We're finally coming out of winter! So it seems a good moment to publish those final poems considering the theme of Light & Dark. This one has kept the campfires burning here since before Christmas and I've really enjoyed the way that it's twisted and turned around different interpretations of what these oldest of companions represent...
There are some really varied responses below - one or two will soothe you; one or two may shock too! Feel free to post your reactions in the comment sections below each poem. If you have any other feedback, drop us a message in a bottle at step@fridaysfootprint.com - we're now inviting last minute submissions on the theme of "Love" as well as our next theme which is "Pen in Cheek" (keyboard seemed like a squeeze), inviting humorous takes on any subject.
Sorry to miss our schedule again which is nominally the first Friday of every month - we should be on target for some Lurve poetry by Friday 2nd March.
Friday, 17 February 2012
Euclid
Euclid
I was standing in the dark harbour car park
waiting on a lift and I saw the lights of the town,
radiating - foreign boats floated in pools of liquid gold.
I could see the buoy lights out to sea, I'd been taught not to urge
for green lights or any coloured lights for that matter because
they shone for sailors and they did not shine for me.
The night was vibrant to the open eye. Pulling out beside me
was a four-seater saloon, with headlamps which searched forward
into the black; a silent family sat in the darkness of its leather interior.
Across the road, following a torch beam,
a young man and woman walked reluctantly forward
and smiled as they stole glimpses of each other,
illumed for just seconds.
A second of a flat-soled shoe, a second of battered sneakers -
Oh God how they longed for more.
"Get in, get in," my ride had arrived, "where are we going?"
I looked for my driver, a friend for ages.
"Somewhere we can see our hands in front of our faces."
We smiled for a moment, "The chippie it is."
by Joshua Bougourd
I was standing in the dark harbour car park
waiting on a lift and I saw the lights of the town,
radiating - foreign boats floated in pools of liquid gold.
I could see the buoy lights out to sea, I'd been taught not to urge
for green lights or any coloured lights for that matter because
they shone for sailors and they did not shine for me.
The night was vibrant to the open eye. Pulling out beside me
was a four-seater saloon, with headlamps which searched forward
into the black; a silent family sat in the darkness of its leather interior.
Across the road, following a torch beam,
a young man and woman walked reluctantly forward
and smiled as they stole glimpses of each other,
illumed for just seconds.
A second of a flat-soled shoe, a second of battered sneakers -
Oh God how they longed for more.
"Get in, get in," my ride had arrived, "where are we going?"
I looked for my driver, a friend for ages.
"Somewhere we can see our hands in front of our faces."
We smiled for a moment, "The chippie it is."
by Joshua Bougourd
Burn Bright
Burn Bright
I walked in procession along a way
Overgrown with weeds, long forgotten by others.
I walked over the grey granite cobblestones
Placed crudely together in a faint
Semblance of a line. The tendrils of
Darkness tried to hinder my advance, but
I strode firmly on. My white robe protected
Me from evil, repulsed the flagellae
Of immorality and eradicated
My doubts. This was right.
My valiant white second skin, thick with
Justice, gently billowed in the breeze as
I strode along this path. The man in front,
Encased in his white robe, walked with confidence.
A coyote shrieked in the distance. Vultures
Waited in the trees. The man in front turned
And glared at me, through his mask of righteousness.
“Initiate, do your duty.” His voice
Echoed steadfastly around the farm. It
Was time to rejoice.
Approaching the cross, the black, sooty cross,
I held a taper out, dragged it over
A rough surface and held it to the sign.
It erupted in brilliant white, the
Glorious saviour white! Singeing the black
Wood and cleansing the captive cross
From the iniquitous enthrals of black. A farmer,
With black corrupting skin, shuffled
Unceremoniously into the
Radiant light.
My white hat, pointing to Jesus the saviour,
Moved as one with my body. I took off
My boots, feeling the white, innocent, grass
Penetrating my toes. I felt invincible
And stared at the farmer as he fled into
His black-bricked building. Another friend
Approached and handed me a sack. I stood back
From the purifying cross and ingested
The bloody glitter from the communal bag. Then,
As I saw Lucy glowing white in the Sky,
My soul began to burn vibrantly,
Brighter than ever before.
by Jack Colley
I walked in procession along a way
Overgrown with weeds, long forgotten by others.
