Archive of all previous showcases
Edited by Susan Jane Sims
Photograph by Chris Sims
A Bag-For-Life’s Prayer
Next time…
will be Antarctica:
filching krill from beneath the nose
of a humped-back whale
in the brilliantine waters
where Adelie pirouette the sun’s low rays
and starfish gather for their chorus.
Next time will be the Amazon,
gathering strange fruit
from reticent men
who know to keep secrets
close as dirt beneath their nails and skin;
the breath of ancestors.
Next time will be
sketchbooks and brushes
lugged up an alpine slope;
and the far-down lake exultant
in the song of mountains
all crowded round for a look.
Next time will be
the desperate bread, hauled
across arid wastes for hungry lips
cracked with sun and war;
where politicians talk like distant thunder
that doesn’t bring the rain.
Next time will be a pic-nic
beside some stream
where cattle crud themselves to dozey
and the world is all a-hum
with bees and laughter
and the days that remain.
Next time…
will not be Tesco.
Gareth Alun Roberts (UK)
Time’s Prayer
Wait for me
although I may stray
down unused paths – unravelled, entangled –
to dead ends that tread back
on your footsteps
Wait for me
all through the long days
when it seems I’ve forsaken you
to stilled islands
that the streams pass by
Wait for me
in the empty hallways of the night
even though I am lost to shadows
of all the grim statuary
that beset you
Wait for me
beyond the grassy mounds
where strange light lingers
by a river
I cannot cross
Wait for me
Gareth Alun Roberts (UK)
The thaw
With the thaw, this rosebud,
flesh-pink, silken, responds
to my touch with soft scents.
She has survived, so far,
though tears stream
from opened pores,
shining in the white sun.
Snowdrops raise proud heads
and catkins swing from trees
as if sure of surviving …
Have they not seen?
Can they not foresee
the snow moon,
coming soon?
M. Anne Alexander (UK)
A time for silence
There is a time for silence
as we peer at smartphones,
barely aware that we flash
through blackened tunnels,
past blank backs of houses
and industrial units,
past damp, dark remains of
buddleia and brambles,
and of grim skeletal trees,
chopped raw to allow trains
to move travellers on into this
present time, when we alight,
out into other scenes,
where other lives are led.
M.Anne Alexander (UK)
My Sister’s Painting
Permanent makes me think of only one
the sky being so gray
for simultaneous seasons
by color: green, rust, white, brown
separated by fields, weeds, autumn shrub-trees
the perfect randomness
the diaphanous house
the vanishing paint
displaced into its vaporizing
running random fence, the still river
bending weeds, bare elm trees,
the rust we consider finished and fine.
Rustin Larson (USA)
Grayson is a Gravity Cat
with apologies to T.S. Eliot
Symphony of assistance
‘Fabulous eggs by fabulous birds’
I saw this, looked for more delight
or encouragement!
‘visual communications’
yes, this motorway has plenty
‘Discovery’
that’s what we need
‘challenge’
there’s plenty of that in our world today
‘blind spot take care’
yes, we’ve all got blind spots!
‘download the App’
will this help or hinder?
‘topspec decoration’
I’d like that
‘Doors that do more’
do they open on a new day
or show us the way?
‘Saints – urgent air freight’
Perhaps this is what we’re looking for?
‘everyday life made easier’
or this?
‘no hard shoulder’
Don’t cold shoulder me!
‘Enterprise’
thank you, I’ll have some of that.
‘Fabulous eggs by fabulous birds’
I still haven’t found these
breakfast delights!
Judy Dinnen (UK)
He let it go
‘A friend in need’
That’s how he described it.
An accidental introduction,
A long term alliance.
At first, helpful, supportive, stylish,
In time, demanding, intense, addictive.
It clung to him, tentacles squeezing,
blocking vital pathways,
He tried to let it go,
Desire tightened the hold.
Just as dependence seemed forever,
A lesson from his child,
She stood over him and cried,
“Daddy,you’ll die of crab cancer!”
There was a pause, a silence.
He sat up; in his hand a full pack of the poisonous weed,
He threw it in the fire .
In an instant, it reduced to ash.
A twenty-year relationship, broken,
He finally let it go.
Leela Gautam (UK)
He let go
for Mark
of
dashing young doctor
rugby player
silver motor cycle rider
He let go of
bridegroom, dad, uncle
He let go of dreams
He let go of carefree days
He let go of routine
He let go of security
Hope, he played with
bounced it
threw it in the air
and caught it
passed it from hand to hand
until it evaded his grasp and
rolled away
Susan Jane Sims
