from   GINA RILEY

COMMITTAL

A square of Thai silk

a small gift on my palm

                 I hear your pen

      whispering in the shadows

hold on to sallow silk

as if it were the fine skin of your hand

an outgoing spin-off from the dark,

Turning

I open a letter

not known to be your last

warm to a fading summer, long stemmed

shadows, lightly penned laugh, but not

                    cold doubt, stamped on

unconsciously enclosed.  Find your last words

                   Take good care

                   lots of love

a gentle epitaph

Hope you understood

the deep committal if my own.

              ASSAULT COURSE

           by Nick Hancock

           It's an obstacle race.

           At the starting post you learn

           to yell and go red in the face

             to get your own way.

           Then you leave the comfort of the floor

           to sway on two legs -

           heaven knows what for -,

           and you struggle with unnatural clicks

           and semiotic moans

              to get your way.

           And you drag along your unsteady self

           surrounded by others who call themselves ‘I’;

           you accept the fiction

              to get your own way.

           Next obstacle's the hard school chair

           to fill for years

           in order to reach the acme of acne

           and the first sub-brassiere explorations

           with all the sighs, all the listening

              to get your own way

           Now your resolve hardens

           with your arteries as you sell mind

           and body to your employer's whim  

              to get your own way,

           and you break your back in the cause

           of his fat-arsed bottom line.

           The end of the race is easy -

           all downhill - and you're given

           an amnesty - forget all but the start -

              to get you nowhere.

THE VISITORS

by Antoinette Loftus

My sons surround me everywhere,

every table, every chair,

one is phoning on the stair.

All are getting in my hair.

Dishes mounting in the sink,

victuals eaten in a wink -

My brain's inert - just cannot think.

Last night I didn't sleep a wink.

"Oh, Mum, you make an awful fuss.

Our friends don't mind, they're just like us.

They've heaps of clothes upon the floor,

their place looks like there's been a war.

"Dear Mother, can you see your way

to lend me cash until pay-day.

The taxi's waiting at the gate.

Please don't wait up; we'll all be late."

"Before you leave upon your spree, my sons,

do spare a thought for me.

Last night you all forgot the key,

so I was roused at half-past three."

They've all gone now, I climb the stairs

in every room a C.D blares.

The bathroom's steamed up, towels on the floor,

one set of clothes adorn the door.

That's it, I can't take any more!

It's time for Mother to withdraw.

I write a note for their return -

a thing or two that they should learn.

"Dear Sons, another boring chore,

please don't forget to bolt the door.

Tomorrow, kindly clear the floor,

the carpet fitter comes at four.

"You've each a pad, a flat or room

that at a  stretch, one could call home.

In future, boys, may I propose

you use that place to wash your clothes.

"And buy some food to cook each night.

You see, my budget's rather tight.

No, really, it has all been fun.

I love to see you every one.

"And as I blow my parting kiss, 

I'd just like you to think on this.

You should set out to 'get a life',

each find yourself a pretty wife.

"You're really good to visit me

but now I'm off to gay Paris."

by Richie Foy

"TERRORISTS"

clear and precise

cold

they discarded

love

now amid carnage

cold

look down on lost

love

too late now

cold 

heart can warm

love

discover then

cold

God's eternal

love

die in rapture

cold

with His warm

love

NO ORDINARY DAY


Getting ready for work,
going to school;
Chatting on the cell phone
how life’s cool;
Taking a flight, just like
any other;
An ordinary day…
11th September;
Suddenly, hijacked!
Terror in the sky, cell phones
calling to say “I love you
though I die…”
Offices below, at the heart
of a nation, throbbing
the day-to-day business
of salvation;
Suddenly, struck!
Death, horror, confusion,
world ripped apart
as witnessed on
television;
Who can imagine the horror,
pain, despair? Only disbelief
that such a thing could
happen here;
Survivors and the dead…
victims of a terrorist outrage;
Rescue workers killed
for their courage;
Heroes inspiring faith, hope
and a will to overcome
among the tears for thousands
never coming home;
Who knows where we go
from here? But let us pray
for Peace, not war – however
long it takes…
(Such is the terrorist threat,
it will gladly reap harvests
of hate and there will be
dancing in the streets;)
Fallen towers, gaping holes,
may be restored - but only love
in hearts beating true can
build a decent world;
Let us grieve – and suffer
the little children…
Hope, for a grave
millennium

Copyright R. N. TABER