Poem No 221

by Ros Burton

Pathways.

Imagine steps through

green and pleasant lands

but this is England 2005.

Pathways.

A Government slogan

as empty as the

meaning of their words.

Respect is a one way ticket

and the train system

is crumbling.

Better drive yourself

and if you haven't a car

you'd better look for

those pathways.

Shame they lead

to a dead end

and can't take you

to the Promised Land

Saving the World their mission

only Bush and Blair can do that.

Whose world?

Which paths do they want to travel?

They leave a trail in the sky

from their weapons

and planes

that destroy the

leafy pathways of my dreams.

by Antoinette Loftus

PEOPLE

People are numerous, all shapes and sizes;

    We recognise people whatever their guises.

Look through a window or up from a book,

    They're always around us wherever we look.

People on pavements, people in queues,

    People at fairs winning what they can't use.

People stay waving as trains leave the station,

    People in theatres give standing ovation.

People in armies all khakied and neat,

    Marching in boots to a rhythmical beat

Schoolboys, then soldiers, no one asks why

    they sign up for duty, then dutifully die.

People stand cheering, their team scores a goal,

    People in churches improving their souls.

People at funerals, some laden with sorrow,

    Others attend to inherit tomorrow.

People at parties wear glitter and chatter of

    scurrilous scandals and things that don't matter

Tearing at morsels, like dogs with a bone,

    they relish disasters, (unless it's their own.

At schools, shops and seasides, you may be quite sure,

    however you count them , there'll always be more.

People just glimpsed from the top of a bus.

    Who ARE these people? - These people are US!

A haiku from Dennis Gouldson

Rain comes with the dusk

The owl will not court tonight

Much too wet to woo

A question for God

Summer has arrived - at last

and swallows sweep the skies

while ears of corn listen

for the murmur in the breeze

foretelling of a stormy close

to calm the overheated day

High on the hilltop I am God

no one disputes my claim

woodland, field, meadow, river

all lie in obeisance before me

stretching supine to the distant horizon

This is Housman country

His heart still wanders here

And yet, it's said, his feet

ne'er trod on Shropshire soil

Where was his Cherry tree?

by Mary Rutter

AGE

I went to see a sage about my age.

I said, 'Sage, age puts me in a rage.'

He said, 'Get on your bike, go for a hike,

Don't worry me about your dislike.'

So I went to the doc, he said, 'What's up?'

I said, 'Funny, I've heard that before.'

He got up from his chair, showed me the door.

A bunny that's it! I left before there was more.

I sat on a wall and thought; didn't help at all.

Next I went shopping, that'll stop the ache,

But nothing I like fits. I'm falling to bits.

Too small, too short, see through, shows my tits.

I went to my mate. He said, 'You're very late,

look at that gate it needs a coat of paint'.

I wielded the brush in a bit of a flush,

Left in a rush shouting, 'I've got a date.'

I went to a friend, thought she's sure to know

What to do when I'm feeling real low

She welcomed me in, said 'Would you like a gin?

So that's what to do. Think I'll come here again.