John Fish B.Sc. Publishers of Tenby in Wales (UK)

Follow @tenbypublishers         FaceBook

Let the Muse of Earth be with You!


Tenby Publishers
Webhosts of Tenby OnLine Literary Festival

Rowse Poetry Anthology

Explore your Relationship with Planet Earth and the Human Condition


"Dyma'r awyr; dyna'r haul gogoneddus ..."
"This is the air; that is the glorious sun ..." Shakespeare, What You Will

Love our Planet Earth?

Anthology of Poems with a theme exploring the emotional complexities of our relationship between Planet Earth and the Human Condition published online free-to-read by Tenby Publishers.

Copyright remains with Author to whom any enquires should be made (via imbedded email link).

(Publisher's note: This anthology contains hyperlinks to facilitate navigation betweeen the index and poems)





Home of the Garden by Matthew E. McMillen

The Trees by Matthew E. McMillen

Metropolitan Agenda by Matthew E. McMillen

Fast Sun by Matthew E. McMillen

Molly's Eyes by Lorraine Voss

Just an Ordinary Man by Lorraine Voss

In the Eye of the Beholder by Lorraine Voss

In Self Defence by Lorraine Voss

Birthday Ode! by Shaunagh Cole

The Letter by Shaunagh Cole

Inner Beauty by Maurice D. Sassoon

Aging by Maurice D. Sassoon

Oh, Weary Ear and Ever-Restless Mouth! by Maurice D. Sassoon

Alzheimer by Maurice D. Sassoon

Highways of My Mind by Maurice D. Sassoon

In Darkness He was Light over the Din by Emma Threlfall

My Love by Emma Threlfall

At Last by Emma Threlfall

The Walkway by Emma Threlfall

Home Again by Emma Threlfall

My Black Little Heart by David Nicholas

Contempt by David Nicholas

Velvet Wings by David Nicholas

The Kiss of the Damned by David Nicholas

Satin Sheets by David Nicholas

The Spider by Colin Morris

The Ant by Colin Morris

La Luna by Colin Morris

Tribute to the King of Pop by Emma Washington

Reality Filmed by Sabahudin Hadzialic

Strange Dream by Sabahudin Hadzialic

Eternal Dreams by Sabahudin Hadzialic

Devil's Playground by Sabahudin Hadzialic

To Be Myself (Now and Here) by Sabahudin Hadzialic

From Vision to Wanting by Ryan McPhee

The Carnival by Ryan McPhee

M by Ryan McPhee

What is Sex? by Ryan McPhee

Vantage Point by Rebecca Mummery

Masochist's Second Chance by Rebecca Mummery

The Wooded Landscape by Rebecca Mummery

Heart of Infinity by Rebecca Mummery

To Cherish, My Dear by Rebecca Mummery

Life by Mark Lowes

The Car by Casson Booth

Phones by Casson Booth

The Dog by Casson Booth






Home of the Garden


Matthew E. McMillen

e-mail: Matthew E. McMillen

You are not Chinese

You are not British

You are not American or Japanese

You are human!

You sit on the edge of the sea with your feet in the water and your back against the mountains

You are the fat man jumping into the stream of commerce

You dream beneath the moon though you never sleep

Millions of people move through your streets like blood in your veins

You grow fat with advancement and opportunity

You grow so large you displace the world around you

The creepy find anonymity and those with something to say find an audience

You stimulate my olfactory senses with the smells of enterprise

If I stay here much longer I will become absorbed

You play for keeps

You are Hong Kong!




The Trees


Matthew E. McMillen

e-mail: Matthew E. McMillen

Cardboard ships on the horizon again

Oaks yellow and green

Age comes as the fall brings the snow

Next year not the same girls will come, trees will grow

His young mind ponders lore of pictures

Innocence in the trees

Lonely child at play

Young wind in his sails

Swept away

Swept away ...




Metropolitan Agenda


Matthew E. McMillen

e-mail: Matthew E. McMillen

He is driven by executive directive and careerism

She is driven by Lexus

Country club birthday parties and hand-me-down Mercedes are paid for by weekend business trips and sales rallies

One time offer! Corporate whipping boy and silicon breast toy

Ponytails, tennis skirts, and monogram dress shirts

Soccer moms dressed up like dolls with character flaws

Gave up legacy for status and the corporate apparatus

Holidays once blazoned with care and ritual

Acts once cultural and traditional are no longer habitual

Trail of romance overgrown with malediction of wondering eyes.




Fast Sun


Matthew E. McMillen

e-mail: Matthew E. McMillen

This is the time the time of the fast sun

Days become short and the sun falls far in the sky

The soil is cold and firm

Fallen leaves dance in the brisk clean smelling wind

The forest floor is settled and dormant

The trees stand like rigid framework prepared to support a low gray sky when it gives way

I am a visitor among the elements

My face is cool and dry and white like paper

My eyes water and paint my paper face with tears

My breath freezes in the crisp air, and the fast sun slows to become a moon among many.




