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The View From Here
ShivshankarSingh

Grass pale green bordered by hedges
On right , wall on left;
Tiny crushed leeches breathing last
On walkways;
White fallen flowers fainted
On pointed brick edges.
But , the invisible one confined me and you.
Missing my sprightly walks
With my pet like mobile,
Few months hence.
A tonga trots across each day,
Horse hastening home panting;
My morning spreading out on yoga mat.

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I stare out at the world before me.

Overgrown bushes, monochrome cars in rushes
with grey-blue hazy skies made to match,
underneath sits brickwork patched,
patched in tar and patched with high window.
From where I stare, the lowest of the low.

Faint hellos and off I goes,
Faded paint on wooden fences, distant dog barks
the sounds of nearby parks;

While I stay here and watch,
While I stay here and rot.

@wordsofinnocence (IG)

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There stands an old Mango tree,
a Jamun and a Neem, tall and green.
The shrubs and the herbs, all huddle and cuddle,
struggle and fight to make a scene.

White-spotted fantails start a song, Sparrows and tiny Bulbul tune along
White Wagtails shake off the boredom.
Blue Butterflies flap and dance, lean over the window and pause
trying to steal a glance at my poem.

And one day -
clouds gathered and thundered,
poured down an endless ocean.
They frowned at the birds and drowned the shrubs,
my words couldn’t find a reason.

Amidst all the chaos, a beautiful branch cracked and fell.
A little lovely bird lost its balance.
"What happened?"
None could tell.
The moment stopped.

Clouds cleared.
A warm breeze whispered,
"A ray of light found our brave-heart!"
"And We are back on!!"
The silence screamed.

The trees waved, the bushes swayed
the little one soared, up in the air!!
evening sky blushed orange and red
as the setting Sun smiled and said,
“Hold on tight through the night, a star has to rise from the dead.”

Purva Joshi

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The View from Here:

Leaves of deep burgundy,
Gently rustling.
A little train station,
Always bustling.
The calming soft pink of the
Overhead clouds,
And the constant clamour of the
Monday crowds.

I watched as you boarded
Carriage Number Three,
And I wondered why
You were leaving without me.
Not a word had you uttered as you'd
Left the house.
But I'd followed you secretly,
Quiet as a mouse.

The people were loud and
The clouds became black.
But I never lost sight of your
Blazer-clad back.
I broke into a run;
My legs are only little.
The leaves beneath my feet were
Crunchy and brittle.

'Come back' I yelled
As loud as I could,
But I had to stop short to
Yank my shoe from the mud.
When I turned back around
The train had gone.
And I suddenly found myself all
Alone.

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Around me never absent
holding me safe from those noises below
of distant trains, sirens and shouts
of birds and laughter and multiple barks

A microscope specimen, my body held tight
I feel them gaze down, into my being
examining my mind, my soul, my thoughts
numbering me, shaping me, hiding me away

Grey peeling paint, grime in the corners
white horses and dragons and cars floating by
Chased by birds and distant planes pulling streamers
leaving me here daily, alone in my thoughts

An insect unknowing, unerring, walks up and across
defying gravity in it's finite vertical world
tiny brown legs carrying it far away
far out of this lair, this pit, this cave

The seasons, green, autumn and snow
blow past without ever touching my face
rain on the glass never wets my feet
no prints left on the sand washed in waves

Straight, uniform, solid, and unbending
Is that what they seek to achieve in time
painful transition, a spiritual development
rebirth and hope when that door clangs no more

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(our parked car, evokes memories of dating)
www.michael-mcdermott.net

Ripeness

When tender orbits first cross
Out on a slow starlight drive
Seeking shared ways of pleasure
with mood music and laughter
One can easily slip on this uneven path
Situations of emotional pressure
Often put both in danger
Of confusing love with pleasure
Dreamers must try
While freely sipping new romance
To not spill loose love
As, once lost
It's hard to put assurance back
Into splintered fragile giving hearts
Better before commitment
To ponder
Ways of making a love life together

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The clock ticks time away

Visitors: above me flapping wings keep their social distance,
As gentle breezes calm the wind chimes
And off stage DIY grates it's ugly din

Dark clouds: the background bird chorus
Sings it's amen and
Alexa announces medicine time
As, sitting here, I yearn,

Longing for things beyond
As my expectations are lowered
to a potted fern.

