by Gordon Thompson

1. AT THE BOTTOM OF THE GARDEN

Part One: The Post

That rustic post

about a metre tall

leans crazily

reminds me of someone

It's well weathered

rotted at the base

on it's last legs you might say

reminds me of someone

It's a resting place

for robins, sparrows

and a public toilet

for collared doves

and wood pigeons

giving thanks for the seed

I put out every morning

reminds me of someone

it's me

Part 2: The last-post for the post

from Roger Taber

WHO TALKS FOR THE TREES?

Two so-splendid trees stood tall
at the edge of a wood,
conspiring with song and laughter,
symphony and poetry,
to run the gamut of serendipity,
all loves, hates, jealousies,
captured in shades of evergreen,
on the costliest canvas seen
among the sweetest, finest blessings
of Nature, redefined by Man
in its own flawed image, redesigned
to suit an ailing humanity,
along the lines of a well-meaning
insanity coursing the soul,
would-be giants grown tall,
sentinels of a civilization
protective of its own for want
of a wisdom of Ages (found in
History's bloody pages?)
conspiring with song and laughter,
symphony and poetry
to stand tall among giant trees,
acknowledge that Nature
knows best, mankind least, for all
its grand Imagination touching
on Salvation to defend a dereliction
of duty to save the woodlands
for next generations, rather give trees
up to property developers
for the sake of tax gatherers
giving them the eye - and though
the likes of Jesus pass by…
they'll not look up and see us
though they hear a wind in the trees
cry the names of all those
struck down in youth or prime - to
save a gold of global flames
descending to embers, no matter how
many pending 11th Septembers
_
_
Copyright R. N. Taber 2003

On writing poetry

The paper's ready

concentration steady

don't dare to think of writers' block

ignore that wretched clicking clock

Ideas vanish

inspirations fly

fingers fidget

brain cells die

What was that thought, that perfect image

that metaphor, that phrase to die for?

I've lost it in this crazy scrimmage

Contemplate some comfort eating

crave that careless cigarette

a cup of tea would take some beating

don't give up, at least not yet

What it takes is more than magic

perhaps a visit from The Muse

a flash of lightning, a chord of music

panoramic views

Or just perhaps a deeper wisdom

heartfelt passion

something more profound

deep compassion

language to astound

All these things the poet strives to find

within the hidden depths of mind

from Damion Deus

Magpie for clouds

by Helen Danson

Like a silver coin in the grass

Poppies dotted on the verge

An old tree proud and true

Pulling the eye across the fields

Over the hedges a steeple villages away

What draws the clouds to me?

Like a magpie to the glint

Like a pin to a magnet

What force controls the clouds

That badger me?

It's not the wind for sure

That tickles the spider's work

And dances with the leaves

No something else crushes me

Darkens all I see

Something else drags the clouds

Overhead to me

Shuts out my sun, moon and stars

And lets me peek beyond sometimes

Tantalizingly

Something else presses down 

Like the bull in the round

Stamps hard on me

Rains down on me

Flattens my dreams

Like the shiny pebbles

That sink without a trace

Or the fickle fish that swim away

I'm left behind to ponder why

These clouds bother me