Molly's Eyes


Lorraine Voss

e-mail: Lorraine Voss

They were wide, dead and empty.
They were cry dry, vibrant green.
They were gin-soaked drunken
... sunken.
( Molly's eyes I mean ).
She was dead to dread and heartache.
She was numb and would succumb
to the whims of pimps and pushers
unaware that she'd become
a crack-whore-junkie-hooker.
Injected and infected.
Disrespected by her peers.
and neglected.

Denial keep her ticking
and substance killed disgust,
until sobriety raised it's rare seen head
and she decide that she must
destroy the rancid shell
that housed this saddened core
so she trod the road to the station
as she often had before.
But this time,
... this time was different.
There would be no going back.
No more hiding in a bottle,
or behind the coke and crack.

She leapt to death rejoicing.
She embraced it open armed
and she uttered a prayer for the others
that the city slums had harmed.
They found her corpse beside the tracks
eyes open, wide and dead.
Death by misadventure,
the coroner had said
and no one now would miss her
or notice that she'd gone,
tell stories of her past
and sing the song of swan
or tell how they were open wide
tear soaked vibrant green
and no longer cry dry hardened

( Molly's eyes I mean ).




Just an Ordinary Man


Lorraine Voss

e-mail: Lorraine Voss

A man came to the door today.
Long hair, blue eyes, six three.
He said he was in the area,
giving estimates for free.
He said that he could mow the lawn,
... do any odd jobs I could find.
He made no mention of saving souls
or healing the sick or the blind.
I showed him to the garden shed,
where the tools and the mower were stored
and I noticed the scars on the palms of his hands
as he reached for the mower cord.

I said, "Are you who I think you are ?"
and he told me to lower my voice.
He made me promise to keep his secret.
He said he had no choice.
He said he'd tried to walk the road
that he thought he was meant to take
but it left him open to ridicule
and taunts of FREAK and FAKE
then psychiatric analysis,
intravenous aid
and tests that just confirmed
the diagnosis that they'd made.

" They say I'm schizophrenic," he said
and I think they may be right
because now that I take the tablets
I no longer see the light,
feel the urge to help mankind
or foretell of it's demise.
I have no interest in God and his love
or the Devil's hate and lies.
I simply mow the lawns
and fix things where I can.
I am not the son of God
I'm just an ordinary man.

It seems that modern medicine
has cured him of his ills.
Made him ordinary
with it's sugar coated pills.
Cured him of his caring.
and his passion for humanity.
Freed him from the shackles
of his obvious insanity.
But what if he was right ?
with no illness or affliction
and what if the healing,
was in fact ... a chemical crucifixion.




In the Eye of the Beholder


Lorraine Voss

e-mail: Lorraine Voss

I usually make it a steadfast rule not to elucidate my poetry but in this case I think I should probably explain that the layout and rhyme scheme I've used for this piece is completely experimental and I'm still not 100% sure whether I like it or not and I'm afraid that I might be too blinded by my absolute love of the subject matter to form a valid poetic opinion.

The idea is that the poem starts as modern wishy washy free verse and then gradually evolves into something more structured and formal in the same way as the Wales changes from soft and apathetic in the South to to harder and more steeped in tradition and culture the further North you go.

Well that's the theory anyway. I shall leave you to be the judge of whether or not it works ....

"The wind farms are beautiful" she said.

but not thirty miles North, nor forty minutes later

as if by contrived contrast, Trawsfynydd intruded

and made foray into her head

rendering her eyes peeled and salted

with it's harsh and sinister visual.

Digital mind recorded the scene

transcribing its eyesore imagery

to a slide-show set between

what was; and all she hoped could be,

posted (all be it in washed out Conservative green)

upon her deceptively delicate

and easily offended sensibilities.

So she disregarded the diversion


in an act of deliberate denial,

over-papered it with quaint zephyr blade images

borrowed from the start of the excursion,

hoping only now,

for the meandering sway of an easy day

on the curves of an idyll mountain road

and exactly so it ribboned forth

from patchwork fielded, hedgerow hemmed farms,

through manufactured forestry, deliberate made, square

and all too familiar

to this;

Her coddling, cushioned, green and rolling Wales

transformed by gradient degrees

and turned then to harder shades

of tree-less bleak and blackened block-scape.

Grey-scale misted mountains brooded ominous

and left her thoughts half and half mixed

with equal allotments of oppressed and transfixed.

Each new view

inspiring future rhyming writes

and abstract, slate shaped, palate knife paintings.

The muse giddy spun, danced dizzy through her mind

while her cultured guide (and pilot of this ride)

threw forth reference of history, heritage

and stainless Sospan monuments.

Battle tales of Princes of Wales

recited aloud with a "proud of roots" knowledge undervalued

and seldom now seen

in this modern day hussle bussle "Land of my Fathers"

and yet still ..

the road upward,

onward goes

to ever more dramatic horizons.

Each surpassing its predecessor.

Each flowing.

Poetic !

Like rhyming lines and metered text.

Each peak a veritable stepping stone to more

.. and more

and next.

'til crag and bouldered summit silent stands,

in wait of the return of Eagles grace.