C Campbell

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Huge puddles on the green ground
The pouring rain keeps filling it in
Wonder to myself
If I dive, can I deluded myself
Into thinking it's the great sea

Can I pretend
That the ocean will take me
With my breath held in and eyes
Tightly shut

Can I pretend
That the smell of mud water and fresh grass
Is the small of early mornings
Not defeat

Huge brick wall, more than 6ft tall
Filled with more & more graffiti
If I stand closer, what will it be
The end or my ending

Can I pretend
The hugs wall and graffiti means more
That there is still something beautiful in
"The end"

Can I pretend
That I can walk into paintings
No more wall-climbing, just rain
Huge water-stones on my back

I see the green ground
Let me lay there
And let the water drain me
I see the brick wall
Let it stand tall
And let it keep me company

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An ancient amphora with its precious cargo
Smooth-rushes of liquid love over-fill this empty vessel
Your eye lash on my neck pierces my heart

Uncomfortable with joy until you made it so
Inviting me to know friendly spaces
An ancient amphora with its precious cargo

A passenger on a barren, deserted island
Then you cradled my face in the palms of your hands
Your eye lash on my neck pierces my heart

Escape the rubble of a rueful room
Vanquished by your smile I dissolve into you
An ancient amphora with its precious cargo

Take me away from decades of gloom
Where happy currents lap at our feet
Your eye lash on my neck pierces my heart

Long awaited bow-out a welcome export
For two eager to endorse love's passport
An ancient amphora with its precious cargo
Your eye lash on my neck pierces my heart

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Brick walls.

Boundaries

in these months of Sundays.

Brick by brick,

I break down

fearful walls.

On the other side,

my life is waiting.

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The View from Here

Kitchen table.

All still, apart from the hopping Robin and the gentle swaying of the leaves in the trees.

The familiar, nondescript smell of home.

The hum of appliances and the circular beat of the washing machine drum, tossing its load.

John Purcell, July 2021.

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In phalanx of rowan, horse chestnuts, maple,
without social distancing, or shyness, the trees speak
through fungi and roots.
Opposite, meeting the maple in a V shape,
honeysuckle, wild rose and beech consort,
their scent still a promise.
Over the hedging, in a distant garden,
two tall copper beeches proclaim
the surprise accent of joy.
The prayer is in the noticing. The play of light and dark
leaves against a willow hurdle, whisper
of sacrament.

Yet under each branch of the horse chestnut,
the wrinkled elephant skin suggests
seventy years of memories.
What solace, if any, is sought
as sanctuary is offered
to those she shares her life with?
Seed-dispersing squirrels and corvids, lichens sprouting
like hairy moles on a human face,
insects sheltering in her peeling bark snuggle
into the cracked leather of her skin.
Humans from three families have sheltered here.

And so I invite guests to listen to the burn
as it flows from the old millpond through our garden
as they sit, with scones, around the circular wooden table.
We speak, and listen to each other.

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I'm looking down at the lake.
Each flake can be the perfect mirror.
I can frame mountains ego in a tiny grain.
The further away, the smaller is a hero.

I'm looking at the bright side.
The view from here is homemade marmalade.
The sun rays gave all it got to the rainbow.
I can see the way up beneath the glow of the gate.

I climb a lithe ladder of the moment.
Being closer to sky-high delicate something
has more taste than palpable water for nothing.
Happy evolving

for a plethora of balloons that soon fly away.
The clarity of my thoughts is under the sway.
No panacea is perfect.

Livia Gribova

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Playing chess on the roof.

The river is a string of blue.

You said, “From the top of the tower the king watches the insurgent bishop while the queenie rides a white horse.”

