JG's Pages for Poets/Page No 22

Poem No 136

by JIM LOVE

The Road To "KANDAHAR".

You, with your neat picket fence
And freshly mown lawn.
Where only the occasional daisy
Pokes through.

Sedately content
You survey your domain.

While I, ignored by the passing thrall
I sit on this dusty plain
My withered limbs
Say it all

Too sick to move
I await Kismet.

As far as the eye can see
Caught in the dying sun’s rays
The glint and glitter
Of the death that surrounds me

Thousands of miles away
You decide my fate.

‘Tis not gold that’s a lying
But the brass casing’s
Left in pitiful piles
From the lead that’s been flying

Too scared to close my eyes
Should I not wake.

The sky fills with death
While the ground trembles
No trace they’ll find
Of my insignificant bones

Ramadan’s done
‘Tis the time of Christ.

All this
While you reach for your morning coffee.
As I lay dying
On the road to Kandahar

© Jim Love

Poems Nos 137 & 138

are from LORNA HANKIN

LATE AUTUMN

Reaching up to the greying sky

Stretching spindle-limbed

Bare brown branches of desolation

Stark reminders of days to come.

A solitary crow slowly circles

Spiralling into the gloom

His harsh caw echoing through the hills

Crying for November's sorrow.

Grey mists shrouding their unseen peaks

The rounded hills roll onwards

Broken only by ripples of hedge-rows

The sky meets the land in an iron sea.

NEW START

An open book

Pages clean, crisp

Waiting to be spoiled

Again

Knife-edged

They cut my probing fingers

Just to remind me

How easily I slip,

Stumble,

Make pigeon-toed moves

Smudged ink

Before the sentence is even begun.

Poem No 139

one of my own!

05/07/02 3:52 PM

It's raining

at Wimbledon

umbrellas reign

not racquets

though strawberries are overpriced

and turning mushy

skies are grey

reflect the faces

of the Henmanites

at one set down

and signs of worse to come

But it's just a game

what's in a name

football, tennis

face it, we're not the best

or worst

but getting better

at flag waving

and those who wave a racquet

or kick at leather

take home quite a packet

despite the weather

So let's get back

to watch the telly

don't need a mack'

at home

Poem No 140

by Stephen Sell

TOMORROW

PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW,

AN OLD POET ONCE WROTE

AND HOW TRUE THESE WORDS I QUOTE.

BUT TIME ALSO IS SWEET SORROW

BECAUSE BEFORE YOU KNOW IT,

TODAY IS TOMORROW.

LIKE A BEAST OF THE NIGHT ON PADDED FEET

IT CREEPS UPON US,

AS WE SLEEP.

AND THIS TOMORROW AFFECTS ALL OUR LIVES

BUT HOW CAN IT DO THAT,

WHEN IT NEVER ARRIVES?

THIS TOMORROW OF WHICH I WRITE

IS A CHARGING BEAST OF THE NIGHT

IT CAN BRING UPON US JOY,

OR SORROW,

BUT WE WON'T FIND OUT,

WILL WE,

UNTIL TOMORROW.?