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Sam 4d
It's raining outside like buckets
                                  - - - like hard and fast and almost even
                                   - - - like rain you'd best not be caught in
                                    - - - like the beginnings of a terrible storm
except there's no thunder, no lightning.

It's just rain, and you are inside, safe with a soft blanket
(you are not scared and shuddering
  you are not crying and wishing not to be alone
  you are not holding in choked breaths, hugging yourself tight.

it is raining, and it rains most days, here.
the trees around you are so green, like nothing you're used to.
you have a room to yourself, and no one who loves you who lives close.
(and you think you might love it here.)

this, where you reside, this is not a place you can call home.
(not when your heart still yearns for the place you grew up, so long ago.
  not when most of the people that make up your family live oceans away.
  not when you have just barely lived here a month, not quite yet.)
but -- but -- this place, it feels safe.

you can't remember living anywhere where all you felt was safe, before.
you - really - don't want to let that go.
Steve Oct 2018
I wonder what you see
When you think of us
Red boxes, dead foxes
The flag of St George
Or a shiny red bus

Yes I wonder what you see
When you think of us
Scotch pies, och ayes
A white cross on a blue sky
Unruly Scots - treasonous!

I wonder what you see
When you think of us
Bore da, nos da
Green valleys and red dragons
Welsh words to discuss

Yes I wonder what you see
When you think of us
The mountains of Mourne, a leprechaun
Peace between orange and green
Or the troubles between us

What do you see?

Shamrock, glam rock, God save the Queen
Daffodils, leeks, tartan breeks, a red haired colleen
Better together, miles apart, kissing cousins or time for a fresh start?
Never before has the moment felt so close.
Bethan Roberts Aug 2018
When they came to bury Bran the Blessed
In Ireland slain, they severed his skull
And brought his head from his body to Harlech.

Seven years they stayed, then off to the island
Where lie one thousand of the old saints
Who dream (perhaps) of God knows what.

Eighty years, eighty years,
Trapped by the wet Welsh wind,
And then leaving for London,
A place at last to lay his head
Dead and gone forever.

Lord, when I myself am perished,
Dead as the old Welsh wit,
When my brothers and sisters are wrested from me,
And I am at last alone;
I will be cut into pieces
For my home is anywhere.
The story of Bendigeidfran can be found in the Welsh legends of the Mabinogion.
Bethan Roberts Aug 2018
Fourteen days gone, too long,
Since you rowed the chopping sea
Away from the island,
And the heat beats down on half-shorn sheep,
Biting through turquoise shards
In a slate-grey sea.

Fruit ripens and rots on the bushes,
And the boys next door are casting longways looks
At our eldest daughters.
Old women out of the sun
Fan themselves with hands roped and ridged
Like gorse roots.

Washing and dressing the children,
Milking the full, pendulous udders of the cows,
Digging floury fingers deep into unbaked bread -
Stalks in the field would bend and break
So heavy with grain!

Come back in the bay,
Come back ‘cross the sound!
Come back and I will lick the salt from your lips,
Jealous of the ocean’s kisses.
Come in, cariad, warm and welcome –
Come home – my darling –
My desire!
Ynys Enlli or Bardsey Island is an island off the coast of North Wales. The island has no harbour and the journey across the stretch of ocean between it and the mainland has always been a treacherous one. In the past, the only way to make the crossing would have been a rowing boat that often required every able bodied man on the island as a crew. If the weather was not fair for the return crossing, the men could then be stranded on the mainland for weeks at a time with no way to contact the other islanders.

I wrote this poem during a stay on the island in 2016. It is still difficult to reach by boat, being so dependant on fair weather, and I have been stranded there myself before. In this poem I imagine the emotions of the women left behind, charged with running their homes and farms single-handed, and finding themselves frustrated in the absence of their partners.
Nigel Finn Jul 2018
Breeze flowing gently;
The waterfall cascades down;
I feel at peace here.
A haiku about a place of natural beauty in north Wales.
les ombres s’allongent sur la colline
et mon esprit se met à songer
à un monde que je ne connais plus


