If you would like to submit a poem, please send to the editor at sophie@tomorrowalgarve.com
There is a Time by Julian Putley
There’s a time for pleasure and a time for pain
Embrace them both, then play again
There is a time to go and a time to stay
A time to work and a time to play
A time to be happy and a time to be sad
A time to be sane and a time to be mad
There’s a time to question and a time to believe
A time to let go and a time to retrieve
One thing’s for sure, it needn’t be more
More can be less and less can be more
There’s a time to give and a time to receive
To give is triumphant, you better believe
There’s a time to take in and a time to let out
A time to absorb and a time to shout out
A time to be stoic, a time to endure
Then freedom tastes sweeter, that is for sure
There’s a time to love but no time for hate
If hate’s at the gate, you’ve arrived too late
There is a time to laugh and a time to cry
A time to live and a time to die
Time doesn’t stop, it rolls on forever
Yesterday’s gone, tomorrow’s not here
So the time is NOW. Never forget her.
The Fiesta of Spring Flowers by Lorraine DeSousa
Harbinger of Spring, dusts the ground with pepper and salt
As Grand Master Crocus taps his baton, to bring a halt,
To the symphony’s chatter, so he can get underway
And show off Bluestar’s talent, beckoning him to play.
The Foamflower opens with the start of the timpani.
Whilst the Purple Violas start to strum Spring’s symphony.
Golden Trumpet Daffodils, raise their heads toward the sun,
Whilst the Harmony Iris waits for the sign it has begun.
The Coral bells form clouds, waiting for the ring.
Scarlet Bugler listens for the hummingbirds to sing.
Double Rock Rose only wants to jive,
The Wolfsbane howls that it is once again alive.
Grape Hyacinth takes a sip of a honeyed wine,
Tulips place a kiss upon the honeysuckle vine.
Throwing colours and scents into a huge melting pot,
The Fiesta of spring flowers says never, Forget-me-not.
This poem was written in response to #the365poetrypromptchallenge on Facebook.
Prompt/If I Were A Poem
Love Hidden In The Margins by M J Mallon
If I were a poem
I’d grace a beautiful notebook
Its cover bright sunflowers
Inside a ray of sunshine.
Beautiful calligraphy to highlight
Tiny ink splodges to add character
Tear drops to remind me of sad days
Poems of sunshine and sadness
Grief and joy. Life and loves.
Funny poems. nonsense poems.
All manner of poems.
Torn pages, folded memories,
Crisp, pristine fragments
Forgotten dreams
Edges filled with notes
Synonyms and rhyme schemes.
If I were a poem
I’d close my eyes, meditate,
Light a candle,
And write one just for you.
On the last page you’ll find it.
Hidden in the margins,
In our secret language
Saying how much I love you.
MJ loves to write magical and poetic stories, sprinkling them with a liberal dollop of extraordinarily imaginative magic!
MJ’s writing credits include Bloodstone –The Curse of Time and the second in the series, Golden Healer – The Curse of Time. She writes YA fantasy/paranormal novels, horror/ghost short stories, and multi-genre flash fiction, as well as micro poetry – haiku and Tanka. Her poetry/flash collections include Lockdown Innit, Mr. Sagittarius Poetry & Prose, The Hedge Witch And The Musical Poet, and Do What You Love!
Her eclectic blog shares her love of reading, reviewing, writing, poetry, photography and travel.
2001, Brunei
HEARTACHE by Nick Darker
The young and fit give not a thought
To health: it’s free, abundant, like the air
Not factored into life’s great plans
Assumed forever to be there.
For me I loved my hectic sports
I played my games of squash with dash;
Though knees and back could slow me down
I never dreamed my heart would crash.
It happened in the Niah Caves
Where hanging bats and swiftlets nest
I’d raced up tiers of slippery steps
Then felt sharp pains within my chest.
This took place half a dozen times
When simple movements caused dull pain –
The doctor sought a specialist;
“Angina” was their set refrain.
All other worries fade away
When one reflects that all could end:
Promotion, jobs – they all are dust
The only question: will it mend?
And so in haste to Singapore
To see Professor Arthur Tan.
Distinguished Asians wait their turn;
Heart specialist guru, he’s the man!
The angiogram is set for 3
But first my body’s shaved quite bare:
I feel like Samson, neutered, weak,
A chicken stripped for Easter fare!
The theatre’s modern, stuffed with gear;
The nurse assures that all is fine:
I’m on the table, draped in sheets,
TV screens lock their eyes on mine.
The X-ray story tells it clear
A coronary tube is squashed and bent
He first ballooned it into shape
Then propped it open with a ‘stent’.
The micro-navigation’s great;
To do all this INSIDE the heart!
Those fiddly bits of platinum
Are gently placed to play their part.
At once the pressure-pain is gone,
Its shadow lifted from my brow;
My heart is flush with blood again
My dreams can dwell on futures now.
Treasure By Sáor-Íde Dolan
In gardens lush, where springtime blooms,
A joyous hunt begins anew,
Where children’s laughter fills the air,
And hearts are light, without a care.
Amongst the grass, where secrets hide,
The search for eggs takes us far and wide.
With baskets clasped in eager hands,
We traverse this playful wonderland.
An egg, like treasure, waits unseen,
A rainbow’s hue, a vibrant dream.
Camouflaged amidst petals bright,
It tests our skill, challenges our sight.
Oh, the thrill of anticipation,
As we navigate this grand sensation.
A symphony of colors, oh so rare,
Ignites the spirit, banishes despair.
Through leafy nooks and verdant trails,
We venture forth, to unravel tales.
Each hidden gem, a prize untold,
Unveiling memories, stories unfold.
Eyes scanning every blade of green,
Hunting for treasures yet unseen.
Each step a dance, a whispered quest,
In nature’s playground, we feel blessed.
For as we seek and explore with glee,
We discover more than mere frivolity.
The hunt unearths a timeless truth,
Of love and joy, eternal youth.
And when at last our baskets swell,
With painted eggs, we know them well.
A celebration of life’s sweet embrace,
A triumph found with each egg’s chase.
So let us revel, let us explore,
In this quest for eggs we adore.
For in this hunt, we find our bliss,
A gentle reminder, love exists.
Life after death, by Guy Aldridge
When I am dead, will I still be known?
Or be just a gravestone overgrown?
Will they name a flower after me?
Or how about a Kew Gardens tree?
Will my name be on a ship or a plane?
Or on the latest cross-channel train?
Maybe a plaque on a bench somewhere damp?
Could my face be on a coin or a stamp?
Will my name be on a hospital wing?
Or a racehorse owned by a prince or a king?
Perhaps on a bottle of dry Spanish sherry?
Or on the side of the Isle of Wight ferry?
Could I be on the sign of a pub?
Or written on the hull of a nuclear sub?
So will my name live on in time?
Probably not even in this silly rhyme.
