Typhoon at Southport Air Show

 

 

Ripping up the air

Smashing the sky

Tears away, then

 

Hanging above

Like some stupendous kite

Howling

 

Shattering sound

The crowd is silenced

Awestruck

 

Vicious triangle

Pulling stops and turns

Splintering the wind

 

Vertical vanishing

Leaves car alarms whirring –

Loud on the street, but

 

After the air rage

Puny

Unheeded.

 

 

 

Dea Parkin
September 2009

A lament, to be sung to the tune of 'You Don't See Me' by Keane

You didn't see me

I got to the door,
I pushed it all right,
Struggled against it with all of my might
The door won't budge, it's locked up tight
And I'm out here, out of your sight

I knocked really loud, I waved like a freak
You didn't see me
You didn't see me

Don't worry, I thought, let's just wait a few
or five extra minutes and maybe they'll view
This soggy figure all rained on
here in the dark and all alone

but slowly I...

By Dave Bateman - Posted 30 March 2009

She calls us Alf and Betty:
we're the only pets she'll keep,
since Jasper had his trouble,
and the vet put him to sleep.
But we don't ever need a vet.
We don't get lice or fleas.
We like to lead a quiet life,
as tidy as you please.

We are poodles, two poodles,
in a pair and not in oodles.
We are two china poodles
made in Italy.
We stand upon the mantle,
shtum as mice, and not one pant'll
come from us: we just do nothing,
very prettily.

She seems to...

I can see what you're doing
out there,
through the kitchen window.

How you bend low,
dip your hand into the shallow
pool, stare into it,
as though reading your fortune,
or divining a path to lead you
through the stars, reflected
there in the gathering gloom.
See you drink it;

I turn back into the room,
disgusted with your
need to consume everything
you lay your dirty hands on.

And yesterday
I saw you in Tesco,
and followed you
down the petfood aisle;
saw you smile as
you lifted the...

The snowdrop with its drooping head
Small clusters in flower beds
Growing in God’s earth
Shoots of new birth.

Soft white petals so fragile
Tiny green leaves shooting from the ground
What a wonder of God’s nature
The snowdrop with its beauty all around.

A sunset curtain closed the play,
the one act drama of the day
must be rewritten for tomorrow:
the highs, the lows, the love, the sorrow.

The actors rest, the authors pause,
consider light through open doors
and weave their plot to stop the heart:
the face, the joy, the test, the part

On this timeless anvil the play is wrought.
The pen a clashing hammer brought
down to fashion a new curtain rise:
a plough, a sword, a bed, a scythe.

Will Buckley
20/7/2009

 

Mashed up fleas

The juice of bees

A globule of glandular goo

The mixture boils

The witch toils

Over her bubbling brew.

Extraction of flies

Dead frogs’ eyes

A soupçon of snails’ entrails

Her sweat drops

Plop plops

Into the steaming stew.