Fourth Birthday Sonnet by Andrew Martin

Written and performed by Andrew Martin at the August poetry evening

When this divine cafe opens it door

Fine poetry takes to the floor

It draws such a crowd

Even Shakespeare'd be proud

Happy birthday, dear Reddits, you're four!

Only This by John Forbis

for my Father
 

Written and performed by John Forbis

  
The pulse I may not always hear

but it is there, a part of me

in my blood, always present,

always comforting.

Soothing hisses of water smooth

the sand leaving behind only

little holes through which

the tiniest of creatures breathe.

You look at the sea as if

you understand it,

its motion, its many expressions

just below the surface.

You look at the sea as if

you are kindred spirits

and so you are.

You were always as constant.

Coming home from school,

from work, from our own lives,

you always remained

keeping the cycles, drawing us home.

In all the surprises,

disappointments, triumphs,

always the rocking,

the breeze and whisper of sand.

When I am entangled

in the mechanical, metallic pace,

I can remember you

walking next to the sea,

your slow, long strides,

giant feet in the cool, fiery sand,

the sun revealing its last array

of colours as it sinks into its luxurious rest.

You were also tempted

by the relentless pace

of the offers of

a lifetime.

And yet, you simply walked away,

the ocean rolling onward

drawing you back

to the moist sand,

your arms open wide,

hair swept and shirtsleeves

flapping in the wind,

receiving all that already is.

That lesson will always be with me,

maybe in glimpses,

snatches of memory

like fragments of shells,

but they will always

be washed onto

the shore again,

the pelicans and gulls calling above.

And the wind will ride

every wave, inviting me

to believe in what you believed in,

in all there needs to be. 

Dope by Derrick Newson

Written and performed by Derrick Newson

Do I look like a drug dealer?

Well, I didn't think so either.

But there I was in this little town of Karlshamn in Southern Sweden.

I'd just enjoyed a meal of flounder in a cream and cheese sauce

Sitting on a bed of mashed potato

Flounder on a bed of mashed potato. Pic: Derrick Newson

Washed down by a bottle of Moselle Reisling.

 Afterwards I was walking back to the hotel

Through the deserted main square

When I noticed this boy

No more than sixteen

Tall, thin, fair with the obligatory sad blue eyes.

He was wearing a woolly pale grey track suit,

Soft to the touch I am sure

I noticed him but I just walked on

Down the cobbled street towards the hotel.

A minute or two later

There he was tapping my shoulder

Asking whether I had something to sniff.

Quick as a flash I thought of my cock

Very sniffable I always think.

But I politely said no.

Disappointed he disappeared around the corner.

He seemed a decent soul,

Which is more than can be said of me.

And there I was left alone

With nothing to offer but an old body

And the experience of being mistaken as a dealer in drugs.