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.
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