Listening as the ancient stories flow

onward down the valley from this place


from Fathers' voices to Sons it travels on

through names best heard when whispered, softly spoke,

or even sung, as Celtic history sings

so smooth upon the tip of Cymru's tongue

Immortalizing many a deed of mettle

lamentful voiced o'er hill and vale it brings

a feeling of at-oneness with the clansmen of my past


a loathing of marauding English Kings.




In Self Defence


Lorraine Voss

e-mail: Lorraine Voss

I'm building an ornamental mind castle
with turrets made from high ideals
and moats of endless possibilities.

Archery slits for shooting critics
and a portcullis of thick skin
to keep them out

... and keep me in.




Birthday Ode!


Shaunagh Cole

e-mail: Shaunagh Cole

A birthday comes but once a year,

Thank God! I hear you mutter,

That circled day on the calendar

Sets your tiny heart a-flutter!

Your creaky joints are bothersome,

Your disco days no more,

It's comfy shoes for you, my friend

And the latest bunion cure!

Your wobbly bits shake without mercy,

Your sagging parts reach to the floor,

When it's bargain day at the co-op

You're the first one out of the door!

Your wrinkles just cannot be hidden,

Tight jeans have lost their appeal,

You find yourself gazing fondly

At 'one-sizers' designed to conceal!

Oh I wish I'd looked after my legs more

And worn my support tights with pride!

Forget the latest mini skirts,

Your varicose veins they won't hide!

The bubbly you now know is Steradent

To get those chompers clean,

And the closest you get to raunchy

Is a mug of Ovaltine!

Big pants can look rather snazzy

When worn with a vest of your choosing

And elastic waists are a God-send,

When your youthful, trim figure you're losing.

You cough and sneeze now with caution,

Those tell-tale leaks are a chore

As the latest incontinence catalogue

Drops with your post to the floor!

But life isn't all doom and gloom

There are plenty of good things in store,

Cheap haircuts, concessions, a bus pass

And winceyette nighties galore!

Enjoy your celebrations,

Forget those old-age fears,

Just light another candle,

Raise your glass, have a drink and say cheers!




The Letter


Shaunagh Cole

e-mail: Shaunagh Cole

A letter came from school today,

You know the one I mean,

"We've head lice in our school again,

Please check your child's head's clean."

The chemist sold us vile shampoo,

It smelled like neat Domestos,

"It's guaranteed to work!" he said,

"And never mind the hair loss!"

I parted the hair with caution,

To take a look within,

Did that move? Oh God, I hope not,

No, I think it's just dry skin!

The plastic combs are nifty

For checking pristine locks,

They also come in handy

For de-fuzzing winter socks.

"But, Mum, my head's all itchy,"

The plaintive cry is heard,

"No, it can't be, all those creatures

From your scalp I'm sure I'd lured."

Stop scratching, you're imagining

Things crawling down your neck.

Now I'm itching and your father

Has become a nervous wreck.

Sit still and let me take a look,

The comb slips through with ease,

We haven't had such problems

Since next door's dog had fleas.

I know you don't like plaits,

But it's on the list of "do's,"

And with ribbons and a slide or two,

You've nothing much to lose.

I hope the school appreciates

The trouble that I've taken,

To guarantee those nits and lice

My child's head have forsaken.

I've combed and searched, the job's complete,

We've all been disinfected,

And now my child can rest at ease

Next time her head's inspected!




Inner Beauty


Maurice D. Sassoon

e-mail: Maurice D. Sassoon

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: I am taking the opportunity to submit a sample poem for your perusal. This is one from a collection of over l00 poems titled In Full Bloom. I would like to have this collection published professionally. Most of the poems were written in rhyme. Sprinked among such poems of simplicity and purpose are those of slightly heavier content and style, nevertheless comprehensible. Visit my All about Brian, the Lion and the Sun, better Late than Never website.

It doesn't matter how so plain
Or rough the crust may be,
The kernel is what truly counts
The part we cannot see.

A piece of land perceived as good
And ripe for human toil
May yet prove unproductive
Without the proper soil.

Can we appraise the sabre
While still within its sheath,
Or comprehend the ocean
Unless we look beneath?

The sights we often fail to see
And thoughtlessly pass by
May yet be those that satisfy
The palate, not the eye.






Maurice D. Sassoon

e-mail: Maurice D. Sassoon

Subtly, so subtly, the workings of Time
Must alter the shape of the outer shell
Of a body once vibrant and moulded so well!
Slowly, but surely, like a wood-boring worm,
Out of the gloom of a perilous clime,
Firm in the grasp of a seasonable term,
Comes the chill-laden wintry spell
Of sad infirmity in a dismal sphere;
Lost in the woods of a cherished dream,
In the thickening fog of Nature's scheme,
Midst muffled sounds of distant strains,
Are earlier years that knew no fear
Of time and age; what now remains
Eternity must rightly redeem.




Oh, Weary Ear and Ever-Restless Mouth!


Maurice D. Sassoon

e-mail: Maurice D. Sassoon

I hear the same old sound of people groaning,
The same old cries of cruel death and mourning,
All mingled with the sounds of joy and scorn,
Words of trust and hope for those forlorn.

