poetry page 2

The second of five pages of poetry for your perusal.


There is an evil we all fear
It takes our loved ones every year
It waits until our backs our turned
And steals the memories we have earned
It takes our most precious priceless things
Treasure unworthy of the wealthiest kings
It haunts our step each passing day
And waits its chance to pass our way
It cloaks itself in fear and lies
And comes awake when a person dies
It secretly skulks our rooms at night
Most people live and fear its bite 
Its something you don’t want to meet
And its something no one can ever beat
Its chasing after all of us
Its something you should never trust
What is this thing? You scream and shout
Your eyes are filled with fearless doubt
I’ll tell you, whisper in your ear
For even I have reason for fear
I’ve led you on with tales of woe
And have not named the deadly foe
The evil that stalks upon my rhyme
Is the ticking fief that we call time

Rachael Wootton

Tomorrow II

Tomorrow, I’m going to create an order
out of a thousand frowns, and a million
tears. Tomorrow, I’m going to remove

all those who still depend on weapons
in order to enforce their undemocratic
laws. Tomorrow, I’m going to remove

the disillusionment of a million poets,
and blend their spirits together into a
force that will travel to places where

those who have no voice still prostrate
in fear - and holding aloft a banner
bearing the image of an eastern sun…


I’m going to lead those battalions 
into battle.

A.G.Jagger, 2006.

Love in Full Bloom 

Shower fresh, when he touches me its like I've been sprinkled with sweetness, caress, caress, caress, alot of creativity in the thoughts we suggest for lives full of love, so opposite of the couple that's loveless and without success, we are the couple in lead, a couple with love in a bundle indeed, with todays plans and tomorrow's plans ready, oh so ready, to proceed, our love has the smooth movement of a slideshow during times of high and low, our relationship will go upslope and not downslope, take a look at us, analyze us, through a microscope, listen to our lesson in romance even if it will be like a shipload to unload yet carefully told, listen specifically to each keyword, because it will be an assortment to take in, follow the little tidbits, the most interesting fact is we're wrapped in love and interlocked, a fact I deem to say is the most transparent, striking because it's so apparent, there it remains still and simple enough to be coherent, we could wave our love around like the tallest flag, and we could advertise it like a banner in any such manner, to see our love together is like seeing a tour to allure, we keep our love like an inflow, exciting, we have a love that makes everyone just want to take, copy and paste, we have that love that's so endearing and valued that it's never going to go to waste, so inspiring, so inviting, with the power of lightning, so evident in real-life and writing, it's enticing and rising, we have our most romantic time swith Alicia Keys song "If I Ain't Got YOu" a song with the most impressive sound beats, a pictorial of sound that represents us, charismatic and upbeat, we are the couple that has a glistening, there to be hope for all who's listening, we are the rose in full bloom, we dominate as if for any other couple there's no space or room, we are the most loving even when other couples get sidetracked, any other couple competing with us can take a step to the side or at this very moment, get back! 

Tamarva Butler

Afraid of Paradise

I was too afraid to read paradise
Not worthy of fictitious or
Factual salvation
Instead, I left my bed
And sucked the evening fog
Through dry lips
Detached myself from the tea
Flavoured semblence of oaky mortality.
So serene green go
Grow slowly on the road
Snap amongst the trees and
Winter months of a
Wood far wiser than we
And Tell me, why
I am so afraid to read about paradise?

Paul Bluer

Out of Everything

Shall we lamely dine on God conversations?
Make light of the world
And all its silver-tongued promises
Believe that there really is
Order to it all?
To eat with you is an honour,
But thrashing voices distract to near
How do we make time within time?
Season insipid sequences of life with
Honey-salt and saffron?
Forget God
Forget time
Forget madness
In the end there is only you
Out of everything
There is no other.

Paul Bluer

I Live as I Dream

I live as I dream, alone
On this nightmare night
Where there is only ice streaking across my face
To affirm that I exist-
Corridors of houses channel me out of bed
A walking ice sculpture
Walking to meet the shadow at the top of a hill.
Under the wet orange streetlight
It has me
Melting and
So very frightened
Of what I might become.
These streets are lined dark green
Black and reflective, smooth, uninteresting.
The shadow beckons me forward,
Though its knowing lisp is lost in a lidless void
Of noise
On this nightmare night
Where I live as I dream, alone
Eaten alive by the icy wind in my head
And the screaming leaves in the dying trees
Of my horrible imagination.