The shadows lengthen on the hill
and my mind gets to dreaming
of a world I know no longer.
Nostalgia upon arriving in north Wales from Paris.
Southampton, Liverpool, Bournemouth and Hull
Places in England that give you the pull
going by ****** or National Express
Wherever you want it can cost you less
booking in 3 or more months in advance
lets you see scenery takes only a glance
from down south and London and places above
get into Scotland you'll need to wear glove
Cross the border and hear the sound of the pipes
or get into wales - a choir - ooh cripes
a sound that gives you goosebumps
a sound that makes you cringe
keep going north my friend
and watch the Edinburgh Fringe
Chris Neilson Nov 2017
Don't get ill in England
your poor health will endure
the nasty party's after you
and your pride for sure

Don't be suffering in Scotland
you MAY get personal independence payment
if you apply for dignity removal
judged guilty as a claimant

Don't have health woes in Wales
to keep wealthy accounts swollen
the rich avoid and evade taxes
while your DLA has been stolen

Forms, stress, pain and humiliation
these are no twisted fairy stories
capitalism contorted beyond belief
by 21st century tortuous Tories
I hear accounts of the additional pain and suffering that long term disability claimants are having to endure to claim the new deranged "personal independence payment". while the already wealthy continue to evade the tax needed to help contribute to society's most in need
I went on a date with Abigail from Wales,
now real housewife of Harleston this Belle of Bridgend,
who vacated the valleys for marriage that failed.
Via loveless POF we met in Diss, Betjeman's
'dimmest place of all'.  From her suitor's clammitt
mushroomed blooming cliche from Norwich Market,
which had strived in stuffy, sunny carriage for survival,
but doughty purple gerberas shed not a petal.

Darkeyed Abs was selfproclaimed ditzy witterer
(as schorl as pupils were her carbonado irises).
Selfeffacing, totes Taffy, wellfit witty ditherer;
modest, mumsy, Celtic sexkitten. From Diss,
she drove us in circles to areas even remoter,
cutely got us lost. Upon backseat of her Toyota
gerberas juddered, lost the odd purple petal,
but all my attention was on this anhygoel gal.

Fave date since my old love crashed 'n' burned,
Cupid's evangelism made a lame heart leap!
Attraction and rapport in equal measure earned
a second, no less romantic for being cheap!
We held hands like oldies down the aisle (at Aldi's),
tender tonsil hockey over bigspender coffees
on bench by the mere. Love's pink spark as blatant
as gerberas' purpleness we purred in liplockt agreement.

X-tailed texts from dawn to dusk to discover
something we'd both waited for between Abs & I.
Floodgate touch of third date felt fate to be lovers,
tremulous tryst gushed torrid for the rusty and shy.
With selfconsciousness she'd sometimes squeak in bed
like the springs, and got undressed beneath the duvet,
but as if purple petals coming-storm-shorn, her Red
Dragon-tatted, lemniscate chassis blew me away.

Horizontal hourglass a galactoid goad to caress
- looker like Liz, but with the boyo brio of Burton,
tho' retro 90s vernacular winning quirk less
'Under Milk Wood' and more the orange-Zorro'd turtle,
Michelangelo. Dropboxed me her ******* keys,
elegant lilac-varnished luppers smashed 'Fur Elise'.
Cruciverbalist teachingassistant was my Welsh ****,
but no cryptic clue when gerberas started to wilt.

Abs baked her boy a birthday choco hedgehog,
'Puddington Boar' pun we laboured in flantery email.
But gooey privetpig not main course of our dialogue,
no, I learned she was a Dadi's girl who went off the rails
when his cancer came back for good. Last 'nos da cariad'
haunted her like hiraeth; Abs swore she'd bags a stepdad
for lil' leekeaters, spare them same sense of loss. Green shoots
stalks in vase resembled, save for ditched petals, no roots.

She didn't see offthepeg patriarch to patch a family
in me, dressinggowned putz Diazepampering broken
calon now. No Ant to her Cleo, Gavin to her Stacey
- wherefore the chirpsing 'bout cwtching, softlyspoken
soul-selfies swapped in aprication of darkling embrace?
Abigail just blanks my calls; messages soliloquise in cyberspace.
To so much heart-mulch I bet binned bouquet now rots.
Purple gerbera wheel of fortune landed on she-loves-me-not.
Chris Neilson Mar 2017
Swimming with dolphins
release endorphins

Pacific sea lions
are seen by Hawaiians

Whales around Wales
are fanciful fairy tales

A no-fin porpoise
isn't fit for purpose
Just a wee bit of silliness
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