I hear sweet words of unity and peace,
Voices of affliction and disease;
Wails of pain in genocidal wars,
Dismal echoes of enslaving laws,

Songs of faith, equality and love,
All well-embraced by Heaven high above;
I hear of better times with liberty,
Prosperity without disparity,

Mad terrorists uttering savage cries,
Committed to Democracy's demise.
Are these what life is really all about?
Oh, weary ear, and ever-restless mouth!






Maurice D. Sassoon

e-mail: Maurice D. Sassoon

The fragile span of Memory's bridge,
Through Life's most unexpected phase,
In a bitter spell of mental chill
Soon disappears in swirls of haze,
The crossing between now and then
Being lost in Time's cerebral maze.

There loom the hunting fields or years,
No matter what the numbers be,
Across which stalks in silence grave,
Alzheimer, subtle, wild and free,
Cold and totally unsparing -
A terrible blight on Memory.

Alzheimer's clammy claws of pain
Reaches deeper through Life's core
While evening shadows creep into
Nights much darker than before,
As the ship of life is berthed safe
Along its one and only shore.




Highways of My Mind


Maurice D. Sassoon

e-mail: Maurice D. Sassoon

I'm on a dream bus cruising
Through highways of my mind -
Highways of my choosing,
So clearly well-defined,

Where scenes are so inviting -
Refreshing as I travel
With feeling so exciting,
While mysteries unravel.

Together with my kindred souls
I find much comfort musing;
Worthy sights my mind extols,
Thank Heaven I'm not losing!

Oh, like me the're many who
Take in sights appealing,
Traveling mentally right through
Highways of good feeling.

Where good fortune ever greets,
There certainly I'll be,
Exactly where Fulfilment meets
With stark Reality.




In Darkness He was Light over the Din


Emma Threlfall

e-mail: Emma Threlfall

In darkness he was light over the din
For his was the brightest star in the sky
He will be smiling as we think of him

Giver and keeper of his loving kin
His shoulders upon which we could rely
In darkness he was light over the din

The angelís song can now truly begin
On our shoulders now may he reside
He will be smiling as we think of him

Let him give us strength and hope from within
To not lose faith from the loss of our guide
In darkness he was light over the din

Remember him Ė flawless in everything
The honour he wore upon his chest
He will be smiling as we think of him

Opened his heart to every stray foundling
Please do not morn a body now at rest
In darkness he was light over the din
He will be smiling as we think of him




My Love


Emma Threlfall

e-mail: Emma Threlfall

My love was born before I came to this earth
My womb too hard to be easily broken
My heart far too young to know its own worth
My yearning too far gone to be spoken

You were the saviour of a life on edge
You were the sword able to break the chest
You are the only heart to which Iím pledged
A true love, pure in simplicityís best

When I first lay weary eyes upon yours
I noticed forever was in your glare
Many openings where once were closed doors
Myself in you, quietly standing there

In an instant my future all laid out
Your love replaced all my anger and hurt
No longer was my mind filled with doubt
For now I have someone to put me first

For never have I felt a love so sweet
For never has my life been so complete




At Last


Emma Threlfall

e-mail: Emma Threlfall

To swim the infinity of your heartís ocean
To let me see the world from your point of view
To believe you could second such a notion
And be satisfied that my soul is true

To live an impossible dream in your own lifetime
And let this wretch come along for the ride
To control your body to its hour-glass confined
And become apart of the law to which I abide

I would give forever to your every second
And put those seconds in my heart and hold on fast
To the beauty of our time spent so worthwhile
Because in you Iíve truly found myself at last




The Walkway


Emma Threlfall

e-mail: Emma Threlfall

Oh how this walkway does lead me to you
For every step, another step appears
And so many times I have wanted to
Walk those steps instead of wasting my tears

Never have I ever realised it
How in life everything needs to belong
Just as our universe needs to fit
These steps now belong to a silent tongue

Never have I ever spoken to you
Nor have you ever returned that favour
For when you are near, my mind, to
Like this walkwayís empty, so I do waiver

Just by being close to your very door
Make believe that I know your every move
Just when I think I could not want you more
The next move just like this walkway does prove

I shall forever be climbing steps up to
The door where I only, but once, saw you




Home Again


Emma Threlfall

e-mail: Emma Threlfall

Home again, home again with you
There are no more places to see
No one better to belong to
There is no better place for me

There are no more places to see
Nowhere on earth I have not been
There is no better place for me
This is the place of which I dream

Nowhere on earth I have not been
No one could take me from here
This is the place of which I dream
To leave would bring me to tears

No one could take me from here
Here I will forever stay
To leave would bring me to tears
I will never go come what may

Here I will forever stay
Been gone from this place for too long
I will never go come what may
To look on from afar was wrong

Been gone from this place for too long
To leave home and never come back
To look on from afar was wrong
I never thought Iíd have done that

To leave home and never come back
To leave you alone, how could I?
I never thought Iíd have done that
Here I am, give us one more try