Paul Bluer

Stools in Stereo

“This is what you get for acting big time.”
The connecting snap of knuckles
Synaptic wrapping
Buckles of knees and stools
In stereo
The pub is packed and there’s
No room for error, but they’re human?
And atmospheric pressure
Sends the water funny
Spurting wells of boiling blood
Thud, Thud, Thud!
The shirts are off and
Nobody intervenes..
Emollient numbness,
Stools in stereo.

Paul Bluer


birth caused your cells to stain over me 
like remnants of water discoloring stone 
yet no more my mother than 
the preliminary cell in mitosis
you've destroyed hope by stepping on the one dandelion 
that managed to grow through my sidewalk
made me feel as obvious as a lone facial hair
but don't worry yourself, mom
i've already checked out thanks


summer appetite

one's mind must
fry, popping and crispy on sidewalks
yellowed like bright leaves left on the balcony too long
a jaundiced dying reflecting in hot-blooded waves
to get to the meat of the matter
of summer
and have lemonade eyes with pineapple smiles
to understand the sour sweetness of
children sun burnt silly in the sand


hunting season

plucked and spotty sour
i emerge unscathed
ripened after a season with a platypus shimmy
bruised upon your plate

extract me
pour me open
let me soak into your salt 
and sweeten the stupor
wash off
glow transparent until
liar with the dew
wish for the hour season dies


let's take a holiday

there is a 6 year old girl
both parents dead of AIDS
which she has harbored since birth
and even if she didn't she would soon
for her aunt sold her into prostitution when she was 4

tourists flock with glee to the underage brothels
where this 6 year old girl lives
the children are cheap compared to sex workers in industrialized nations
a john usually hires 3 for the whole night

even when our freedom fighters leave the bases 
who knows what they'll do next
rape the children or pay them extra not to wear a condom
throw in the mother as a package deal
like some super saver special at k-mart
let's all fly to Haiti for the summer



"You have sleep walked for forty years," the shrink said.
He was right I looked around and could only remember
what happened then and since I had no idea what I was
doing in his office I left without paying. Walked to
the park to feed the ducks, as I used to do all years ago,
followed by the now agitated psychiatrist who waved
a piece of paper demanding his fee.
An elderly woman came said she was my wife, I laughed
said that she looked like my aunt. Angrily she turned to
the man who prided himself of being a dr. of the mind,
demanding that he make me into the sleepwalker I used to
be, but he wanted money first the woman refused to pay.
It came to blows they were both arrested.
I'm a psychiatrist the shrink shrieked. "I can see that"
the officer said, "assaulting an old woman in the park."
"He's my husband, the old lady wailed," pointing at me
and we laughed again. As they both were driven away
I, now officially young again, undressed and swam with
the ducks in the park.

Jan O Hansen


The Fire.

In the hallway, in our apartment building, a woman who
had no kitchen was making French fries when the oil
caught fire and spread quickly, my wife was only able to
save four of her fifty-one handbags, I was wearing roller skates at the time
(doctors order I've a hip problem and
cannot walk) I wasn't much help. Outside people from
the Red Cross were handing out sleeping bags but with
my handicap they gave me a big blanket and we went to
sleep under a tree. My wife wouldn't let go of my left
hand, which is awkward first thing in the morning (I'm
a leftie). A man from the housing department gave us a splendid flat
overlooking a tranquil bay, but there was
no lift, with my roller skates it was too difficult walking
up the steps; so they gave us a tent with a fitted kitchen
and Persian carpets throughout, my wife was so happy
that we went out shopping for handbags at a car boot sale arranged to help
victims of the fire.

Jan Oskar Hansen


The Loss.

The awakening was brutal a mule's kick
In solar plexus the inescapable knowledge
that no ship was going to my homeport
the picture gallery of friends and family
was getting fuzzy even mother's face
kept disappearing into a mist. "There is
no ship going back to your childhood
you are stuck her on the Sargasso Sea
forever in a mist" A voice said. "But I
must get back home " My pleading had
no after sound the words turned into
streaks of tears on a damp winter wall
The curtain was drawn there will not be
a second showing. I listened intensely
and could hear lone steps on iron decks.