I walked over the grey granite cobblestones
Placed crudely together in a faint
Semblance of a line. The tendrils of
Darkness tried to hinder my advance, but
I strode firmly on. My white robe protected
Me from evil, repulsed the flagellae
Of immorality and eradicated
My doubts. This was right.
My valiant white second skin, thick with
Justice, gently billowed in the breeze as
I strode along this path. The man in front,
Encased in his white robe, walked with confidence.
A coyote shrieked in the distance. Vultures
Waited in the trees. The man in front turned
And glared at me, through his mask of righteousness.
“Initiate, do your duty.” His voice
Echoed steadfastly around the farm. It
Was time to rejoice.
Approaching the cross, the black, sooty cross,
I held a taper out, dragged it over
A rough surface and held it to the sign.
It erupted in brilliant white, the
Glorious saviour white! Singeing the black
Wood and cleansing the captive cross
From the iniquitous enthrals of black. A farmer,
With black corrupting skin, shuffled
Unceremoniously into the
Radiant light.
My white hat, pointing to Jesus the saviour,
Moved as one with my body. I took off
My boots, feeling the white, innocent, grass
Penetrating my toes. I felt invincible
And stared at the farmer as he fled into
His black-bricked building. Another friend
Approached and handed me a sack. I stood back
From the purifying cross and ingested
The bloody glitter from the communal bag. Then,
As I saw Lucy glowing white in the Sky,
My soul began to burn vibrantly,
Brighter than ever before.
by Jack Colley
Light and Dark
Light and Dark
Shining white light
And void-filling darkness
Are total and constant
Yet separate and contrary.
Perhaps they drag me back
Into the void,
The darkness
Envelopes me,
Suffocates and consumes
Until all light is drained.
Until all hope is drained.
Or perhaps, as the light consumes me
Swirling around me
Like a ghostly barrier
Shielding me from the darkness
of the void,
At last I will feel at peace.
Perhaps the light can only call to me
As I call back desperately,
Or Perhaps the void cannot near me
Cannot touch me, cannot drain me.
I am the line waiting to be crossed.
by Harry Brooke
Shining white light
And void-filling darkness
Are total and constant
Yet separate and contrary.
Perhaps they drag me back
Into the void,
The darkness
Envelopes me,
Suffocates and consumes
Until all light is drained.
Until all hope is drained.
Or perhaps, as the light consumes me
Swirling around me
Like a ghostly barrier
Shielding me from the darkness
of the void,
At last I will feel at peace.
Perhaps the light can only call to me
As I call back desperately,
Or Perhaps the void cannot near me
Cannot touch me, cannot drain me.
I am the line waiting to be crossed.
by Harry Brooke
My Precious
My Precious
I move like a shadow
In an even darker night
Searching, constantly searching
But keeping out of sight.
Running, always running,
Trying to find the light.
For you are my light, my precious,
My never-ending light.
Without you, I'm nothing,
Nothing but a speck of dust.
You're the one that makes me whole,
You're the one I lust.
All others deceive me,
But you I can always trust.
For you I can keep on going, my precious,
For you I must!
I need you, I want you,
My dear, my beloved.
To feel you, to touch you,
My hand would be ungloved.
To kiss you, to hug you,
To love you to heaven above.
If only you felt the same way,
My precious, my love!
by Chris Way
I move like a shadow
In an even darker night
Searching, constantly searching
But keeping out of sight.
Running, always running,
Trying to find the light.
For you are my light, my precious,
My never-ending light.
Without you, I'm nothing,
Nothing but a speck of dust.
You're the one that makes me whole,
You're the one I lust.
All others deceive me,
But you I can always trust.
For you I can keep on going, my precious,
For you I must!
I need you, I want you,
My dear, my beloved.
To feel you, to touch you,
My hand would be ungloved.
To kiss you, to hug you,
To love you to heaven above.
If only you felt the same way,
My precious, my love!
by Chris Way
The August Riots
The August Riots
Let the children marvel at the power
of holding a weapon for the first time,
a nervous smile across their faces,
a knife or a gun sleeping in their hands.
Let them see these horrors before them;
their friends beaten up, ridiculed,
and left, wounded, on the street floor -
their money stolen, their pride in shreds.
Let them witness for the first time,
a building in flames - lighting up their faces,
an innocent shop, or some apartments
spitting and smoking like the depths of hell.
A car on a street corner now a burnt out shell,
once bright and new, now rusted and burnt -
destroyed by the mobs that rule our home,
now propped up against a graffitied wall.