The wind blows stronger.

Your black and white checkered shirt is a kite against the white light of our town.

I never said, “Game’s over. The king is helpless.”

The night is falling. The cars are a thread of light crossing the bridge.

(©) Elisabete Nunes July 1st, 2021

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From mine, I see
other houses; they frame
the green, and the
asphalt

With mine, I see
other bodies; they walk
off the grass, on
the pavement.

At mine, I see
other trees; they are
still trees, whereas mine
is a desk.

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is one of envy.

The rain remains untroubled.
Not a single terraced house is left
unkissed.
It patters against the windowpane
like a child’s fingernail
on a glass jar of fruit pastels.

Undivided and wild,
it continues
to fall.
Foliage bows under the torrent.

I’m resisting
the call to build a duvet nest.
I’m ignoring
the silky voice behind your eyeballs
that whispers, ‘Close them.’

I wear my weariness as best I can.

Shadows spin from the humming fan,
the rotund, dim bulb
would not inspire a moth to take flight.
My girlfriend’s copper curl
is like a question mark.
Her pencil sings a scratchy symphony.
There is peace in their focus.
The half-drawn blackout blinds conceal us.

Grey skies no longer offer clarity.
The rain doesn’t care about our worries.
Its
drips
drum out
a dull beat.
Our future
sags
before us,
uncertain.

Rain continues to hammer unlit,
terracotta chimneys.
Its sheer mass
a waterfall
of possibility.

Olivia Todd

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Always wanted to tell
you something,
for some reasons
every time, I failed

I failed at every point
disappointed at every step
but, fortunately
I won you

I tried my best to
let you know,
my worst side full
of secrets and dark...

Let me stand on the edge,
and you just hold my hand.
put aside the worries,
and let's just try to know
the thing between us...

Line breaks

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by Krishna Moorthy

The dry roads flooded with water, the clogged drainage gates had their surprises .

Looking out through the window the scent of marsh becomes nostalgic, on the other side of horizon Zephyrus destroyed cities and here he brought a company with him, drizzles

. In a room of one’s own Beethoven and Mozart’s symphony were in a loop, failing to contemplate the view from here.

It is these moments that get lost times endless stream, not memories. The prophecy that dusk getting darker is that dawn is coming closer.

These monsoons have made me discover life exists in the fragrance of soil, and in the colors of ochre-red dragon flies, in the freshly moved grass.

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by Rucha Virmani

A tall tree, his boughs wide open, embracing
the late summer air. His arms are laden
with dense foliage and his heart is lost
in dreams of autumn, when he shall be freed
of his burdens. Potted plants arranged in neat
rows, lost in dreamlands of wild, dangerous woods,
where plants can grow wild and unrestrained,
where trees can touch the sun.
The sun’s golden rays, peeking through the delicate
fronds of the willow, dreaming about dusk
and her moon’s calm, pristine face. Naked
telephone wires, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight,
dreaming about the little robin that will perch
on them and fill their hollowness with warm birdsong.
Passengers in the distant humming airplane, floating
in dreamscapes of sunshine and home.

And a little girl, her eyes glittering
like frozen pools, dreaming
about the time
when there were no windows
separating her from
the world of her dreams.

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The view from here is a big

gray wall,

but it's still a massive mess.

Is it the devil’s fault?

The view is a world full of pain.

Between

those concrete blocks there’s

a gigantic labyrinth and hiding

there are ticking clocks within the future

I won’t get.

Feels like falling into the rabbit’s hole all the time.

I have nothing under control and everyone says

I have a lifetime.

They keep saying it’s not a crime but

I’ve been feeling guilty for a while.

What comes next is my worst fear,

the past, my worst enemy.

Do I even deserve empathy?

Am I that small to the world?

Am I too big to stay here?

I keep seeing everything blurred,

wondering if I’ll feel at home in a year.

