Aliens, and Carolynn’s Handbag by Mark Barnes, member of Ink Well Writers’ Group

I recall that very first meeting, it was called the Ink Well Club.
I’d finished work at five fifteen, showered and had some grub.
Having written down some poetry to share with my new mates,
I parked the car at Betchworth hall and strolled in through the gates.
I’d not been sat down long you know, when the sky turned very black,
A UFO had landed and they were coming round the back.
We have to lock the door quick, now where’s those bloody keys?
Carolynn’s searching for them, in her bag….she’s on her knees.
‘I’m sure I put them in here, I’m certain, well I think,
I heard them all a-jangling against my kitchen sink.’
The Aliens are coming in, where the hell we gonna hide?
I know, in the handbag, it’s a tardis get inside.
So there we hid for what seemed like hours, we hardly drew a breath,
Aliens with their laser guns………it seemed like certain death.
But thank God for your handbag, it hid us all with ease,
Saved us from their clutches………….and we’ve found the bunch of keys !! •○●□■◇◆♧♣★☆→←↓↑◀▶▼▲º•○●□■◇◆♧♣★☆→←↓↑◀▶▼▲º•○●□■◇◆◆

A Poet’s Reply

carolynnrayment

Why do poet’s speak of pain and woe – let me tell you Hyacinth Santiago

Your sad laments was beautifully said – you spoke of inspiration, not dread

But isn’t a poet a human being – a child of God, not blind to the seeing

Without the seasons of life what would be – faceless and emotionless souls wandering aimlessly

To give to others we need experience of life – and yes, the ears of a good wife

But let’s not be naive in this imperfect world – to gain wisdom and peace, we must first endure pain

A poet’s duty is to give comfort and joy – understanding galore – inspirational verse by the score

But, sadly it’s a fact of life – to learn and grow through trouble and strife

We must first consult the verbal knife

CR 1990 Published in Dubai Gulf News

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UNREQUITED LOVE. HOMEWORK FOR INK WELL WRITERS’ GROUP

A life time has passed since I last saw your face
Your beauty and strength still haunt me
I wonder where you are today – flying high somewhere in this great universe
I carry your broken heart in my pocket, next to mine
The pain I caused is alien now
If I could travel back in time and mend our shattered dreams…I would
Your pride is immeasurable – too big to forgive. And yet, I am just a whisper away
Why did I leave a comfy chair for a rickety old box?
I have no answer; just regret
Do you recall my love, our life-time pact?
I hear your mellow voice telling me you will be with me in spirit always
We dovetailed like a baby in a mother’s womb; inseparable
Were you blessed with deep love again…did she touch your Soul?
Did she make you laugh; did she do that silly Charlie Chaplin walk; did she?
Today, I long for your love again; just like Dante’s dream
I am without your love, but love knows no laws
This confession may never reach you
The possibility of reconciliation gives me a glimpse of heaven
The impossibility, Dante’s hell…

THE STALKER

Hidden in the shadows he knows where she is
He borrowed her time, just for a while
It wasn’t real – it wasn’t love
Obsessive and possessed mental assault
Erotomania and fixation
Stalking is for the young; isn’t it?
When will the gifts stop?
She must pity this perpetual nuisance and pray he finds solace in his menial life
Has divorce and separation created this threat to the lonely and delusional?
She can empathise, but, cannot condone this behaviour
Where, when, does it end? Is there no pride?
Or, should we pity these mortals who have no love or friendship?
Maybe…

BEAUTIFUL HEART

BEAUTIFUL HEART
Misunderstood by her peers at times – they don’t know her like I do
She’s like a newborn baby – as pure as gold
A sapling waiting to burst
A Philanthropist in the making – Socrates blind hope, pouring of her thoughts freely
Infectious smile and a rainbow of pretty colours
A breath of fresh air – unaffected, and yet, sometimes wild
Her antics are funny and a bit wacky
A mass of human goodness who would sacrifice her heart for the underdog
Each brave soldier laid to rest in the Somme – a terrible war. She stood at their graves and wept.
Her understanding of pain, and others’ sorrow and misfortune, is rare in one so young
Her expression of love is abundant, a scattering of bright stars from the abyss
Maybe she’s a carnation of a Celestial Soul, not from now, from then
Too knowing for a child
Her talents are endless, high jump, low jump, this and that
With a voice like an Angel and yet, she’s humble and full of self-doubt
Her selfless love is our salvation
We are blessed to have her in our lives

Leslie

I cannot stand at your grave and weep
The priest praying and committing your decaying corpse into the earth
I didn’t know you that well, how could I, when you were distant and cold
Your doting mother adored you, even though your cruel and demented mind hurt her
No bond between us even though we were from the same mould
Maybe your madness was not your fault and I was too closed to understand
I empathise with your family at their loss, but, I cannot grieve for you
I can only pray for your soul to be nourished, made whole, and pure
As it was before the journey into your Mother’s womb…

THE GRAVEYARD

Dying Daffodils danced a slow dance in the graveyard today
I observed the changing of seasons, the yellow and white lovers’ swayed as their
energy began to fade. Making way for the next cycle of summer blooms
The walk through the village burial ground was quiet and calm
The headstones stood like temples – epitaphs stating their place on earth
The church door was open; unlikely in these times of lead thieves
Smell of must and old bones – no priest in sight
I sat and contemplated my day, my week, my life
Fragments of the past consumed my thoughts
The prodigal son – the one love; the only love
I stumbled to a pew in god’s house. I couldn’t see him. Was he hiding from all the sinners?
Hands clasped I offered myself in prayer.
He wasn’t home…

CHARITY SHOP

I have no clothes!
I took them down the road
There was check and stripes
And lots of old tripe
Bundled them up in a brown paper bag
Gave them to the lady who was a bit of an old hag
She took them willingly and said, ‘thank you dear.’
Come back soon, these old clothes will give a little cheer
But, this time dear be careful what you say
I maybe an old hag and haven’t had to pay
But, I’m not deaf dear and can hear everything you say!

FOG; HOMEWORK FOR INK WELL WRITERS’ GROUP

Ghostly figure floats through the back streets of Victorian London
Is it a SHE, a HE, or a THING?
Where is this apparition going in the dense fog; I wonder?
It’s the black of night – no birdsong – no sunrise
Tall grey buildings standing proud, our ancient history evident
The Apex is shrouded in liquid water droplets, cut-off like a body in half
Cold and eerie; quite eerie
This mythical creature is neither good nor evil
Or, is it human?
A shadow falls across its borrowed face
Smokeless, but scorching fire from its lips
I am a voyeur watching the Djinni from my prison
Modern London in the 21st century still bears the scars of nature’s ice crystals