Nov 162020
Ode to a garden (by Cathy)

A garden is a precious thing
It’s nature, love and art
Leaves and flowers, butterfly wings,
Pressed upon my heart.

Terry (by Jan)

Standing in my veggie patch, the broccoli, swelling and green
Broad beans stalks reaching for the giant sky
The soil so wet from recent decent rain
And I’m stuck in the mud – wanting to fly.

Living with it (by Ken)

Future bleak, addictive fear, Stasi at our gate,
Brow-beaten and ashamed to accept our fate
Liberties, fun and freedom few
Is this Covid nineteen, twenty one or twenty two?

Poets (by Ken)

Poets are normal people
Confessional, metaphysical, suicidal.
Depressing instincts emotional
Frequently impossible.

Football (by Noel)

Football isn't what I love
It's simply what I need.
Without the leather being kicked
I'm a basket-case indeed

Falling (by Pauline)

A lingering look, a tender smile
The flicker of a flame,
A touch of hands, brush of lips
Two hearts, never the same.

Osmosis (by Sue)

Odours, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart
To dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief.
If I could put the beautiful scent of love in a box and keep it
I’m certain I’d be able to tell you it would be the perfume of love.

Termites (by Terry)

I’ve never met the termites,
But I’ve seen what they can do.
They find some unsuspecting gum Then chew and chew and chew
And chew and chew and chew. TIMBER!