Jan Oskar Hansen

The lonesome Hotel

The woman in the reception in the small hotel
had been sitting there very long, the rubber
plant, placed there in a pathetic attempt to
give the place ambiance had dust on pale
green leaves. The carpets were threadbare
and the steps creaked. (they do in small
hotels) Camphor resigned loneliness and
paper-thin walls. Miss Glenda, the fifty-two
year old school teacher and my neighbour
(we shared a wall) was quiet as a mouse till
Friday then she drank sherry tripped over and
swore like a one legged sailor she cried too
turned the volume of her TV up to silence
the pain in her heart. On Saturday she slept
late and on Sunday she went to church twice.
She always ignored me, never said halloo
ice wouldn't melt on her cold lips, but I did
notice the delicate flutter of her hands.

Jan Oskar Hansen

Eco poem

how i long for
the good
old days
when poems
were encouraged
to rhyme
with rhythm,
and alliteration
was in vogue

now i'm not allowed
to use capitals
to start
each line

and my thoughts
mustn't flow
like a river
but be jumbled up
to create
a sense
of mystery
and obfuscation

i shouldn't use big words
or the uneducated
might feel left out

i notice that
this way
uses more paper!

david burns


Love Story

It was raining in Rangoon the day when
the Portuguese sailor met Anna Knight
and for reasons that cannot be explained
fell into a state of infatuation the strange
bewilderment people call love.

Anna had been left stranded by her cruel
husband and now made a living plying
drinks and dispensing fake sympathy to
lonely Portuguese sailors, but all that
changed when she Carlos the matelot.

The day they got married in a pagoda
it stopped raining and kind people gave
them enough money so they could get
back to Portugal and open a posh bar
in Cascais where redundant kings live.

Their ambition was their undoing they
should have settled at a modest place,
say, Portimao, a fishing village with
a transient community of desperate
ex pats that long for a mythical home.

Anna met king Zog of Baleclavia who
promised to make her a queen one day.
Now Anna makes breakfast for a king,
iron his trousers, while Carlos sails seas
remembering rainy days in Rangoon

Jan Oskar Hansen



If your path in life is written in
the stars, don't waste time by
looking up when it's overcast.

Jan Oskar Hansen


Arthur’s Grief

I listen, 
he talks 
yet walks
his zest 
for life
his wife
has gone
so wrong
he feels 
he talks
and chalks
his life
in time
then cheats
his facing grief
is brief
too harsh 
the pain
to remain
he talks 
he’s beat
his mountain 
high as sky
he dare not meet
or face
his pace
is mad
yet sad
and so
he stays
until his grief
he meets

Gordon Allsopp


Tragedy Afar

Another earth quake, in the far- east
thousands natives killed, but since
no western tourists were involved
this tragic news do not call for big
dramatic headlines. There is a limit
how much and for whom we grief.
"Poor bastards" is the extent of our
empathy. Now for the real news:
the cost of petrol is going up again.

Jan Oskar Hansen



A nice
Juicy pear
It is so much
Softer than apple
Unless they are not ripe
In which case they can be like
Raw potato, much too hard to chew.
My favourite is the Conference pear
But some folk prefer the William
I do love the way the juice runs
Down your chin and drips
Onto your shirt

David Burns


Occam’s Razor

There must be a better way
To say what’s on my mind
But words won’t come
Like they used to do
Before you said goodbye

Tears rain down to drown my thoughts
Emotion conquers all
Attempts to enunciate
The emptiness I feel

I will never understand the language
Of dissociation
The slicing through our
Once upon a time togetherness
Occam’s Razor says
We should accept the simplest explanation
That works

But what works for me did not work for you

(William of Occam, 14th Century Philosopher)

david burns

Retirement Games

Impassively they play their game
Fishermen retired from the nets
No longer in conflict with the roaring sea
Solemnly contemplating the next move
It doesn’t matter who wins
It’s the game that counts
Not how many fish caught this night
No longer their concern
Let the next generation worry about that
Chess, checkers, backgammon, regional variations
Coastlines harbour the same visions
Old men in exile from the sea
Too tired from a lifetime’s struggle
To care about the catch
While old wives keep the nets from tearing
Too weary from a lifetimes cooking
To care about the old mens’ games

david burns



Pain in the third person
Can never override
Pain in the first person
No matter how we sympathise
Console the suffering
Of others
Our own malfunctions
Of the body
Will always shine through
Confirming our entitlement
At least to a modicum of self-pity

david burns