Let us peep out our windows and gasp,
recoiling with horror, amazed at the sight;
a view of an unrecognizable landscape -
our city - our London - destroyed, set alight.
by Tom Murphy
Let the children marvel at the power
of holding a weapon for the first time,
a nervous smile across their faces,
a knife or a gun sleeping in their hands.
Let them see these horrors before them;
their friends beaten up, ridiculed,
and left, wounded, on the street floor -
their money stolen, their pride in shreds.
Let them witness for the first time,
a building in flames - lighting up their faces,
an innocent shop, or some apartments
spitting and smoking like the depths of hell.
A car on a street corner now a burnt out shell,
once bright and new, now rusted and burnt -
destroyed by the mobs that rule our home,
now propped up against a graffitied wall.
Let us peep out our windows and gasp,
recoiling with horror, amazed at the sight;
a view of an unrecognizable landscape -
our city - our London - destroyed, set alight.
by Tom Murphy
Surrounding
Surrounding
That deadly, cracking sound
in the bushes as I walk
down this well-trodden pathway
stirs my stomach and curdles my blood.
The darkness closes in on what was
once bright, vibrant, radiating energy.
This forest, exempt from its emerald green,
now a mass of grey, cracking edges.
Spires which remind me that summer's long gone
and the long nights have settled.
by Oli Thompson
That deadly, cracking sound
in the bushes as I walk
down this well-trodden pathway
stirs my stomach and curdles my blood.
The darkness closes in on what was
once bright, vibrant, radiating energy.
This forest, exempt from its emerald green,
now a mass of grey, cracking edges.
Spires which remind me that summer's long gone
and the long nights have settled.
by Oli Thompson
Friday, 20 January 2012
Friday, 6 January 2012
Pop Art
Above, you can see a selection of portraits from the recent Year 9 exhibition of Pop Art at Elizabeth College.
See if you can guess all the celebrities - if you want to know more about the image or the artist, you can click on it to see its details on Flickr.
I've decided to extend the theme of Light & Dark for January - it's definitely and officially too dark to see outside when I get up in the mornings and the same is likely to be true for getting home for the next few weeks. So get writing, illustrating or snapping out there and send us your results. Feel free to interpret the theme however you like or go freestyle with your creativity...
All the best until February, islanders.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Time to Publish!
I'm publishing a number of poems on Time today - there are still a few out there in the ether which may well arrive in the next couple of days.
Over the last month, we've looked at a number of poems in the group here at College - most of which have tended to emphasise Time's youth-vanquishing, city-razing qualities - it's definitely been Time with a capital 'T' round here! You'll forgive us then if the majority of our own poems take this oppositional point of view. If you need an antidote to all of this, search out Milosz's wonderful poem 'The Gift' which features a 'perfect day' of sanctuary. Even better, write us a poem of your own which looks kindly on what seems to have become one of the poet's 'old enemies'.
This month's theme is Light & Dark - feel free to interpret this how you will - metaphorical light and darkness is of course welcome but the inspiration actually came from the winter solstice which is only a few days away. Feel free to write us a poem about the houses on Christmas eve, illuminated like candles at the back of a church... enjoy those holidays!
Over the last month, we've looked at a number of poems in the group here at College - most of which have tended to emphasise Time's youth-vanquishing, city-razing qualities - it's definitely been Time with a capital 'T' round here! You'll forgive us then if the majority of our own poems take this oppositional point of view. If you need an antidote to all of this, search out Milosz's wonderful poem 'The Gift' which features a 'perfect day' of sanctuary. Even better, write us a poem of your own which looks kindly on what seems to have become one of the poet's 'old enemies'.
This month's theme is Light & Dark - feel free to interpret this how you will - metaphorical light and darkness is of course welcome but the inspiration actually came from the winter solstice which is only a few days away. Feel free to write us a poem about the houses on Christmas eve, illuminated like candles at the back of a church... enjoy those holidays!
The Spinning Top
The Spinning Top
I twisted it between my fingers
And heard the clink as it fell.
The patterns revolved between my eyes,
The patterns of the spinning top.
Time didn't move.
Neither did I, I was frozen.
I was trapped within
The patterns of the spinning top.
I gazed through the glass.
It made life a pattern -
Patterns danced upon the window, like
The patterns of the spinning top.
The world couldn't see me.
Invisible. Unnoticeable. All I could see
Out there was a blur, like
The patterns of the spinning top.
I am here in my timeless world -
Time revolves around me, not with me.