No one better to belong to
Home again, home again with you




My Black Little Heart


David Nicholas

e-mail: David Nicholas

The way I held you
The way touch I you
The way I turned you
I put my cold soft hands on your rosy skin
My hands slowly infecting your body
With hate running through my veins and
Into your body you slowly
Die and are raised again filling the gap
That was in my black little heart






David Nicholas

e-mail: David Nicholas

I lead my life with such contempt
I hate the body
Which I inhabit
It reminds of times gone by
You see me eating from empty plates
Drinking from empty cups
You know not what you see
You know not what I am
You know not what I do
I am no longer a man
I am no longer held to this mortal coil




Velvet Wings


David Nicholas

e-mail: David Nicholas

Death has no morals about love or hate
So come for me my dark angel
Come for me and bleed
Slit your wrists for me
Allow me to taste your contempt for life
Allow me to see through your eyes
So come for me my dark angel on velvet wings
Come for me across midnight skies
Riding the winds of time




The Kiss of the Damned


David Nicholas

e-mail: David Nicholas

You came up to me that thick and foggy night
That night that I will not forget for centuries to come
The night you sired me
The night you made me what I am
My skin felt like it was melting off my bones
My blood felt like it was boiling

You sent me home to my family
To my children, my wife, to my old life
The voice in my head began to taunt me
Telling me things that I had to do
Ripping through the fabric of my soul
Tearing it apart piece by piece
Devouring my body whole

I sit in a corner reflecting on life
About my children, about my wife
About what I did to them that very night
Centuries have come and gone
Generations have come and gone
But my so-called life still goes on
Taunting me throughout time saying
Where is your wife, where is your life?




Satin Sheets


David Nicholas

e-mail: David Nicholas

Darkness falls like satin sheets lying down softly
As if someone had thrown it up in the air
Slowly drifting down to earth
Covering everything like a blanket
Things awake, animals start to show
Things awake when the moon is full
Things that have no name
You hear them when you lie in bed ... crowing, creeping

Outside you look to see what it is
You can see it lurking in the shadows staring back at you
You think is this a dream or is it real?
Back fiend you demand, you shout out loud
Cold sweat runs down your spine

You stay up all night looking at the beast
The veil of darkness begins to lift
You dive under the covers
You donít want to know what it is
You look out of the window ... the beast has gone
But you know it will be back tonight!





The Spider


Colin Morris

e-mail: Colin Morris

With the passing of a sunny spring day
We look to the sky for a meaning and reason
Heavenís above, Heavenís below
How can we actually know
The spider walks his careful path
For he not knows where destiny lies
He carries on, day by day, not complicated by design
He spins his silk and lies for hours to concentrate
He waits, he waits, oh boy does he wait ...
The trembling alarm calls!
He scurries from his lair, his bounty irate
The frustrated fly has flown his careless path
His fate decided
Sitting in the pale blue emptiness
The crescent moon floats
Another passing day of quiet contemplation.





The Ant


Colin Morris

e-mail: Colin Morris

Ant, ant you travel so far
With tireless ease, effortless endurance
You are selfless, conscious, driven to your destiny
No need for friends, companions or acquaintances
Your passion is your search, to seek, to find
The fuel your kin require
Three times, six times, ten times your weight
You carry with ease, without complaint
Returning those miles is not a chore
And with ease your food is at the door
A touch is all you require to connect
To give reason to exist.





La Luna


Colin Morris

e-mail: Colin Morris

Oh transient moon what do you see?
Your shadow bestows such curiosity
Give us a clue of what you know
For we are mere mortals, destined not to grow.





Tribute to the King of Pop


Emma Washington

e-mail: Emma Washington

Michael Jackson ...
The well-known pop singer ...
His children knew him better than anyone

I believe he met
The fullness of his childhood
As a responsible adult
By bringing into Neverland
Children with their parents
For zoo animals and amusement rides
On his premises he was their father
The backbone of his family

You are a loss to those who loved you
Rest in Peace ...
You will be missed all over the globe
The man with the gift of pop music
Known as the "King of Pop Music."





Reality Filmed


Sabahudin Hadzialic

e-mail: Sabahudin Hadzialic

Dismal image
Of my own imprint in time
Thatís real
Inside the vision that ... isnít
Is desperately in search for

Queen Elizabeth
Catherine, Nikolajevna
Princess Dianna
Disappear in front of the eyes
Of wild hordes

I remain alone
Trembling with trepidation
Trying to figure out
What is it that they want

Virtual reality of a surreal film-world
Is nothing more than
A treacherous impersonation of a real world
That deceives me
A Servile Servant!

Sheís gone!
Will she ever come back?
The question is swept by the wind

Iíll wait for the storm to calm
And try to catch the mistral wind to find a cove
And search for the place where I met her
Barefoot and naked
Back in the day
On the stage!





Strange Dream


Sabahudin Hadzialic

e-mail: Sabahudin Hadzialic

Hands buried in sand

Blood stained hands

I try to reach the bottom of the sand pit
Digging deep
Feeling pain

Two blue eyes
Deep dive
Towards you

Blood shot eyes

Carried on the wave of desperate tears
I try to catch a glimpse of you
You disappeared behind a horizon


You drew near, furtively
And embraced
The World!





