Poem No 191

by John Dixon

On All Saint’s Eve 

On All Saint’s Eve,

a gale made skeletons of Moorside sycamores

and left them as a line of black calligraphy

across the day's end

and the sudden profile of the Clwyd hills.

Tonight the brown mist of the year’s decay

blurs the horizon underneath the rose-grey dusk

that wears the jewel, Venus.

Look through the mist, and naked stems

and through my images.

Find what you want in them –

endings, horizons, bones of hopes or certainties,

Love’s rise and set.

Can you know anything but these reflections,

or read meaning in the runic trees?

Find me the metaphor for sight itself

and tell me the shape of it.

Poem No 192

by George Horsman

DEEP BREATHING

Beeston. I slow to fifty. Next, they're there

Behind me in their checkered, blue-lamped car. 

I make it thirty - not a metre more

To give excuse for trouble. Even so,

Their lights explode, a red and yellow flare,

And I pull in. 'Good evening, sir,' - all charm -

'Can you tell us where exactly you're

Coming from? It would help to know.'

'A party,' I say.

                     'Well, how enjoyable!

Would you by any chance, during your party

Have you taken alcohol?'

                                   'Of course. With lemonade.'

He scans the car but all the lights are kosher.

'Would you just mind, then - sorry for the trouble -

Blowing into the breathalyser?' Archly,

He wipes the mouthpiece of his hand-grenade,

Holds it out to me. If he'd been much gaucher

He'd take the wooden spoon. I,all the while

Since being tailed by this Wurlitzer gimmick,

Have breathed deep. More, under my tongue I've stuck

Twopence to neutralise the booze, and now

Tight in a clammy hand, like a heart-dial,

The truth-gauge trembles just below the limit.

'There! What d'I say?' I ask, chuffed at my luck,

But breathing deeply still - you never know.

'So sorry to have troubled you,' he says,

Hesitates - will he try his test in bulk?-

Then, with another 'Thank you, sir' he's gone.

I sit awhile, digest the evening's fare,

Conclude they must patrol  the country lanes

Where, clear of main roads, dodgy drivers skulk,

Uncork my flask, toast what I've always known:

Cheek, and deep breathing, get you anywhere. 

Have you read George's story on Page No S1

by Ros Burton

COLD TO THE MARROW

Chill lodges on weakness

raw and harsh

biting but numb

seeping passed reason

Wind howls in crevices

sharp and icy

moving yet stiff

piercing broken skin

Cold settles bitterly

crisp and hard

unseen but felt

eating through thin souls

JG's note: I have to say I like this one a lot

Poem 195

by Damian Deus

The Real Deal

What is it 

What’s the real deal 

Where is the love

The satisfaction

The peace

We should all feel

Inside

What is is it

What's the real deal

Where is the reward

The prize

The Applause

We should all hear

Outside

What is it

What’s the real deal???????????????????