All that revolves is
The spinning top
by Sam O'Neill
I twisted it between my fingers
And heard the clink as it fell.
The patterns revolved between my eyes,
The patterns of the spinning top.
Time didn't move.
Neither did I, I was frozen.
I was trapped within
The patterns of the spinning top.
I gazed through the glass.
It made life a pattern -
Patterns danced upon the window, like
The patterns of the spinning top.
The world couldn't see me.
Invisible. Unnoticeable. All I could see
Out there was a blur, like
The patterns of the spinning top.
I am here in my timeless world -
Time revolves around me, not with me.
All that revolves is
The spinning top
by Sam O'Neill
The River
The River
Life, cars, buses, streets
shout on in random beats
swifting, swirling, always now -
questions shudder, always how
it is that years from now
babies will cry and wolves still howl,
still be allowed, as graves fill up
quietly, still, the ground pushed up.
But moments come and moments go,
Life kickstarts and feelings grow,
Rights see light and fly away,
People still love as they begin to sway.
But on it runs
around the sun
and heaven still calls
even while to hell we fall,
and the Styx flows and stalls.
by Fraser Miller
Life, cars, buses, streets
shout on in random beats
swifting, swirling, always now -
questions shudder, always how
it is that years from now
babies will cry and wolves still howl,
still be allowed, as graves fill up
quietly, still, the ground pushed up.
But moments come and moments go,
Life kickstarts and feelings grow,
Rights see light and fly away,
People still love as they begin to sway.
But on it runs
around the sun
and heaven still calls
even while to hell we fall,
and the Styx flows and stalls.
by Fraser Miller
Infinity Limited
Infinity Limited
Time, the infinity, the expanse, the
Ever open object. Open, that is,
Until it shuts. Until it shuts you
Out, expels you from its warm embrace and
Spits in your face.
Once the object to cradle and rock and
Woo with words once so wise. Now the tyrant who
Dictates and screams and plays you like a
Second-rate puppet. Now the malignant infection
That turns you, laughs at you.
It’s an ignorant man who toys with time
And fills his head with blasphemous thoughts –
As that is all they are. Time is not only
A law, a ‘Brutus’, it is also the
Only definite
God.
by Jack Colley
Time, the infinity, the expanse, the
Ever open object. Open, that is,
Until it shuts. Until it shuts you
Out, expels you from its warm embrace and
Spits in your face.
Once the object to cradle and rock and
Woo with words once so wise. Now the tyrant who
Dictates and screams and plays you like a
Second-rate puppet. Now the malignant infection
That turns you, laughs at you.
It’s an ignorant man who toys with time
And fills his head with blasphemous thoughts –
As that is all they are. Time is not only
A law, a ‘Brutus’, it is also the
Only definite
God.
by Jack Colley
The Inevitable Cycle
The Inevitable Cycle
As the light began to dim,
The owl, oh did it screech!
For now, at least the world of sin
is kept out of reach.
But now the vole runs frantically
Away from death, away from time,
Just at the owl lands perfectly,
The clock chimes freely: nine.
The life, so dear, of one's soul
Does flee away from death.
The vole, constrained, is our heart whole,
Yet always always falls... oh yes,
The owl looks on with steely eyes
But soul, it's out of days...
The soul, or vole, is now up high
And time just ticks away.
by Jack Colley
As the light began to dim,
The owl, oh did it screech!
For now, at least the world of sin
is kept out of reach.
But now the vole runs frantically
Away from death, away from time,
Just at the owl lands perfectly,
The clock chimes freely: nine.
The life, so dear, of one's soul
Does flee away from death.
The vole, constrained, is our heart whole,
Yet always always falls... oh yes,
The owl looks on with steely eyes
But soul, it's out of days...
The soul, or vole, is now up high
And time just ticks away.
by Jack Colley
My Opponent
My Opponent
Time is my opponent
always starting the continuous race
with emergency situations.
The only thing is,
I always lose.
Time rules over me,
looming over me,
bragging in its endless victories
over me. I won't give up,
But the only thing is,
Time's impossible to beat.
Time decides my fate,
It has the power to destroy my life,
It will eventually wear me down.
I will live. The only thing is,
Time controls me.
I will fight until I die,
Fight for my freedom,
Fight for my hope.
Blood, sweat and tears I'll shed,
A race between nature and industry,
one man against society.