Eternal Dreams


Sabahudin Hadzialic

e-mail: Sabahudin Hadzialic

I call out her name
At night
While she is asleep

The reflexion of probability
Is out of grasp
Of my mortal soul
Spun a yarn
From a molten core

My core!

I call out her name
At dawn
While she is asleep

She is strong in her
While she lolls
On the tombstone
In the graveyard
My ...






Devil's Playground


Sabahudin Hadzialic

e-mail: Sabahudin Hadzialic

They understood!

They didnít ask ...

... For anything else
But just a possibility to survive
Within the boundaries
Of a precious vision

Vision of world
Without hatred and senseless schemes
Living in the minds of their neighbours

They didnít ask ...

... For anything else
But just a hope
That a right to live
Is a right of every human

And humanity
Remained where it always was

Entrapped within the boundaries
Lacking identity

The life for them is about
Waiting for the end
Are they there yet?





To Be Myself (Now and Here)


Sabahudin Hadzialic

e-mail: Sabahudin Hadzialic

Reflection in the mirror
... Runs away from me ...

Reflection in the mirror
... Remans within my sight ...

I hang on. Here
Dissolved. By hope.





From Vision to Wanting


Ryan McPhee

e-mail: Ryan McPhee

To witness, through the quarrel of the sun,
just one visit to prove
in respect to you how I've grown so fond
that for a moment may I dote upon,
and gaze with Eden's pond

in bloom as day is smitten with the eve.
Celestial petals hark
to the moon that soon a lit they'll be,
and kiss the spark that embarks reveries
of fantasy to be.

May when you harbor a wish and wonder
be obliged like a bride,
answered with seriphical, sonnet lore,
constellating just how stunning you are.
May this endeavor soar

upon the wings of a Phoenix and dance
as the stars from afar
sing like kindling, flickering for the chance;
each to serenade your dreams and romance
praise to parade in stance

in a summer's lilt afloat whispers of
complementary leaves,
painted by the vermilion wisps above;
each tree to be a courtship's call of love,
delicate like a dove.

May the breeze of a gust wander on by,
so softly offering
to please the space between each breath and sigh,
to cajole your lips as if on this night
was the first and last time

that such an embrace so pure would be felt,
passionate and granted
the subtle sway of your spiraling spell,
the fastest moment ever held so still
in motion and reveled,

and just like it greeted, the wind retreated
as the moon then did loom,
providing shine for me to believe in
of a swoon for the sky to compete with ...
perfect aesthetic proof

readdressing the bell that Marlowe toll,
the epochal model
whose face a thousand ships fought for like gold,
oh, infinitely many could not show
the devotion I hold,

linen how a proposition should sound,
imagined and fashioned
like a Camellia-inlaid velvet crown,
gently caressing sweet nothings abound,
and charm which to astound

with this bridge poured from Aurora's pallet
of torch-lit orchids,
blossoming a streaming borealis.
I present my hand, my heart, this palace;
just step from your lattice,

my lady, fly with me on this mead hour;
my Nightingale, let's sail
midway between Father Time's clock towers
where the dawning god bears loss of power
for tonight's reign showered

forth its eternal divinity
in style that of a smile,
unmatched by ages and Aphrodite,
passed mere attraction, such 'twas cast indeed
of eyes for ravishing,

and from the prurience
of that one glance
a second more beckoned,
"Just tell her, tell her; right here is the chance!"
But each lingering breath slowly entranced
my tongue, and oh how silent

patience in waiting is the hardest game,
wide-eyed, soon to arrive
the ticking of this twinkling flame.
May this passage be our first kiss to claim;
may each word swear the same

secret grip, like foreplay to persuasion,
the flutter that stutters
each beating syllable of the language.
For the heart is dormant 'til awakened
by Affection's ardent first gaze taken.





The Carnival


Ryan McPhee

e-mail: Ryan McPhee

She takes some parafilm and then gives me a kiss,
to watch me struggle against her lips,
just like teaching a lesson to a fish,
writhing from the water, fighting to exist.

Where her every word then feathers across my chest,
perfecting me just before she sinks them right in,
to go six inches deep, grabbing a hold of my life,
and with a baby's love, she bludgeons the beating that's slow to cry.

My Love is a carousel ride in the dark
where her beautiful smile is my supernova star;
My Love is a carousel ride in the dark,
where my Angel shines the same, whether or not she's my universe,

or my scar.







Ryan McPhee

e-mail: Ryan McPhee

All I know of sunshine,
allusioned romance for a heart's decline,
is a memory of when the world was mine,
so now I spoonfeed sleep,
and wish to wake into dream,
volcanic rain of acid wine.
Mouth open-wide.
For at least then I'd be too drunk ... too disfigured
to agonize if whether or not,
sunrise will end what she left behind.





What is Sex?


