Ble Mae Cwtch (Aww, She’s Just Lonely, Mun!) by Paul Tristram

Your One Phone Call

She’s a bit better
now that they’ve banned her
from buying alcohol
in the Town Centre.
Has to walk to the next village
five mile away
and tends to stop for the night
in an old horsebox
halfway back.
Aye, she still sleeps in the old cemetery,
no, the baby’s not there,
they don’t bury people there anymore,
it’s down the Crematorium Field in Margam.
My heart goes out to her, mun,
it really does.
I try and leave her pasties
when I can, you know,
but we’re all skint these days, innit.
It’s when she comes out with that
‘Ble Mae Cwtch’ nonsense,
it does me in.
It’s not the smell,
I can put up with that.
It’s the shuddering sobbing
in your arms,
I swear to God the heartache
passes straight from her into you.

paul smoking - Copy Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and…

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Traces Of The Past ~ The 330-Year-Old Hedge

Tish Farrell

P1040963

It’s hard to imagine that this gigantic bastion of ancient yew trees began three centuries ago as a formal terrace row, each tree cut into a neat, small cone or obelisk. Back then in the 1680s, when these trees were first planted, the taste in grand garden design was for the linear and geometric, following the French notion of strict plant control.

A hundred years later it was all change.  In keeping with the new romantic landscape style of English gardening, the yews were allowed to grow as they pleased. The aim was to create vistas of idealized nature.

But this more liberal attitude did not last either. Around the time of the yews’ two-hundredth birthdays, Victorian garden men armed with sickles and step ladders intervened, and began creating this  arboreal rampart of free-form topiary. Both fascinating and overbearing, I feel. The gardeners apparently hung onto to their ladders with…

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I Have Met The Serpent by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Your One Phone Call

I have met the serpent in the darkness many times
We have our little chat and a couple of laughs
Before I step on him
Mashing his head with my heavy heel
As he whips his long tail around
His little stinger at the end
Jabbing me a good sting
Sending me back the way I came
Running through a garden with a beautiful woman
Thunder overhead
Wishing the giant drops of tears were only rain.

Stephen Jarrell Williams 2 Not so long ago, Stephen Jarrell Williams was called by some, the Great Poet of Doom… Now, he writes at night, enthused, and waiting for the Coming Good Dawn.

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It’s a Job–part 2

Southern Highways and Byways

“Ania, my baby sister has died.” The professor’s voice pulled me back into the present. “I have to go home for a few weeks.”

“Of course,” I said. “Where’s home?”

“Krakow. I have booked a flight out for tonight. Tessa, I hate to ask this of you, but I have no one else I trust.”

“Anything, Professor.” I took a sip of coffee, looked up into Cass’s curious eyes. “Anything at all.”

“Can you drive me to the airport, then pick me up when I return?”

“Of course.”

“And there is another thing…it’s about the spraying you have been doing for me.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. I’ll do it every evening like always.”

“There is more I need to tell you, Tessa…to keep you safe. There are things you do not know.”

I looked up. Cass had moved away, but was still within earshot. Whatever the professor had…

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Dear Sister by Natalie Crick

I am not a silent poet

It is Winter here.

Snow has fallen.

“I am afraid”, said the moon.

She is beautiful tonight.

Now it is darker than December.

What is dead is a different colour.

My dead sister is neither a man nor a woman.

She is a ghost.

We do not speak of her

Anymore.

I turn away from mirrors

When I see her reflection.

The dead can no longer see

I no longer care.

O Lord of darkness,

I want my innocence.

..

Natalie Crick has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional Women’s poetry. Her poetry has been published in a range of journals and magazines including Cannons Mouth,Cyphers, Ariadne’s Thread, Carillon and National Poetry Anthology 2013.

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The Last True Enchanter

Elan Mudrow

Henry Harewood Robinson Henry Harewood Robinson

On nights like these,

I’m a-sounding like the sublime

Notes that fly.

The inner voices to the outer ear

One with all energies around me

Including the audience’s reaction

To my flight, we are together

Inside our own jet stream

Then, silence. The smell

Of abandoned alcohol and

A stale lover’s quarrel swell

I get a free beer and no money

Been doing these spells for decades

That’s a hell of a lot of beer

No money

So now, I gotta steal my licks to eat

From magicians I love

But, as I scrape the pot for burnt offerings

I begin to hate my thievery

It digs a hole in my gut…as I utter

The bluest of tones comprised of lonely flatted fifths

Bent thirds that shiver through my angry spine

Shaping me into a junkie for….

The vibration of my instrument

Soothing me

Into a…

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Swallowed!

The Foureyed Poet

It had been too quiet until the darkness

swallowed the remaining light

within that moment at the idyllic result

the free and easy mood had gone

as from beneath the sea onto the beach

the creatures had found a breach!

Swarming coming from deep down below

the few soon became thousands

unaware locals and tourists intermingled

as the danger came ever closer

through a new rift from another dimension

had rapidly made their ascension!

Created by nature’s onward destruction

battling against human aggression

innocence was about to be annihilated

like a plague would destroy

the monsters converged on humanity

adding to the growing insanity!

Laughter from the clubs began to climb

dancing shouting and singing

a new sound penetrated the joyful mix

nothing like it heard before

as a black mass started breaking through

on the flesh these things did chew!

They had an intelligence moving forward

an advancing invading army

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