The only thing is,
Time is a machine: it has no soul.
by Jack Smart
Time is my opponent
always starting the continuous race
with emergency situations.
The only thing is,
I always lose.
Time rules over me,
looming over me,
bragging in its endless victories
over me. I won't give up,
But the only thing is,
Time's impossible to beat.
Time decides my fate,
It has the power to destroy my life,
It will eventually wear me down.
I will live. The only thing is,
Time controls me.
I will fight until I die,
Fight for my freedom,
Fight for my hope.
Blood, sweat and tears I'll shed,
A race between nature and industry,
one man against society.
The only thing is,
Time is a machine: it has no soul.
by Jack Smart
Killing Time
Killing Time
I have no body, no thoughts, no mind:
I have no feelings - I'm one of a kind...
I may have a face but have no head,
I have have some hands but no fingers to spread.
I've never been teased, yet I'm always wound up,
I'm constantly stared at, I may have some faults -
My hands are misshapen, my face is distorted -
I'll tell you one secret that's not misreported:
My life is a nightmare, I simply can't sleep,
It's this continuous ticking, the chimes, the cheeps,
I wish that my life would finally cease
But my life is eternal as a priceless antique:
I want a friend, someone strong as a rock
To bring an end to my life as a clock.
by Jack Relph
I have no body, no thoughts, no mind:
I have no feelings - I'm one of a kind...
I may have a face but have no head,
I have have some hands but no fingers to spread.
I've never been teased, yet I'm always wound up,
I'm constantly stared at, I may have some faults -
My hands are misshapen, my face is distorted -
I'll tell you one secret that's not misreported:
My life is a nightmare, I simply can't sleep,
It's this continuous ticking, the chimes, the cheeps,
I wish that my life would finally cease
But my life is eternal as a priceless antique:
I want a friend, someone strong as a rock
To bring an end to my life as a clock.
by Jack Relph
Time
Time
What is time to us but a mere calculation
On a clock? A clock that moves so freely with each
Passing moment, that revolves with such ease around
A subtle point. The black hand travels round and round
And round again.
But then it stops.
Its time now stands still, perfectly settled in its
Resting place. It has ceased to affect a body,
No longer a mere calculation on a clock.
The face has shattered and severed sensitive parts
Within its case.
Then a figure walks away.
He walks, leaving the body in the gutter, with
A bullet through its brain. Its arm dangles to one
Side, the watch on its wrist shattered and the once
Infinite time that resided within run out.
Time may be free, but it always
Runs out.
by Jack Colley
What is time to us but a mere calculation
On a clock? A clock that moves so freely with each
Passing moment, that revolves with such ease around
A subtle point. The black hand travels round and round
And round again.
But then it stops.
Its time now stands still, perfectly settled in its
Resting place. It has ceased to affect a body,
No longer a mere calculation on a clock.
The face has shattered and severed sensitive parts
Within its case.
Then a figure walks away.
He walks, leaving the body in the gutter, with
A bullet through its brain. Its arm dangles to one
Side, the watch on its wrist shattered and the once
Infinite time that resided within run out.
Time may be free, but it always
Runs out.
by Jack Colley
The Family
The Family
He thinks he’s alone,
They don’t understand,
How could they understand?
The pain, the fear, the unrelenting horror,
How could they understand?
The confusion, the struggle, the unending war within,
How could they understand?
Yet he forgets.
The fear, that he will end it all,
The pain, of watching him struggle to cope,
The horror, the realisation it won’t go away,
Yet he forgets.
The confusion, he’s not the same man,
The struggle, they must cater for his needs,
The unending war to keep hope,
Yet he forgets.
They must learn to work together
To cater for him, but also for them.
With the help of doctor and friends
They must learn to work together
To help him understand, he is not alone,
To help them keep hope, he will get better,
They must learn to work together.
by Elanor Buchanan
He thinks he’s alone,
They don’t understand,
How could they understand?
The pain, the fear, the unrelenting horror,
How could they understand?
The confusion, the struggle, the unending war within,
How could they understand?
Yet he forgets.
The fear, that he will end it all,
The pain, of watching him struggle to cope,
The horror, the realisation it won’t go away,
Yet he forgets.
The confusion, he’s not the same man,
The struggle, they must cater for his needs,
The unending war to keep hope,
Yet he forgets.
They must learn to work together
To cater for him, but also for them.