Ryan McPhee

e-mail: Ryan McPhee

The art of having sex indulges far more rationale than just being solely a means of reproduction, having the innate ability to drive a seductive connection amongst people with which physical, emotional, and even cognitive exchanges are had, responsible both for arousing intimacy on a tantric level as well as for lascivious, fantastical gratification to be played out between said people, fashioning a bond or relationship that can be one of momentary or enduring expression and need (enlaced in mutual understanding and care, or otherwise) while also having the prowess to bring said people to be more in tune with one another as well as with who they are, themselves, in ways that other acts of behavior and affection can only dream of incurring, in itself being a magical truth of human nature.





Vantage Point


Rebecca Mummery

e-mail: Rebecca Mummery

I stood on some small hill,
and I had everything in view,
And the lament of a midnight chill,
made constant talk in the air of June.

With some amulet I wore,
to bade farewell to the Devil,
The evil that I saw,
was all about my level.

Ornate in Catholic values,
I began to proffer some moon
with faith,
For he is only silver,
and for belief, he came too late.

Imbue him with copper and gold,
and hone his secret eye,
So that then he will behold,
some religion before he dies.

Up in a midnight sky,
where all ilk of creation doth lie,
The sun and moon; at separation they live,
but then... they always die.

Multiples of Pulchritude by Rebecca Mummery





Masochist's Second Chance


Rebecca Mummery

e-mail: Rebecca Mummery

He marched into battle, past a pane of glass,
tíwas then my heart sank, bypassing its ribbed cage chamber,
How beautiful a man could slowly and steadily gallivant,
into the disgusting common brawl haven?

One bloody-cherry tear,
and the man who could not contain his ugliness
Would fear,
one womanís cherry-verbal wrath!

I wanted no graze upon his back,
built like the Berlin Wall,
Nor bruise; it is stern hard fact
that there are many ways in which a man could fall ...

One bloody-cherry droplet,
and I would have removed it in grace,
My rosy lips, cherry from bare, flushed goblet,
and I would have set a new mark upon his face.

Violence can be loving,
we inflict pain upon those we love,
Fight fire with fire, because the ruthless buffet,
of venom doth stick a cocktail stick in my mouth,
Not of venom, the masochist
craves that bittersweet Love!

Multiples of Pulchritude by Rebecca Mummery





The Wooded Landscape


Rebecca Mummery

e-mail: Rebecca Mummery

Barks climb through the sky,
or so it looks from a distance,
And a lake reflects a rude awakening;
the ground lays dead and dried.

I see through oneís eager eye
a debris of woodland murder,
I see it through oneís inquisitive look ...
the disease out of barksí contagious burdens.

Lend my shoulders to carry the dead
and why ...
When it looks not part of I from distance,
when the lake reflects woodlandís
Spirit in pressing state,
I do not want stain upon my

Barks climb to the filthy lake,
or so it looks from distance;
My despair Ė the rude awakening,
is exposed through
Despair of landscape
I traceÖ
In melancholia of states ...

Multiples of Pulchritude by Rebecca Mummery





Heart of Infinity


Rebecca Mummery

e-mail: Rebecca Mummery

Up the hill of true love
we clambered,
Naked as birth we were,
our hands knotted
Against an air so candid,
aged and full of cure,
Not a drop of lifeís elixir,
because we thus born,
Were neither standing
nor laid frozen waiting, for
The wild wonder of

We leapt into each otherís
Clinging softly for the
asperities of romance,
Into a life succeeding
this, as barely souls,
But a bowmanís dance,
thus great time we hesitantly
cowered and crouched,
in actual fact not perishing,
We were pacing
toward the heart of infinity.

We did not take
advantage of tongue to
Survive spoken Ė
the sensation of touch
Had already opened
its mouth,
And Cupidís bow danced
its way jet straight;
Meant some fantastic
fantasy Ė not about,
And Cupid narrated
so much of how to one another
We doused,
an animal afraid of its
Prey its cool Summer rain;
its will to kill, for
Confronted with
reflection we regain
Normality we have
always had to
Cradle above our heads Ė
the halo self-assembled
For complete control of
our kindness.

We remained so kind,
when low in circumstance
Of the time, it is tyrant we find
lightly pressed to the worsened infants,
For they grow to a height above their parents,
grow distraught leaving some park brothel,
But we, progressing the race with both feet
and flight with bare foot pouncing the ground
Trying to split the flyer of purity,
and eventually doing so with passion full,
And fiery souls within that cool,
experienced world,
So kind we were, crouched, crying,
that tyrant made us weep,
But we turned that flyer into
a cloth to clothe us, of Love,
But upon the hill,
we did not need it anymore,
Needed not that evidence to the eye.
We were laughing and could not stifle,
laughter caught by the winds,
Winds blew it about and life pulled a rifle
on our mindsí carefully crafted strings,
But the strings of our shared, large heart are pinned,
to the skies, and God plays them like a
Beautiful harp of gold,
for we controlled our love of kindness in
Our flamboyant days like a playing musician,
but of now Ė God, a musician, controls
Our Love with not kindness, but without any intention,
because our Love, a flourished flower,
An immortality, that is not questioned,
not made up to become,
Unlike the morphing of bodies through period,
from birth we were the fullest of hearts,
Bowmanís arrow amongst the blood from passage,
our mothers conceived in strength
The hill of future,
us babies at present, the sacrament,
Glitter love-stained eyes,
and the rest was raring for the hill,
Then eyes were closed,
the glitter died,
Then reopened a top the hill...
I saw no sight truer than a landscape of red,
the world of the town, of the birthplace,
Under a veil of our tarnished flyer,
we sought escapism of their world so dire.

