bus not due -
making a pot of tea
last an hour
Gerald England, UK
Saturday, 24 March 2012
Sunday, 18 March 2012
Water by Ameerah Arjanee
I do not know your name,
only know that you are a
small drop of water bearing
an iota of life, and that we are
the same, our shoulders
momentarily blending into
each other as we flow
That knowledge is enough
to move a river.
Ameerah Arjanee, Mauritius
only know that you are a
small drop of water bearing
an iota of life, and that we are
the same, our shoulders
momentarily blending into
each other as we flow
That knowledge is enough
to move a river.
Ameerah Arjanee, Mauritius
Saturday, 10 March 2012
Creating Waterways by Vivian Faith Prescott
After a long drink of cold water-spring
Raven opens his beak and drops water,
water touches mountainsides, swirls
and splashes then torrents and rushes.
The river is forming, brown and bitter water
as he creates the Stikine—Shtax’héen.
Water from his beak forms the Nass, the Skeena,
the Chilkat, the Alsek, and the Taku.
He delights in order—do not flood the world.
He delights in chaos—swirl madly.
Vivian Faith Prescott, Alaska, USA
Raven opens his beak and drops water,
water touches mountainsides, swirls
and splashes then torrents and rushes.
The river is forming, brown and bitter water
as he creates the Stikine—Shtax’héen.
Water from his beak forms the Nass, the Skeena,
the Chilkat, the Alsek, and the Taku.
He delights in order—do not flood the world.
He delights in chaos—swirl madly.
Vivian Faith Prescott, Alaska, USA
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Marina by David Subacchi
Last time broken boats
stuck in silt, leaning drunkenly,
crying out for
tar and paint, rusty
stains, stench
from the fishing,
blood streaked oil on
crumbling concrete
This time gleaming yachts pulling
gently at well arranged moorings,
the tinkle of ropes against masts,
shining brass on polished wood.
Newly built apartments gazing
down at lobster pots stacked
neatly in rows next to hoists
lined up like gibbets
along the harbour wall.
David Subacchi, Wales
stuck in silt, leaning drunkenly,
crying out for
tar and paint, rusty
stains, stench
from the fishing,
blood streaked oil on
crumbling concrete
This time gleaming yachts pulling
gently at well arranged moorings,
the tinkle of ropes against masts,
shining brass on polished wood.
Newly built apartments gazing
down at lobster pots stacked
neatly in rows next to hoists
lined up like gibbets
along the harbour wall.
David Subacchi, Wales
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