With the help of doctor and friends
They must learn to work together
To help him understand, he is not alone,
To help them keep hope, he will get better,
They must learn to work together.
by Elanor Buchanan
Friday, 2 December 2011
Next Friday's poems on Time
In the spirit of opposing its youth-devouring power, we're running a week behind on the theme of Time! There are quite a few poems due to come in over the weekend so I'll publish the full set next Friday.
Deadlines: don't you love their sound as they whoosh by! I think that it was Douglas Adams who said that.
Deadlines: don't you love their sound as they whoosh by! I think that it was Douglas Adams who said that.
Friday, 4 November 2011
The Supernatural
Kicking off our coverage of the Supernatural in suitably ghoulish style is Lawrence Camm's illustration of a recurring nightmare featuring the mysterious Slender Man. After researching the topic, Lawrence found that this faceless figure was a regular fixture in nightmares across the globe. Have you seen the Slender Man? If so, write us a poem - perhaps he can be banished (or even summoned!) by the right combination of words...
Below we have a selection of new poems, most of which have some supernatural dimension to them in keeping with the theme. Quite a few also contain tattoos after some students became engrossed in Roald Dahl's disturbing short story in which an old tramp disappears while bearing the inkwork of a famous artist on his back. Feel free to send us poems which are off-topic too - it's all fuel to the fire on this island...
Anyway, enjoy the poetry below and let us know your thoughts in the comment boxes. Next month's theme is the great mindbending idea of Time - don't go too cross-eyed as you contemplate it.
Follower
Follower
Scenting musty odours of rotting wood and dust,
I shuffle along the dark hallway.
As I fight through darkness, I tread on something; I cannot tell what it is.
Feeling my way up the creaking staircase,
the walls are damp, wallpaper peeling.
My cold fingers fumble for the lighter in my pocket; I pull it out and, click, the wheel turns.
In dim light only, shadows surround me, sucking me in.
A face materialises as I turn the corner. Canvas portraits line the Walls.
Old looking men stare me down.
One flight up, a landing. From the top of the stairs,
I hear scratching, scuffling.
Quickening my pace I reach the top of the staircase.
The noise grows louder.
I head on through the corridor. More portraits adorn the Walls,
surveying me from all angles.
A door. Behind it the noise, louder than ever;
I sense danger, a strange, almost supernatural presence in the air;
slowly my hand reaches for the rusty door knob.
My flesh touches the metal. Noise ceases. The door opens, soundlessly.
In the room, just one thing: a single guttering candle.
The penny drops. I am not alone.
by Tom Murphy
Scenting musty odours of rotting wood and dust,
I shuffle along the dark hallway.
As I fight through darkness, I tread on something; I cannot tell what it is.
Feeling my way up the creaking staircase,
the walls are damp, wallpaper peeling.
My cold fingers fumble for the lighter in my pocket; I pull it out and, click, the wheel turns.
In dim light only, shadows surround me, sucking me in.
A face materialises as I turn the corner. Canvas portraits line the Walls.
Old looking men stare me down.
One flight up, a landing. From the top of the stairs,
I hear scratching, scuffling.
Quickening my pace I reach the top of the staircase.
The noise grows louder.
I head on through the corridor. More portraits adorn the Walls,
surveying me from all angles.
A door. Behind it the noise, louder than ever;
I sense danger, a strange, almost supernatural presence in the air;
slowly my hand reaches for the rusty door knob.
My flesh touches the metal. Noise ceases. The door opens, soundlessly.
In the room, just one thing: a single guttering candle.
The penny drops. I am not alone.
by Tom Murphy
And So It Washed Up...
And So It Washed Up...
And so It washed up, on the yellow, sand
Ridden beach. Strands of seaweed stuck to Its
Face, a mutilated face, beyond any
Recognition. It lay on its back, as
If sunbathing on the sunny seafront
Of Brighton. But It lay there, Its face a
Torment full of hatred and horror, now
Oblivious to Its ordeal. A unique
Trident scarred Its arm with a cacophony
Of colours that dazzled in the morning
Sun. A wailing siren echoed off the
Seawall whilst a widow wept without pause.
But that mark, that heavenly mark on Its
Right arm was her point of intrigue, the last
Bit of It that remained. She was transfixed
By it. So as the white pathologist’s
tent went up Its hand was dashed with more drops
of water, the tears landing in perfect
Harmony but hopeless hope.
by Jack Colley
And so It washed up, on the yellow, sand
Ridden beach. Strands of seaweed stuck to Its
Face, a mutilated face, beyond any
Recognition. It lay on its back, as
If sunbathing on the sunny seafront
Of Brighton. But It lay there, Its face a
Torment full of hatred and horror, now
Oblivious to Its ordeal. A unique
Trident scarred Its arm with a cacophony
Of colours that dazzled in the morning
Sun. A wailing siren echoed off the
Seawall whilst a widow wept without pause.