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Hurt, like a sound of chirping birds
Humans can hear but,
Can not understand when rain comes

You can see regrets appear in outlines
Of mountains but,
When it's gone they become dull clouds

Who remind me of forgiveness
Which can lift someone's heart but,

Crying of a distant child leaves
me at bay that reconciliation is not always possible

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Cold concrete and black glass,
Precipitous,
Beetling,
Depressing,
Oppressive.
They roar; they snore.

In the classrooms,
Plato, Newton and Shakespeare shiver,
Bruised and bleeding,
Wishing for the weekend,
And the pain to ease awhile.

8:30 Assembly.
Descartes points into the crowd and shouts:
Well you are not.
You aren't.
And you
Certainly
Ain't.

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Cocooned in my tiny room, nestled in the labyrinth of one of Asia's greatest cities, watching the dim lights outside from this high floor; I lose myself in thought about this city.
A city once known for its nightlife, night markets,beautiful women,and 24 hour shops

Now the lights are dim and we have become deadly quiet as we have only one mandate now:

Survive the worst pandemic in a century.

On TV I see soul fraying images of bodies being burned in parking lots in Delhi and the mass graves in São Paulo. This is the 21st century. I shouldn't be seeing horrors worthy of WWII imagery. This wrongness chokes.

my solitary tears burn like acid on my cheeks, because I grieve for those I can't reach or touch and my powerlessness brings me to my knees, screaming on the floor. Nothing has changed:

Survive the worst pandemic in a century.

In Bangkok, the noose tightens. The rules grow stricter. We comply, because we are afraid, but mostly because we want to live. One idea dictates all other decisions:

Survive the worst pandemic in a century.

Arguments over vaccines, shifting timelines, contradictory information day by day, vaccine production issues, greed and despair. Still, it is written in light and ash:

Survive the worst pandemic in a century.

Thousands of kilometres away my family grows silent. Perhaps they forgot I am alive, or that I got trapped. A one month Airbnb rental that's blossomed into a 14 month rental. It doesn't matter if they don't care or don't remember that I'm trapped between bureaucracy, visa amnesties, boarder disputes and daily flight changes.

I'm not relevant because we are all lost in one sacred mandate:

Survive the worst pandemic in a century.

Silver thorned collars shine on  death's beloved hounds. They nip at our heels and breath down our necks, waiting and wanting to pull us into the grave.

Maybe the virus will win. Maybe death's hounds will feast on millions.

Or, perhaps, WE will win and

Survive the worst pandemic in a century.

Then we will take our place in history as survivors of one worst catastrophes in our species has encountered.

History, science and moral judgement will dissect and analyze what we did and how we survived.

Let us hope we can hold up our heads up in pride, not lowered in cowardice, shame, and selfishness.

We are all together here.
We are all together here.
We are all together here.

Let us fight this enemy as one.

©GM Seward 15-May-2021

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The Sky has turned its back on the Sun.

Dogs bark a symphony today,

drowning out the sweeter song of birds

swooping circles over rust red rooftops.

Children’s voices are silent

at this time of day.

A world made small,

held in by stillness.

I could keep you safe here.

White-washed, white sheets block my view.

A shiny string of letters spelling ‘Buon Compleanno’ taps

lightly on beam and wall.

Sudden shifting breeze brings prickled points to skin.

That rose, like her namesake,

stubbornly refuses to bloom.

The lemon tree stands patiently,

our first attempt at nurturing life.

This garden’s growth is cyclical,

there is a regularity to its change.

Your progress holds a different rhythm.

Its patterns are not so easily followed.

The familiar becoming unfamiliar, strange.

The blackbird’s constant song is a comfort,

a point of reference, his return.

He keeps a small radius.

You, instead,move in ever widening circles.

The edges of your world are not yet defined.

