She had returned from the sun when I visited her smile embraced us welcome as the warmth of the sofa, where we sat together, her restraint soaked the air stifling our words. Suddenly her eyes fille…

Source: Convergence of Healing

Trish & Delma

Andy Doyles Retirement Party

Concert for Calais Refugees

Concert for Calais Refugees

Concert for Calais Refugees

Concer for Callais Refugees

Concer for Callais Refugees

I was commissioned to write the following poem to clelbrate the retirement of the Hall Manager at our local church, St. Thomas Aquinas, Ham, Richmond-on-Thames,Surrey England. It was an enjoyable occasion and the poem was well received and Andy the recipitent was very touched and wanted a copy.

His Last Mabon
for Andy Doyle

Archdruid of our church hall he’s plotted our Eisteddfods
harmonized receptions, art shows, dance groups, parties,
our saga of celebrations from Harvest to Patronal Feast,
he was the slate rising to incise bookings. “Speak to Andy”
the song inscribed on every shingle of notebooks
roofing the history of St. Thomas Aquinas, Ham.

Sure as Hafrin’s bore running the border from the sea
he swept floors, collected cups as women
flittered round his baton, bards to his Eisteddfod
of coffee mornings where the ballad of news
rang round lips and children grew to serve,
his teacher’s eye noted their progress, year on year.

But now slate shingles will open as Windows key strokes,
his slate split books no more inscribe
the calendar of bookings for our beloved hall.
Andy’s rising from the mine he’s worked –
you’ll find him perusing papers in our library.

Only on Sundays will he raise his sword of peace
still Archdruid of the coffee morning.
Carolyn O’Connell ©
September 16 2016

The following week 8 September 2016 I attened a Concert for Callis Refugees at St. Richards Church where my poem “Elegy to a Migrant Mother” previously published on “I am not a Silent Poet” was sung by Bo Sundstrom who had set it to music.

Elegy to a Migrant Mother

Growing up in days of conflict
you chose love across the divide,
defying custom, convention and
family allegiance, duties of a daughter.
Escaping to the enemy’s land
doors slammed in your face and
windows waved messages of hate
as you scrubbed strangers’ floors to survive,
mourning an un-suckled child.

Your Romeo rejected his father
accepting exclusion and followed
to find you in enemy territory,
safety in the land of rejection.
When war racked your new land
he fought with new comrades against
an enemy who sought to enslave again.
When peace returned together you
quietly built a new family, bridged the
divide between remnants of the old, and

visited the graves of parents, the homes
of long missed friends where old joys were
remembered, relived. You held your head
high as you walked the streets.
But you would never return to that land
your fate a migrant woman who keeps
secrets safe, silent about the voyage of the past.

Carolyn O’Connell©
Published I am not a silent poet 14/5/2015

carolynoconnell says:
September 24, 2016 at 6:23 AM
Terror and Beauty
after Yeats

A woman’s protests resound
as she pleads for her husband’s life
her video broadcast calls for justice
while he falls for being black.

An unknown child is pulled from rubble
that was the home in which he slept
before death dropped for morning skies.

A man walks the streets, unseen
by all who pass, his only crime
unable to pay for a roof above his head.

He lies in the savannah, a rotting carcass
prey to vulture, poachers residue
he had a tooth of ivory, hence his death.

Two cheetah cubs parade on leads
toys for elite boys, status symbols
their mother mourns them.

Sometimes a name appears
Ali, Kevin, Lorraine , Keith
Elephant, Gerrapah, Cat,
and fades to be replaced by others.

Beneath skin of fur all blood runs red,
and beauty rises to terror for justice.

—Carolyn O’Connell

The bark of the old oak shows its wrinkles, scars written on the vellum of its years, a new ring spans the finger of its heart, a summer’s history almost soldered as its sparse leaves crinkle; sap …

Source: Meditating on Ancient Oak

Send us your poems, pictures or songs. Do you ever travel by water? Lots of people want to get involved with the project and so if you have a poem or song about arrivals and departures just visit o…

Source: Get involved

21st Century Poetry

Source: Welcome

Three Drops from a Cauldron is all about poetry and flash fiction (and anything slightly in between) involving myths, legends, folklore, fables or fairytales. * THE WEBZINE IS SHAPESHIFTING INTO AN…

Source: Web Journal Submissions

Timelines collection Published by Indigo Dreams http://www.indigodreams.co.uk/Bookshop is on it’s way to Romania together with a previous phamplet Between Bamboo published in 2009 (now out of print) to Prof. Lidia Vanu at the University of Bucharest  to reside in the Joyce Room of the Second, Lidia has designated the Joyce room at the faculty for a ‘Modernist and Contemporary British Literature’ library. This is a part of the poetry pf. RO project when poems were translated into Romanian and broadcast on radio. They will be a resource for further translations by M.A. students.

TIME LAG
from Plasterer’s Mate 1992 by Toby Granville

You stare at me, impatient to be away
as the five o’clock light dapples your
marbled nakedness. Your eyes are already
elsewhere, every nerve striving escape.

The pan you fried eggs in lies empty,
the last of yesterday’s papers sculpted by
plaster wiping’s waiting the black plastic bag.

Now our history-moled basement walls
are hung with new ochre skins
made from you unblemished plaster
drying in the trapped heat.

NO NATION

‘If you could choose a country’ Moinza Alvi
Cornflower blue blooms between kaki
as a boy lifts his face to smile in the sun.
He has only known the dust of a basement
the smell of rancid water running down
the drain of the road, the hushed voice

of his mother whispering ‘Silence’
as feet rush by the deserted house.

Elsewhere men in suits sit around
tables filled with food, finest wines
dicing with words, each letter bearing
a different weight , each weight
a pawn in the chess of language.

There is no need to understand
others will translate the Babel.

The boy moves towards the cornflowers
seduced by a colour he has never seen

the quiet of the day, the warmth of the sun;
as he approaches the flowers become men.

He stands transfixed by fear they wear blue
helmets, these men have every and no nation.

I’m moonless as tonight’s sky, helpless as a rabbit’s blind and furless kits and in my body’s cave misgivings hang from the walls like folded wings. To combat thumping pain and racing fear, I pictu…

Source: 3 a.m.