Archive of all previous showcases
Edited by Susan Jane Sims
Photograph Winter Cliffs by Chris Sims
The Tay On A Winters Day
Winter brings fresh resources, what fell as snow journeys to
the Falls of Dochart joined by water from the mountains
that surround till the Tay becomes a Salmon river and rushes
to the silver Loch that bares it’s name. From there it enters
Macbeth country and vast armies of ancient trees whisper and
march to the water’s edge in rusty, dusty uniform, a thousand
shades of red and brown in silent commute. There are rapids
and small waterfalls to trap the unwary and you can catch a
glimpse of the mighty fish there as streamlined bodies leave the
river and take for long seconds to the air twisting divers hanging
on invisible wire. Thence on and on across countless unchanging
miles the Clans might be gone but hills and forests still remember
and the seasons still revolve. Aye the sun will rise on the falls and
the coast and once again watch the journey East as the Tay flows.
Andrew Scotson
How Many Leaves?
They lie as fallen stars
fading elegies for lost souls.
How many footsteps
have crushed these once
bright dreams that waved
hello to spring
sang summer rhapsodies
before descending into
muffled winter.
I fail to count leaves
hearing only the crunch
of ghost boots.
Eileen Carney-Hulme
Like Paula Rego’s Woman as Angel
for Sophie Sabbage, 1966-2021, author of ‘The Cancer Whisperer’
‘A very difficult patient,’ claimed your hospital
notes. You were proud of that. Pushing consultants
to the edge of what they thought they knew.
I think of you as Paula Rego’s woman as angel,
sword in hand, long skirt of gold that crackles
round your thighs like thunder.
Weaning you from life was never going to be easy.
Seven years apprenticeship not long enough
for leaving Paradise. You didn’t want endless peace.
You wanted action, wrestling for truth till people
got the smell of musk they’d always been seeking.
I used to envy your myrrh and frankincense,
those wise men who came to you, many offerings.
How strange it is to talk about you in the past
tense. When I heard you’d died, I walked
down narrow country lanes, smelt autumn
in the air, wondered why the sheet over
the dead must be so opaque.
Rosie Jackson
Shared Remembrance
Today we stored your memories
In a shiny proud ancient ceramic urn
We cast your legacy to the centuries
Planted in time’s ever green garden
Blew part of your remains to the east
After watching the surreal smoke
Rise in ancient ritual to hug the mist
In the sad air above the gates of York
We gave your assets to the homeless
As you had tasked us to do in your will
Their warm smiles of gratitude priceless
Shared stories of your deeds over a meal
We prayed & sang your favourite psalm
That your dear spirit may soon be back
As the long day waned into dusk’s calm
At your favourite park by old railway track
Tonight the stars shined brighter
Despite a light evening drizzle’s blurry lens
And the weight of your loss felt lighter
When every pixel of your life made sense
Steven Mwalusi
Homecoming
You feel like an old jersey
I pull on, the lingering
comfort of hot chocolate,
the taste of butter
on a warm piece of bread.
It doesn’t take long
to remember the contours
of your body, the soft slopes
of skin, the parting of lips.
We reach back into
our memories and talk
of the times we’ve spent,
make up for all those days
missed when absence
was forced upon our lives.
Sue Wallace Shaddad
Cut flowers
Here, bright cut flowers
represent raw grief,
silenced by Life’s scythe.
Fresh-scented wood bars
fence in these new fields,
but their scents will fade
and moulder, and decay,
like these flowers.
And yet these rows
represent something
surviving here: speaking
not of what we did
but of how we loved.
We relate to this,
as to the earth
in which
these flowers
grew bright,
though cut…
to represent
dark night.
M. Anne Alexander
Backdrop
A poem for Freya Marie born 14th September 2021
I stitch for you, a throw,
hem it lovingly with yellow
blanket stitch.
It’s soft against your face
and you respond
Your life here has begun,
with threads from all of us
and all who came before
now intertwined.
Your family is a loom
your backdrop for the life
you’ll get to know.
Susan Jane Sims
Graduation
Bareheaded, I don’t have
a black mortar board,
nothing to throw in the air
to mark achieving MA.
I fiddle with button and loop
to secure the yellow hood
draping down my back,
only it slips sideways
when the time comes
to walk across the stage.
Nothing is perfect but still
it’s an occasion to savour
as I did when both of you
passed that rite of passage,
my proud parent moment
when you took the next steps
towards coming adulthood.
And I remember my first degree
so many years ago when
I bowed my head to receive
the blessing of certification.
Little did I know then,
I’d be back in academia
with wisps of white hair,
my memory not what it was
as I put pen to paper,
drawing on the many hats
of a lifetime’s experience.
Sue Wallace-Shaddad
Plague Saint
In Rome, he’s fair-haired Rocco
framed in gold leaf. He holds a pilgrim staff.
His cloak is scarlet, his hose bright blue.
On his head, a jaunty hat.
In Spain, he’s known as Roque.
He looks out, pallid, haughty
his greyhound at his feet.
In his hand, a loaf of bread.
In France, they call him Roche.
Eyes haunted, coquettish, almost boastful,
he points at a pustule on his white knee.
An angel floats nearby.
In Ireland, he’s named Roch.
In stone, he stands atop an altar,
Small dark silhouette. He flickers
in flames from votive candles
Perhaps it’s fitting in a plague
The designated saint is a shape-shifter
flowing effortless across borders.
Susan Castillo-Street
Neighbours
Over the fence his head goes
boing boing boing. Ben, my next-door neighbour
nine years old, on his trampoline.
Near us, sirens wail. A hospital’s nearby.
Ben waves and grins. I say, Hi neighbour.
He’s good at many things.
When food was hard to get
his mum would go out to the shops
and bring us things. She’s teaching him at home.
We’d get a bill from Ben, artist-accountant,
with rows of sums, drawings of ice cream,
suns, apples, smiley faces.
Susan Castillo – Street