I heard no sound truer than his hungry breath,
heard no breath with the conviction,
Convicted men dragged in manacles, with passionate weep,
he wept through eyes of the gentle sky,
A hill that midway, he thought was too steep,
in the end proved a lie.

I tasted no flavour truer than the flavour perched flatly
upon his marinated lips,
like one feather of the birdís plumage upon a chapped old branch,
Branch reunited with what made the bird fly away,
bird shot by a dancing bowman,
I killed an aging boy,
his wing resting on the branch,
It blew away...

We all deserve that chance again,
young boyís gruesome chance to be alone,
He deserved solitude that flew away so suddenly from Love,
I aimed point blank,
My loveís jagged body sank,
and in anxiety, I shrank...
If he stood back up, like the immunity of new soul,
I had found my love at long last,
And he arose, touching the branch as he grew unbeaten,
the feather flew,
And then I knew,
I was confronted with something I had never seen face,
And I confess, I felt no sensation truer,
than our Love...

I, the bowman,
I, the bowman,
And we danced upon the hill,
danced, ascending toward another world,
Toward another realm,
toward the heart of infinity ...

Multiples of Pulchritude by Rebecca Mummery





To Cherish, My Dear


Rebecca Mummery

e-mail: Rebecca Mummery

I cannot admire the conceited
all my youthful days,
I cherish the kingís men
before the king, any day,
Because the likeliness of my defeat is
that likeliness of kingsí vainglory,
When he cheats a place of hearts:
my weapons are becoming poorly.

But cherish you, your kingís loud hubris-
your quiet pride,
I cherish you madly as a thorn
taken out, and on the floor by my side,
Your eyes make my slippery, unblemished face,
I never looked in an eye so lubricous,
Cruel to be kind in the wounded place,
I cherish you, dear,
Clenched fist in pride,
to know you, dear,
My thorn in my side - you took it from me,
And replaced my lazily, hung red hood
with a clean veil of a bride,
I cherish you, dear,
wet, modest miracles hung out to dry,
I cherish you out of fear,
but in fickle fantasies, I cannot say goodbye.

Multiples of Pulchritude by Rebecca Mummery






Mark Lowes

e-mail: Mark Lowes

As the pillars of concrete grow all around them,
Shadows are cast over the flowers who search for the sun.
Root tangle and strangle each otherís homes
As they look to find a place to call their own.
Rain falls like bombs on an unsuspecting city.
Drops crash and splash onto the flower heads hiding amongst the scarce green grass,
The petals withstand the heavy lash as they look towards the superior sun in hope of nourishment,
But the sun stands idly by
Watching and waiting for the flowers to struggle and die.
And the storm sweeps away the innocence as the seeds fly into the harsh winds of everyday life.
Pollution from cars and fires choke the leaves who struggle to see through the dense smoke.
But then itís calm.
The wind stops.
The rain stops.
The flood stops.
And the flowers are left with a rare but beautiful sight of a rainbow.
A bright pallet of colours ranging from violet to red are strewn across the sky.
Though it is only the eye,
The calm will cease,
And the battle for life will start once again.




The Car


Casson Booth

e-mail: Casson Booth

We are obsessed with
Revenue generating planet
Environment destroying lumps of metal
Taught to revel in the smell of a new car
Despite the fact it's cancer
Developing off gases from
Freshly moulded plastic, alloys and chemicals
All rational thought evaporates
When we are behind the wheel
No thought for our kith and kin
The mortal enemy in the other lane
At a junction in our space
Parking in my place
I am more important than you






Casson Booth

e-mail: Casson Booth

We walk around looking down
Our whole life taken over
By our tiny screens
So anxious when we are out of range
Tinny sounds echo from tiny speakers
As people fill every spare moment with vison and sound
United we are in our micro mobile self-obsessed world
Going blind as we squint at microscopic text
Desperate to keep up the online pretence
All with more virtual friends
Than we could ever visit in a year
Justifying every virtual interaction
Screwing our reality
Creating dissatisfaction and self-loathing
Shouting at app-type devices
That quietly gather every statistic
About our cyborg lives



The Dog


Casson Booth

e-mail: Casson Booth

The black and white flash when I walk into the old house
The living room with the worn woollen carpet
There is no thump, thump, thump from your lazy but welcoming tail-wag
No sighs come from the corner of the room
Or wafts of fox poo matted with damp collie hair
From an early morning adventure across the fields
There is no snorting, chewing and sucking noises
When you're trying to extract the hard mud and burrs from between your pads
When I sit back in the arm-chair the nudge under my elbow
That would send hot tea skywards doesnít come
All is quiet now you're long gone







Design, construction and maintenance of this website by

John Fish B.Sc. Publishers of Tenby in Wales