Julie Sharp

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Freedom
Trees form canopy of leaves above
Creek hides trout eggs from predictors
Above water poke the rocks
sky and all her colors enjoy her beauty

Glides the eagle
Soars the hawk guarding his love
Bugles the elk to challenge the opponent in the draw

Trees form canopy
Betty Magnus

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by Ríona Egan

My window is what I see
until I lean my head and tilt
There's more to that oak tree
than habit lets you think

It's a compound moving picture
In spectrums of great light
That shine from every angle
not just left and right

How vast is your window?
If it only frames one view
Wipe it clean, reflect the pane
Let each new glance be true

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It’s an ancient thing, a fortress even,

where age and tribe and forest meet,

where flocks branch again and settle

and put their little ones to sleep.

Where a liar doesn’t stand a chance but then:

wounded glass, rotting chamber, moldy bed and guilt.

It’s an ancient thing when walls are budding,

when tongues are mugged by stranger string,

when bees, wasps and beetles chipped

off cork or leafy crowns to sing.

When they interrupt the chant of birds with tunes of wind

and a ripe time of a chilled sap goes missing.

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by SE

The view from here is my own.

I see a stream with a steep grassy bank.

A muntjac is engaged there

eating the finest and sweetest of leaves.

I remember my comrade.

The invincible Suffolk warrior

of sweet streams and grassy banks.

The happy muntjac may be here again

tomorrow and tomorrow

as he is wont to do. But my comrade,

warrior and loyal friend

of the green world we made our own, before,

Is gone forever.

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by Janine Soucie Kelley

It’s almost Spring.

But like the leaf-less aspen tree

and buried tulips in our garden

I’m trapped in winter, waiting

to bloom, to breath free of Covid,

breathe unmasked, though engraved

by far deeper woes. I look out

our picture window and watch

a red-breasted finch nested

atop a muddle of birdseed

wholly content in the warm sun.

Clouds roll by one by one —

like black cars in a cortege.

My husband’s death certificate

rests quietly on my desk. I step

away, soft into the secret garden

of the heart. Your stone angel is

gray, cold. My cold fingers spell

our name. I listen to the male

finch call his mate. A rough branch

from the tall blue spruce you planted

decades ago scratches my cheek,

tossed by the invisible wind,

drawing blood as red, as red

as the finch’s blood-red breast.

I wish, I wish you were that bird.

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Sparrows quibble

On mossy branches

A blush of youth revives the dead

Hush

says the breeze

It is only grief

a crimson crown, my guardian

unfaithful

innocent in deed

guilty heart

acquiesce possession

soar above the scars

They recede

I am free.

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The sudden silence make me fear
For the world outside,
if it would end.
The felling of strangeness for the future
Gives me hope
if it could be saved.
The loss of a loved one
The guilt why this happened,
Shattered me to the core
I fear, what could happen more.
The view form here is sorrow and despair.
Gloom and Misery it appear.
The sudden silence make me fear….
If it could be real………

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From my window I can see a worldwide

The screen mesmerized me

It is a concrete virtual tour of knowledge.

But brings the absence,

Imprisoned stuffs behind the glass

That make me feel over

Like a silence of a spider

weaving a perfect  web.

Subtly downing on my desk

A glass of wine captures the image

And it brings the real

I can see me the other side

I see my selfie

It’s surreal...

Solitary but selfish.

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Pinched me,
your eyes see me dreaming.

Awakened,
but still
sleep.

A service obsolete.

Droplets shattered in an instance
as this cage
feels like my
shining resistance.

Created a slave to be kept in a cage
these books helped me get out of this place.

What you see is a false vision for me
I hate to disappoint but

- this is the life i see.

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A love coerced

A crime not committed
A sentence without the life
A misjudgement if I'm a miss

Evidence insufficient
A debt never repaid
A made payment without sanction

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By Iqra B.

One little Robbin chirped

With the song of the wind,

Forming a sweet melody

Like nectar, falling from heaven.

It was the faint chuckles

Of the goofy kids and the barks

Of the poodle next door,

Which electrified tiny cells of joy,

As they danced

Around my veins.

My mind painted nostalgic

Masterpieces. Of Memories,

Too precious to capture on camera

As I sat there in my tiny kitchen, Tilting

My head towards my window

Again. Remembering

My slumbering cries and

Drowsy groans on my first day
At school.

