Poetry Part Two

Here is another helping of poetry as featured in Kindred Spirit. The first is my own offering and is a poem I felt inspired to write after walking home one Guy Fawkes night circa 1984, whilst bonfire and firework parties were going on all around me. The second poem was featured in issue 3 of Kindred Spirit and the third in issue 2. 

I hope you enjoy reading them.

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Visions of November

Waves of murky brown smoke

gently ripple over my tousled head,

and that rich, intoxicating aroma

plays havoc with my senses,

conjuring up a thousand vivid memories

of chestnuts, brandy snap, childhood aspirations

and hot steamy breath evaporating in the night.

Unthinkingly I turn to stare

at the stark silhouettes of cold

bare trees on parade for the night,

then a rainbow coloured shower

suddenly bursts into view,

glittering like tinsel in the chilled November air,

until fading, twinkling, dying

it flutters down to kiss the ground.

Droves of excited children circle around,

their small frames protected by

thick, woolly garments,

lovingly knitted by elderly relatives.

Their squeals are high pitched,

their laughter infectious

and their ruddy little faces

are so eager, so alive.

In the flickering orange glow of the bonfire

a bedraggled yet beaming Guy Fawkes

is crackling and burning,

and in my mind I see my father

leaning over to light a dormant, gunpowder treat

whilst I clutched my mother’s hand

and watched every second

in starry eyed amazement.

Punk Concert

By Kenneth Pobo

Sitting under the overpass,

watching

a guitar swing against magic lights,

a sax

pointing at clouds like a revolver,

a drum, a magnified pulse,

crushing the wrist.

Pink hair crops to the skull,

earrings and black shirts,

lobotomised motions, bones

shot with electricity.

Overhead, cars slice across town,

churches prepare

for the terrible future.

Punks slash out pure strains

of the symphony of hell,

fireworks levelling

the city with bright pink blossoms.

Time and Tide

By Fraser Nicolaides

A solitary figure stands at the edge

Casting a blind eye over the frozen sea

No movement breaks its perfect surface

As no outsider touches the onlooker.

All emotion is guarded in a locked memory

No element escapes as nothing further enters

As if both time and tide have ceased to exist

Sea and figure become reflections of each other. 

Kindred Spirit Fanzine    Jill Webb Words