Poetry By John Holding

Sunset on the farmer’s veranda

Slant sun runs long shadows
Merging the fringed paddock’s
Quiet crippled shade.

Dry, leaf riddled ground
Dust eddies flung towards
Strewn remnants of hay

Fences march in their futility
Thinned barriers laid low
Unable to inhibit

the shadows of hollow cattle
seeking
While the farmer’s wife,

Summoned by the sudden bang
Broken from her silent agony
Echoes the cattle’s lament

As the gunsmoke wisp
Dies in the slant sunbeam’s
Slow fading.

Poetry By Carl “Papa” Palmer

Bavarian Barista

At that first taste,
my initial savoring sip,
smoky, rich, strong,

unlike any anywhere,
anytime I had ever had
and I had had my share,

but this German Kaffee
mit zucker und kreme,
served hot as her smile

suggests a second cup
for the rest of my life.

Poetry By Timothy Horne

Mercy’s Offence- Jonah’s Complaint

My soul rebelled
Against your call
I fled, to you avoid,
It seemed to me
Unreasonable
That those to be destroyed,
Receive yet one
More chance to turn
And in you find true joy.

My heart grew mean
My spirit cruel
Your mercy should be bound,
By limits of
A place or Race
And never to be found,
Where needed most
Where love seems lost
And evil acts abound.

But I could not
Escape your gaze,
Evade your quixotic plan,
A violent squall
The ship engulfed
Your mercy me outran,
In fish immense
Retraced my path
Left me where I began.

For three long days
I crossed the town
Your message I broadcast,
To my disgust
The crowds believed
Me, and your anger passed,
So now I sit
With fest’ring hate
Embarrassed and downcast.

What right have you,
To turn from rage,
From punishment relent?
It feels unfair
Too soft, too kind
Benevolence misspent.

“Should not my love,
Be shown to them?
I need not your assent,”
For I require
A humble walk
With heart to justice bent,
“So, turn from hate
And mercy show
As I to you frequent.”

Poetry By Michael Hack

Rewind:

There’s something in me I can’t outrun
Every road just leads me back to what I’ve done
Moments looping like they never end
Time keeps tracing where we’ve been
I feel the past pulling me in again

I want to feel alive in ways that don’t hurt anymore
You never stopped being important to me
And yet
I meant nothing to you

Can we ever go back in time
Back to where it all began
Before it went wrong
Before we became ashes on the wind
Rewind time
Unetch the glass
Undo it all and give ourselves one more pass

Undo the pain
Undo the arguments
Undo the biting words
Take back our past
Before it broke
Before it burned
Before there’s nothing left to return to

Can we save ourselves
From what we became
Can we pull what’s left of us
From the regret and the shame

Meet me back here in another life
Where we never lost ourselves

I wish we had more time

Poetry By Ghairo Daniels

ODE TO THE MYRRH TREE

So the tree stood in the centre of the desert
mangled by winds of change and truth of joy
chains of dust and torrents of rare rain

Burnt black and senseless by an
unrelenting Sun of nightmare beauty
orange was the sand of scorpions
orange was the mirage of miracles
orange was her veil of innocence

As the tree stank of heavenly myrrh
itched to pour its oil over orange
nippled breasts and buttocks
stroke curves and carves
of luminous beauty with its
ancient branches of stony bark
as beetles made holy love in its
crevices of dark deep velvet depth

And the mangled magic of the myrrh
stood short and stumped and watched
the breath of a timeless desert
slow movements of noble camels
with long thick lashes speaking of
magnificent slowness in the lick of lick
a lip in a lip

Tree of a thousand loves
sprinklings in sparkles spaced
over a tent of chiffon on sand
slithering with patterned serpents
and eyes of dark magic, of long
limbs all in One
twine and twine and grow together
as all become One
with myrrh and magic
heavy beads of sweat and
amber laugh and scream

Moments of a tree of ugly love
as ugly melts into vacant beauty
irresistible wordless wrinkles ageless

Deep furrows of sweet scent
sent desert creatures weeping
to smiling stars as a tree of life
stood stock still to imbibe
eternal myrrh itself

Poetry By Paul Glover

Not My Problem?

Distant deaths are weightless.
A pound of flesh or a kilogram of death
are things one might quibble over
if it were someone you knew,
or yourself.
But what is the pinched difference
between you
and a million or two Sudanese or Jews
or Ukrainians or Palestinians?

The repeatedly slapped face ceases to sting.
But each grief has mothers, sisters, brothers,
just like your mothers, sisters, brothers.
What happened to Peace?
Who diluted Ideals?

Armaments for governments;
yours and mine.
Their fascination with assassination
of the people, by the people, for the people for you?
It’s only the means to an end, of course –
to end regimes and reassert routine.
But as the means to our ends is force,
perhaps it’ll be the means to all our ends,
and in the end, remorse …
… when all we need is Peace.

Poetry By J.B. Hogan

“I Studied Your Face”

Last week when you felt bad and we were by the bookcase
I studied your face, tired, full of character yet worn out
I could see you were world-weary, and I wanted to make you
feel better for the moment, about the day, maybe about everything.

I could see and feel the depth and complexity
of your personality, feel some of the pain
of your life, of your past, of your present
I hoped I could somehow find a way to
lift your spirits, a little, some, even for a
moment, some of the day, a little bit of your life.

But it’s not my place to do that, or even try
all I can do is try not to be more of an
annoyance or pain than you already have
in your world that I really know little of
but wish I knew enough to make you
feel good for a moment, part of the day,
maybe just a little bit of your life.

Poetry By Debra Elramey

Blessed Shakers

Not you, not me
no mystic, no bride
who knows her Beloved
not he, not she
abiding in the Vine
called to be a prophet
called to be a priest
can settle for
spectator seats.
No being fully alive
Wild Goose chasers
Blessed shakers
on the run, on the move
can be captured, tamed
domesticated, trained
trapped inside the cave
to be fooled, tricked
by shadows on the wall.

Poetry By Isaac Furtney

Barnacle

We all emerged from

The sea

It washes the shore

Then recedes

It advances, probes

Learns, retreats, prepares

We venture back to it

Seeking solitude sound and stars

We pollute it, stain it, fill it with floating refuse

Its salt can kill us of thirst, its essence can revive our grave wounds

It waits, we wade, make sport, take its residents

Wrap its fauna in its flora for treats

Sometimes it takes us too

It. Freezes. It thaws, It sublimates, evaporates

Purifies itself and condenses and rains back down

It adapts. It persists.

Maybe it will cover us all in a final embrace.

Will we adapt?

Poetry By Poetess Defy

Dominance (Usain Bolt)

He stood tall on the starting line,
a lightning bolt in human spine.
Crowds leaned in with breath held tight,
waiting for the spark of flight.
The gunshot cracked — the world stood still,
time bent to his electric will.
Stride by stride he split the air,
a blur of power, sleek and rare.
Berlin roared, Beijing bowed,
stadiums thundered, nations wowed.
Records shattered, legends born,
a Jamaican star crowned world’s new dawn.
He danced, he smiled, he struck his pose,
a king the whole world came to know.
From Trelawny’s hills to global fame,
Bolt carried more than just his name.
Dominance — not just in speed,
but spirit, joy, and fearless lead.
A champion carved from island grit, proof that greatness is our fit.