
To me you are the desert sands
Filling all my time
Making canvass blank.
To me you are the start of all
First morning of light
The only hand to hold.
Ade Crossan
A Street’s Life
Frogs Jumping on lily pads
Butterflies fluttering about
So many different colours are seen
A cat in the garden having a wash
Teasing next doors dog
He starts to bark so the owner calls him in
Holiday time for the schools
Kids out in the garden sun is really hot today
So splashing in the pool to keep them cool
Neighbours chatting over the fence
Talking about their day
Daughter rings her mum to say wedding back on
The old lady watering the flowers
Then on to the brown grass
Her other half calls her in tea and biscuits are waiting for her
A couple just got in from walking put on the oven
Then have a nice sit down
Once temperature is right dinner goes
Thirty minutes later all plated up then time to tuck in
Afterwards desert time strawberries and cream
Then on the sofa together watching a film
Till light switch off the time for bed
Jason Feasey
Love
There was a time in life
That I never loved anyone
Being let down time after time
But one day that all changed
That was when you walked my way
You came into my life you were there
You listened to me where no one had before
You sat there for many hours
You decided not to walk away
Now the battles in my life I no longer fight them alone
The reason why is because you have come into my life
I am now at a time in life
Where it is the happiest, I have been
I thank you for all the love you shown
It makes me feel so good so there are three words left to say
I Love You
Jason Feasey
Our Changed World
How sad our world has changed so quick
Because Covid 19 made it very sick
Businesses closed,
Pubs, Coffee shops too
No where to go, very little to do
Shopping not nice, only food you can buy
Please Dear Lord, take it away
For it’s made me
Cry
Kathy April 21
Kai
He's fearless, bold, captivating, sincere, innocent, energetic, extrovert and 6 years old,
my grandson, thinking of him or glancing at his photograph, brings a smile,
his life, unplanned adventures, opportunities to display talents and convert strangers to comrades.
Curtail the expense of innocent unproductive energies, direct them to formal expressions of talent,
allow them to grow as you grow by investing in that which otherwise slips away like sand,
for I have ridden the crazy mad white horse, distributing energies to the four winds - what a rush!
You see a world of colour prior to the application of labels, which arouse and fan prejudices,
innocently navigating the world without infection, seeing potential until you are infected,
education also has capacity to divest and mould, producing manageable fodder.
Knowledge is a vital ingredient, seldom freely acquired, measure the cost of acquisition,
your energies are gnawing at the bit, you must be their master, not they yours,
is it possible to put an old head on new shoulders, accumulative opinion says no – pity!
Must you exchange your captivating characteristics for: fearful, disciplined, corrupted, caged,
polluted, lethargic, introvert and disabled, the price is too high, the cost outweighs the return,
don't broadcast opinions for what is wild is tamed, play your cards close to your chest.
Joe Duffy