But that mark, that heavenly mark on Its
Right arm was her point of intrigue, the last
Bit of It that remained. She was transfixed
By it. So as the white pathologist’s
tent went up Its hand was dashed with more drops
of water, the tears landing in perfect
Harmony but hopeless hope.
by Jack Colley
Marked For Love
Marked For Love
The night before, romance, love:
Perfumed angels sent from above.
A smile, a kiss, and then a hug,
A trip upstairs, the door closed with a thud...
An hour later, (or was it two?
I'd lost count by then, as you do)
Back downstairs, I walked outside
Feeling on an all-time high.
A wave, a wink, a dance, a shudder -
Ladies queuing up, one after another.
I had ten drinks, I downed them fast,
Ordered five more, I was having a blast...
Fifteen drinks later, still out partying
But after, can't remember a thing
I woke up this morning in a public loo
in a daze, not knowing what to do.
I got off the floor, felt a serious pain,
In the mirror I saw what was to blame:
Sophie, Stella and Georgia Black -
Each name engraved across my back.
by Chris Way
The night before, romance, love:
Perfumed angels sent from above.
A smile, a kiss, and then a hug,
A trip upstairs, the door closed with a thud...
An hour later, (or was it two?
I'd lost count by then, as you do)
Back downstairs, I walked outside
Feeling on an all-time high.
A wave, a wink, a dance, a shudder -
Ladies queuing up, one after another.
I had ten drinks, I downed them fast,
Ordered five more, I was having a blast...
Fifteen drinks later, still out partying
But after, can't remember a thing
I woke up this morning in a public loo
in a daze, not knowing what to do.
I got off the floor, felt a serious pain,
In the mirror I saw what was to blame:
Sophie, Stella and Georgia Black -
Each name engraved across my back.
by Chris Way
The Tattoo
The Tattoo
It was about ten years ago now that I got that old thing.
It was at first an array of colours sewn deeply into my skin.
A flower it consisted of, the petals so beautifully done
That they appeared to wave in the wind when I flexed
And dance about, a whole spectrum of colours at my disposal.
But that's all behind me now.
I paid $100 for it, and showed it to my wife.
She had always been a sensible lady, not one for splashing out.
We were tight on budget, and I paid for it with that money.
I walked in and presented it to her.
And this is why, to this day I live alone.
by Richard Bartram
It was about ten years ago now that I got that old thing.
It was at first an array of colours sewn deeply into my skin.
A flower it consisted of, the petals so beautifully done
That they appeared to wave in the wind when I flexed
And dance about, a whole spectrum of colours at my disposal.
But that's all behind me now.
I paid $100 for it, and showed it to my wife.
She had always been a sensible lady, not one for splashing out.
We were tight on budget, and I paid for it with that money.
I walked in and presented it to her.
And this is why, to this day I live alone.
by Richard Bartram
Demons
Demons
They tear your skin,
They burn your soul,
They torment you from deep within.
They lay in wait,
They all stand still,
They wait quite patiently until...
You close your eyes,
You take one blink,
The moment you forget to think.
They dance around,
They come alive,
They flit like bees around the hive.
They move as fast
As any hare,
But only when you're unaware.
And as they plan,
They belch and fart,
The gases drifting towards your heart.
They poison you
From deep inside,
They make you want to run and hide.
And when you stir
From gentle snooze,
You feel as though you're all one bruise.
The demons rest
Upon your skin,
But still their curses haunt within.
By Oli Reynolds
They tear your skin,
They burn your soul,
They torment you from deep within.
They lay in wait,
They all stand still,
They wait quite patiently until...
You close your eyes,
You take one blink,
The moment you forget to think.
They dance around,
They come alive,
They flit like bees around the hive.
They move as fast
As any hare,
But only when you're unaware.
And as they plan,
They belch and fart,
The gases drifting towards your heart.
They poison you
From deep inside,
They make you want to run and hide.
And when you stir
From gentle snooze,
You feel as though you're all one bruise.
The demons rest
Upon your skin,
But still their curses haunt within.
By Oli Reynolds
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