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Poem No 236

MY TRIBUTE TO MUHAMAD ALI

by Dave Caldwell

I HEAR THAT SOME PEOPLE ARE BEGINNING TO SAY

THAT I WOULDN'T BE THE CHAMPION IF I FOUGHT TODAY

SO LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT BEING KING OF THE RING

AND IF I FOUGHT THESE CHAMPIONS WHAT PAIN I WOULD BRING.

THEY SAY THAT TYSON WAS THE HARDEST MAN ALIVE.

BUT I'D DISPOSE OF THAT FOOL IN ROUND FOUR OR FIVE.

THEY'D PUT ME AGAINST BOWE, BUT HE WOULDN’T SHOW.

WHO CAN BEAT ALI I'D LIKE TO KNOW.

THEN BRING ON THAT EVANDER, THEY CALL THE REAL DEAL

I'D DANCE AROUND HIM, AND GET HIM TO KNEEL.

THE BRITISH WOULD CALL BRUNO THE BEST THEY HAD SEEN.

ALI WOULD SEND HIM PACKIN “YA KNOW WHAT I MEAN”

ALL OF THE OTHERS PLEASE GIVE A CALL

BECAUSE AGAINST ALI YOU KNOW THEY WILL FALL..

OTHER CHAMPIONS WILL COME AND THEY'L GO

BUT ONLY MUHAMAD COULD PUT ON A SHOW

FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, STING LIKE A BEE

IF I FOUGHT UNTIL NINETY NO ONE WOULD BEAT ME

DAVE CALDWELL

Poem No 237

by Gina Riley

VANISHING

Two figures

in a vanishing room

seldom aware of the power of change.

A mat, a floor sliding

slowly from under feet

again and again, light

on faded décor like a tapestry re-sewn.

Two people running out of time

tagged with watches.

Voices learning to laugh

and cry, on the way

to more than silence.

Recalling...a homely room

in it. two philosophers, hardly startled

when clear flashes come with age.

We've always known

light will vanish

leave no star

not even dark. Of course

there's always hope.

Why do we remember that lame resort

of philosophy, and link its power to light?

Unbearable, looking back

when memory itself

is running out of time.

Poem No 238

by Sam Veevers

(aged 15)

THE MUSIC

In the morning I do not wake.

Though distant calls may seem to rouse

My weary frame from its unending slumber,

I do not wake.

Nor does the numbing frost,

The lifeless sheet of leather

Which encases the dying heart of me

Melts away in the bleak, pathetic light.

Even the scorching rays of the sun itself cannot touch me.

My weary eyes see not the dark, bleak world.

My skin no longer feels the bite of freezing cold.

My brain does not register the pain which screams inside me.

My body has no energy with which to keep fighting, to keep living.

I feel not pain or pleasure, there is no rush or energy left within me,

Only a gaping vacant hole, a lifeless husk long devoid of any sensation.

Then a cold hand finds a solid, metal button

And suddenly a new lifeblood flows through my veins.

A coursing liquid, it washes my weary limbs,

And melts the freezing ice which once bound me.

The drive which powers this bundle of sinew and bone

Comes not from the food I eat, or from the water which relieves my tortured lips.

The beat of the perfect music pumps this new energy

Through my veins far better than my shattered heart ever could.

Then the sun shines once more upon me

As the music blasts into my ears, flowing around my body.

A warm feeling rises from deep within me,

An irresistible smile forces itself across my lips.

My renewed mind shakes off such terrible thoughts

Which gripped me only moments before.

The beauty of the music has awakened a new feeling within me.

One of hope, of happiness.

And I shake my head in disbelief at how hopeless life seemed only seconds before.

Only then do I awake.

Poem No 239

by Phil Taylor

What would I have done?

Untried and untested, their actions ingested

I wonder what I might have done.

I see them, forgive them,

I yearn to relive them, battles they fought and they won.

I admire them, despise them, for I cannot prise them,

away from my mundane existence.

They lined up, they signed up and were off to the front line in an instance.

Down into hell their stories do tell

of horrors to dark to imagine.

Though they fought and survived,

Their manhood was tried,

and that's why I envy their chagrin.

I imagine the stories, the medals, the glories,

I yearn for the trust and comraderie,

the sadness, the sorrow, the far off tomorrow

as I hear the dark tones of the padre.

My debt is so great, that I can't relate

this feeling I have deep inside me,

that the war was not great, nor could I imitate

those great men, who should full of great pride be.

Poem No 240

by Patrick MacKeown

Commercial Rat

Winston's Rat is eating my brain
Big Brother says, "Thought Crime."
My amygdule slips into Vermicelli
A warm stream of cream coloured
wretchedness

If I could puke for one more day
It would be blissful
Winston's Rat is eating my brain
A demented soup of adverts
Stole my life and yours

Encrusted here, in a dying world
Buy Ferrari and Christian Dior
Bond yourself in expensive purgatory
One additional hell balances

Footnote:

The Poet's Publication History:
A previous poem, Cruel World, was published

in the following Poetry Collections
Ancient Heart Magazine
Volume 5, Number 1, January 2007