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 May 2014
Petal pie
Sheesh!
I'm wetter than Lobster's sweater
Damp as Dolphin's socks
Dripping like Killer-whale's bikini bottoms
That she left to dry on some rocks.


I'm soggy as Otter's pockets
And soaked as Sea-lion's dungarees
Moist as the Trout's lipglossed pout
Saturated like an Eel's Levi jeans
;-p
I got caught in a heavy dowpour whilst cycling to work today! Hehehe
 May 2014
SG Holter
The sun broke through the clouds,
Playling with the gold
Embroyderies on the
Priest's cloak.

The Man of the Hour's favourite
Song playing as we all sat
Watching white flowers on
White oak, reading names on
Ribbons wishing peaceful
Rest and cherishing memories.

Mid-ceremony change in
Weather from skies gray to
Bright blue, as if clouds all
Creating passage for a soul
The size of horizons.

Few silences equal that
Of mourners
Holding hands and roses,
Hankerchiefs and pamphlets.
Whispered regrets and female  
Sniffles barely audible
Over the undeniable
Absence of a
Life.

The sun warm through
Suits and dresses, and the golden
Reflection of a textile cross on the
Chapel wall, dancing with
Each movement the
Holy man made.

Silence is the language
Of Death and its matters.
It will not ever
Be silenced.

Water runs however it
Wants.
Fire can never
Be burned.
 May 2014
Louise
I need to find a memory
that I can cling on to
There must be at least one
a good one of me and you

Maybe one from childhood
or my quiet teenage years
Just one where there are smiles
instead of anger or tears

I'd like a 'good' memory
onto which I can hold tight
I'll think of it only sometimes
and now it just seems right

I think it would really help
to have one among the bad
It's just that right now I'm struggling
mixed emotions about the mother I should have had

So I need to find a memory
that I can cling on to
There must be at least one
a good one of me and you
 May 2014
Terry Collett
Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.

She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses

herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises

from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours

cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash

me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.

She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,

rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.

Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the

nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed

against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens

the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross

on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one

side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers

growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun

is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.  

Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin

to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never

make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never

told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.

Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.
A NUN AT DAWN AND HER WAKING THOUGHTS.
 May 2014
SG Holter
My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began  
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.

I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.
Yes. We drink his wine from pint glasses...
 May 2014
Joe Cole
What can we tell of this eloquent man
Of the way the words flow from his magic pen
He writes of history, of legend and myth
Stories of family, of kin and of kith
Tales of the fields,  the forest, of sea
He pens the words  that we all love to read

Sverre never stop writing
 May 2014
Joe Cole
I gaze upon my comrades, at the places where they lay
A young man lies beside me with blood upon his face
“I can’t see you friend” he says “because my wound has left me blind
But I beg you to write the words I say and send them to my wife”

“My darling I have left you but I leave you with these words
I love you now and for ever, hold our children close for me
It should never have ended in this way
In a fight for liberty

I am not alone as I depart this life
Many friends lie with me, here on every side
I know not what we fought for or why we had to die
I hope we did not die in vain but I know not the reason why

A young man writes these words for me but I cannot see his face
He will tell you darling in my death there was no disgrace
With my comrades I fought bravely but we never had a chance
We stood and faced the enemy without a backward glance

I can hardly speak the words, blood has filled my mouth
My new friend here will bury me facing to the south
I am scared my darling I did not want to go
I must leave you soon for a place I do not know”

I wrote the words for that young man with the his blood upon my hands
For I’m the one who killed him as he made his last stand
Did I hate him? No for he was my countryman
We fought because a civil war had split our once united land

Yes I killed him dearest sister in the cruel and ****** fight
I would rather it had been me because you are his wife
Brother fighting brother, father fighting son
Has our god deserted us, has the evil won

This fight between the north and south, between the blue and grey
Will god ever forgive me for what I did this day
I will bury him facing south as he asked for it to be
I hope that when it is my time they’ll do the same for me.
 May 2014
r
Searching for a book of matches,
I came across one of your poems
from 1993. It wasn't written on a
matchbook; no.  It was written on
a page torn right from my heart.

The line about how a blind man
helped you to see that words hold
more love than truth still burns my
eyes.  Seems you were right; and
you were wrong, too. The ink was
no longer as blue as your eyes
that day when we last held hands.
That day you penned these words
to my heart. That very day; our last.

Your poetry used to make me smile,
or laugh, or curse your soul for writing
words that I could never seem to find.
This poem was your best; your last.

The ink has faded and ran  in places
from all these years of tears shed and
long dried. More tears would do no good. 
I can hardly read these faded lines. You still
would not be here to kiss them away,
to tell me that everything is going to be
alright; no.

r ~ 5/8/14
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