poetry

by

Fish

Once a fish,
stressed by the surging seas,
took it upon herself
to flee to the depths.

She turned her head earthwards
and flashed her silken fins
toward the diminishing light
where unfamiliar things
hovered in the gloom.

Weak in the current
she drifted to a rocky place
where danger dwelt.
Bigger creatures with wide mouths
searched for the small fry.

She lingered in the shelter
of that hard face and

snap

before she knew it
she was gone.

by

Winter Beach

Shall we go to the edge of the land?
Have the wind slap at us,
the spray salt our faces,
and the sea freeze our feet?

We’ll get wet rumps
from perching on damp rocks
while we peer in pools
and watch shelled creatures
who dwell there in their silence.

We can shout and scream
And no one will hear us
above the sound
of the angry surf.

We can run on the sand
with the freedom of bare soles
then drink lukewarm tea
from a flask
as we watch the sea
eat the sun.

*Photograph – Dunraven Beach, Wales, 1st February, 2025

by

Today I will Write

Today I will write.
I will not believe housework
is more urgent.
I will ignore the ironing.

I will not notice the birds
in the garden searching for food
in the sun.
I will not stop to eat.
I will be focussed on my craft.

I will not remember
that I have forgotten
to water the plants.
I will not remember
that I need to pay that bill. Today.

I will not feel uncomfortable,
Frumpy,
Hot, or cold,
and need to change my clothes.
Nor will I waste my time
inspecting the mirror
to try and find a mature pensmith.
(or waste even more time
attempting to tame the old woman’s hair).

Today I will be inspired.
Today I will be focussed.
Today I will write.

But first
I need a cup of tea.

And maybe some cake.

by

Fun? Fair?

Chewing on sticky candy floss
I watched Dad and his five fiery brothers
get drawn to the Wall of Death.

They went in.
Ready to die.

Mum and me watched from the balcony,
spun sugar sticking my lips.

We saw the spinning drum accelerate,
heard the heavy rumble,
as the floor fell away.

Centrifugal force stuck the puppets
to the wall
and left them magically hanging,
limp with broken strings,
and silent screams.

Soon the drum slowed.
Their feet touched the muddied ground,
and they spun their way out
with staggering bravado.

They didn’t die.

My candyfloss almost gone, I watched
my youngest uncle vomit
a pool of blush.

Then, with my hook,
I won a golden fish.

by

Poets Silenced

The Poets are silent today.
Nothing left to say.
No clever arrows
released above the world,
dropping truths
into troughs of expectation.

Not even the laureates with
their liquid pens
can find the flow
to describe the suffering
that distant butterfly creates
as he fans the flames of chaos.

Yes, the poets are silent today.
Their pages unsullied
as their gaze falters,
and their mighty hands
lie motionless
at the sound of distant fire.