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Valhalla Can Wait – A Poem by Paul Tristram

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There’s another Spring a-coming
after this long, bitter Winter.
The path is twisting fiercely
but that does not signify an ending
merely a new chapter beginning.
I’ve still strength enough
to work the morning anvil
and carve miracles from wood.
I’ve Fathered all my Offspring
but I’m yet to watch them grow.
My wheat and barley
are only shoulder-high…
there’s still a-way to go.
Before the grinning Reaper
takes a swipe
and a-tumbles me like snow.
My battle-axe still has room
for a few fresh notches yet.
I can thunder with the best of them,
my instincts remain sharp and true.
There’s another barn to build somewhere,
always more horse’s hooves to shoe.
I’ve learnt my lessons hard and well,
I take comfort in small pleasures.
Whilst striving always higher,
each extra sunrise is a gift, a treasure.

More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

We Can Move On – A Poem by G. Louis Heath

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I visited my Mom at the morgue today.
She’s doing just fine. And thank you for

asking. It’s sad it’s come to this, but now
we communicate much better. Death doth

become her! Too bad we didn’t share more
in life. But, as they say, it’s never too late.

At least that’s the way I feel, though I can
see you might differ. You remind me of Dad

before he passed away. Always the stone face,
the inscrutable Sphinx, always guessing at my

thoughts, and I his. You might say things have
settled down a lot now, and we can move on.

Down-River, Back Past Her Heart – A Poem by Paul Tristram

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I sailed my nostalgic boat
of remembrance.
The Springtime colours,
energy and freshness
were dazzling and overwhelming.
I choked, momentarily,
witnessing just how
vital and alive her smile had been.
Summer, was gentle,
a humming, vibrant
beehive of contentment,
warmth and sweet caresses.
The gods above
had temporarily
lost their warring anger.
There were births
both physical and emotional,
the senses had peaked.
A short journey into Fall
and the greying hair had started.
Crow’s feet,
the once thaw now revoked
and a bitter logic to reasoning.
Matters of the heart
had become almost scientific.
The magic and wonderment
that had once abounded
was now easily shrugged off,
untranslatable and replaceable.

More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

Death in the Suburbs – A Poem by Ian Fletcher

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It came as no surprise at all
when the old lady expired
never more to open the door
of her empty suburban home
after the two grueling months
away in the intensive care ward
her organs failing one by one.
Though he deemed it a mercy
that she had now passed on
there at the crematorium he felt
a moment or two of filial grief
with some trite reflections
on the transience of life
but was soon brought round
by his most practical wife
who if the truth be told
had never really much liked
her deceased mother-in-law.
So before a month had passed
the house of his childhood
was on sale at three hundred
and fifty thousand pounds
for life must go on he knows
his wife already pricing up
the new extension and patio.

Thank You, Mona – A Poem by JD DeHart

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Oh, Mona Lisa,
thank you for teaching
me today at the coffee shop,
a lesson in how to smile
without smiling

I’ve always tried to offer
strangers a warm mitigating
grin that says, trust me.
I’m not so bad.

Maybe it seems childlike.
I don’t know. It certainly
feels that way.
Modicum of wordless kindness.

But you taught me today, Mona,
not to soften the edges.
Let them be jagged,
no grin at all.

Territory – A Poem by JD DeHart

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He beats the space
with his fists, stomps.
Like this is the gorilla
cage. Like we are all
spectators. Watch me,
he says without words.
He blubbers through
his jowls sounds I cannot
measure or ascertain.
I am not sure what this
kid is doing, so I ask him
to sit back down.
Because that’s my job,
I drew this lot.
This is the time where
his jungle fury is put to bed
and he has to linger
in his animal swamp
until the bus pulls up.
 
More at https://jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com.

Bundled into a Wheelchair – A Poem by Gareth Culshaw

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I saw her last week
bundled into a wheelchair
pushed around by her
daughter’s tongue.

She is past tense now
with apron and overcooked
potatoes left in the ceiling.
Husband used to go searching

for worms while the soil lay in wait.
Her hedge was the biggest
in the avenue. Keeping the
noses out, her voice in.

Those glasses that sat
on the bridge, watching
the world go by like some
toll gate man. She herself

with the busiest pupils around.
Now she sits on the spindles
being spun into the next life.

Tired Feet in Heavy Boots – A Poem by Roy Pullam

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A worker
His sturdy blue uniform dirty
Grease under his fingers
Callouses on his hand
His hard work and bad back
A given trade
For his Friday pay
Two children and a wife
Waiting at home
Bills to be paid
Children expecting
The things
Other fathers provide
His is a challenge
A triage
Of bills and opportunity
A choice of who to deny
Who will wait
And who demands
A payment
The grind never changes
The kitchen table
Feeding his anxiety
Window letters
In a pile
Second notice
Final notice
All shuffled
Into sleepless nights
The morning clock
Pounds him awake
Too little sleep
The temptation
To bury his head
But he will not shirk
Rising from the bed
Bathing, eating
Putting his feet
In the heavy boots
The laces
Tying him
To forty years
Forty years
Then done
Gone too fast
With little left

Autobiography – A Poem by J.K. Durick

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Comes at us, disguises itself in incidents
some memorable, some we try to forget,
others, too trivial to recall.

Comes at us full of strangers, so crowded
we’re pushed to the edge of the platform,
all elbows and missteps, All mumbling and
maneuvering.

Comes at us through the mail, over the phone
full of odd voices and smudged words, full
of sound and shape without too much to hold
onto or believe in.

It comes at us, smiles, beckons, then slaps
when we reach out hoping for a break.

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