Food bank poem: Carolyn O’Connell

my little contribution

The Poetry Shed

This competition raises money for Nourish Food Bank. The winning poem, by public vote, has £50 sent to Nourish in the poet’s name. Voting is by “likes” and ends 12th July 2018.
nourishThe Worker

She left home at six without breakfast
took the bus to her first client
washed him, served him bread & butter,
tea and ensured he was safe before she left.

For six hours she knocked at new doors
helping those who depended on her
as she drank water to keep going,
she was the only person to care

until her shift was over. She stopped
at the dark door to collect a box
of donated food, with a short shelf life,
from a stranger in a Food Bank jacket.

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Our Friend Tonia (by Liz Leech)

This is so beautiful ans a wonderful tribute to Tonia

Vale Royal Writers' Group Blog

I drove home from the meeting

Through a late evening sunset,

Blush pink in a sea of orange

That merged into that special

Clear blue of a hot summer nights’ sky

And thought of you,

Flitting through your garden

Touching this and that bloom

With a gentle caress of your hand.

You were not there tonight,

As we met and shared words

That tumbled and jostled

And vied for attention.

We will never hear again

That coy well enunciated brilliance

That you conjured up,

Well defined and honed

By your imagination.

You were not there, and yet

You will always be there

In step with us

Encouraging and urging us

Towards a higher level.

As you tripped through your garden,

You will tiptoe through our minds

Call us to book, and we

Will try just that little bit harder

To emulate that magic that was

Truly yours.

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Pathogen, by Bob Beagrie

I am not a silent poet

“Thy subjects blood
With fire and sword
Cries vengeance Lord.”

Parliamentarian motto from ‘The Great Eclipse of the Sun’, 1644.

“Hate begets hate;
violence begets violence;
toughness begets a greater toughness.”

Dr Martin Luther King, 1958

like someone forgot to turn the key, shoot the bolt,
guard the cage door and now its loose, running wild,
raging on pent-up retribution for its incarceration;
not hiding in the undergrowth, a hole in the ground
but behind a look, beneath a word, within a promise
travelling in a crowd forming clusters along chains
of transmission, hitchhiking on breath and bodily fluids,
a stowaway in an attitude, an illegal immigrant riding
the virulent fear of itself gone viral, breaking-out
with a swelling of symptoms: the sharpened accusations
of ‘susceptibles’, slammed doors, raised voices, dog shit
through the letter box, broken windows, burning homes,
a contagion of tears, smoking guns, targeted spot-checks,

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America is not great, by Colin Davies

Good and pertinent poem Colin

I am not a silent poet

I once aspired to be you
or at least just like you.
You were cool
rebellious,
you stuck it to the man,
man.
You gave flowers to soldiers
and young men to wars.
But your hamburgers were legend
and your cities…
They were so tall.
I never knew the history
only the Hollywood statue.
Dreaming of walking on your land,
being invited in for apple pie,
and root beer.
But now,
I look over at you
and what you have become.
Cruel and detracted.
Give me your poor,
no more.
Tired huddled masses,
yearning to breathe with the free.
But the flaming lamp,
by the golden door,
has long been extinguished.
Refused at your teeming shore.
No more dreams,
not from me.
I long no more,
for the land of the free.
I long no more,
for the home of the brave.
As I don’t see bravery,
In keeping kids…

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via Species Sustainability

Our young are our future a crop we manage
birthing, raising, loving, shielding
until we release them to fruit in the world.

For they are the future of country and culture
planning, learning, loving, caring,
and carrying our lives, values on when we’re gone.

We share these values across the globe’s nations
whatever our colour, creed or nation
we strive for home and sustain our families,

no matter whether a beggar in rags, or rich as Croesus
for gold is but metal as Midas found
when bread and wine turned to gold he couldn’t drink.

Who hears the children afraid to go to school?
Scythed in their youth by the boy with gun
or broken and blasted by a tyrant’s bomb.

They are the crop that fell on hard ground
taken by birds of greed, war, ignorance
to favour the harlot of hatred and fear

she walks down the street with sympathy’s
flag and gun in a belt or bag
but the children are dead and the coffins parade.

© 2018, Carolyn O’Connell

The BeZine, Call for Submissions

THE BeZINE




The BeZine is published quarterly on the fifteenth of March, June, September and December. Please read our Intro and Mission Statement and at least one back issue of The BeZine before submitting work for consideration. Each issue is theme based.

Please be mindful that our core team (The Bardo Group Beguines), guest contributors and readers represent the world’s diversity. Nonviolence, respect and inclusion are core values.

All work must be submitted in English and properly edited for publication. Submissions in other languages are fine but only if they are accompanied by an English translation.

Please send submissions to bardogroup@gmail.com and put “submission” in the subject line.  If you were referred by one of our core team, please put their name in the subject line along with “submission.” Please include a brief bio not a curriculum vitae. If you have published the work submitted on your own website, blog, YouTube channel or other online venue you may send…

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