Bob Dylan lives across the road from me,

I see him every night,

His scraggy hair and lived in face.

illuminated by the street lights.


His tree top image is of Black & White,

like Che Guevara in full flight.

  Clustered leaves make hollowed out eyes,

a question eyebrow raised.


Two branch's drop to form a nose,

others crisscross , in jaws , to pose.

His Gypsy face , my mind's eye shows.

But soon that face will be no more.


As Autumnal winds begin to blow,

I wonder will he bloom again in Spring.  ?

or will this just be the end ?

The answer my friend, is blowing in the Wind.

The answer is blowing in the Wind.


  By Holly Barrett

I was swimming away gaily , minding my own business,

the water was tepid,  a couple 20 feet away from me ,

were up to their waist in the water , Med sea,

She had her arms wrapped around his neck ,

and her legs wrapped around his  mid drift.


Their heads were bobbing , and they they were looking ,

all around  to see , who was looking at them,

They were obviously having ***.

I had an odd sneaky look, to confirm my observation.


As they came to a conclusion, their heads were bobbing faster,

until it stopped and they separated and left the water.

My first thoughts were , how romantic,

I myself never had Sea ***.


I told my wife when I returned  to  our sun spot,

She told me to take a shower immediately,

" You were swimming around ' *****' of *****

floating in the water."

The romantic notion left me , and I thought ,

" Those ***** *******  "

  By Holly Barrett

I was court-martialled in my absence, and sentenced to death in my absence, so I said they could shoot me in my absence.
**


I am a drinker with writing problems.

If I get up in the morning,

and struggle to justify my continuous existence.

After one hour, the struggle is postponed till tomorrow morning.

Animation may even set in , on a good day.


Should the struggle last beyond noon,

the cavalry is called for , in my mental room.

On the ground floor, a young man lives in a chair of wheels,

his sole companion, a small dog called Winston.


Jose told us his story, in a matter of fact way,

it has never left us to this very day.

Jose was born with Spina Bifida, hence the chair.

His mother abandoned him, went her own way.


Twenty years in a Monastery, the Monks gave him refuge, a home.

His independent spirit saw him strike out on his own.

I would love to tell a lie, say Jose is happy with his lot,

but, he is probably not.


If I get up in the morning,

and struggle to justify my continuous existence.

With chills, pills, aches and bills, sorry for myself , up to my Gills,

Jose and Winston, I retrieve from my mental room, go to the window,

scan the street, there they go, I'm standing on my feet., I'm standing on my feet.


   By Holly Barrett