A warm sigh escaped

From my rosy lips,

As Mr. Hans’s excited whistle twirled

Around like music,

To my blessed ears.

This was my view

Each morning.

This was my life.

-Iqra

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By Harvey Rowan

Everyone is busy. The garden’s life restarted three weeks ago;
Our steep hill of grass, birch trees and bushes, all burst open with buds.
Clouds sun themselves on the first warmth of the year,
Our Almighty life-giver,
And I break out my own supplies of well-worn books.
Even the Men have started – 5, a gang in dark, muddy clothes;
Workmen with a digger, levelling out our neighbours’ garden.

The whirring of the diggers’ engine and their loud music shake the earth
as much as the teeth of their exaggerated tool.
Moans of summer and desperate, trembling guitars are out
of place compared to the hard day’s graft.
The workmen communicate through shouts,
An “Ok,” “Go ahead,” the “Woah, Woah, Woah,” and occasional “Watch yourself.”

‘Work’ – the act of doing something meaningful in the world, physically or otherwise;
Known for its capacity to drive people mad.

The men are serious and work hard.
The plants are also working hard, ignoring the next-door distractions. Growth,
photosynthesis, the modern-day magic.
Tomato sprouts sit next to me, and outside the vegetables that have yet to start
producing anything worth eating carry on,
because in a few weeks they might, might, might.

The men are serious and work hard, but in a few hours they might, might, might escape
For two days, or they’ll cash in a day-off instead. Maybe.

Yesterday, the first day of disruption, I saw a fat, grey squirrel
(avoiding the foxes on our other side)
crawl up a tree and perch, warily watching the workers
and that strange metal predator.
Those clouds, mountains of white fluff, are shifted only now by a straining,
weak-willed wind – moving a mountain of water that takes up the sky.

Work is a series of impossible actions, normally due to an individuals’ willpower or another,
unknown force
(like money).

Yesterday the neighbour responsible came over to apologize for the mess,
And the noise they were going to make for the next three days.
“It’s fine,” of course, “and we’re sure it will be lovely!
Better to start it now, before summer gets going.”
‘Work is the curse of the drinking classes,’ after all,
And there’s nowhere else we’d rather go

Then away from work, and straight back home.

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The View from here: Lucy Steele

From the inside I look out
at the unknown world,
lampposts stand stealthily like soldiers,
the gloomy yellow aura reflecting against the glass windows

lighting up the room,
cars blast past,
will they ever stop?

trees stand tall,
will they ever fall?

the wind roared and howled and shrieked,
will it ever stop?

I look out
at the unknown world.

Will I ever get out?

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By Anne Scott

Tall. Tall 'til I touched the sky.
Proud and prominent,
gnarled with age.
Respected.
Providing
protection.

That was until the day I died. That dreadful day when I heard
the loud noise, felt the juddering, shaken from the inside out.

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THEVIEW FROM HERE
By Yvonne Mabbott

I sit and wait for the sunrise
I sit and watch it grow.
I ponder of the day ahead
as the sun glides calm and slow.

I like it to spring on me gently
as the night slowly disappears.
I sit and listen intently
as the birds tickle my ears.

Mother nature stirs from her slumber
she wakes the tree's and the grass.
I hear night life slowly retreat
as dark now comes to pass.

I hear dew drop from the flowers
as they open their petals wide.
I see slugs, snails and frogs
Retreat, shelter and hide.

Now the sun is rising higher
bursting above Yorkshire's hills.
Warming up everything in sight
taking away the evening chills.

What a wonderful world
Louis Armstrong wasnt wrong.
How in tune this tune is with nature
a well befitting song.

Am I the only one
to witness the days waking?
I wonder do they even appreciate
God's work in glorious making.

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The View from Here (The Purple Toy Trowel) by Mark Taylor

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The View from Here (The Purple Toy Trowel) by Mark Taylor

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A cough

A decaying dandelion

A startled pukeko shriek

Weeds, weeds, weeds

An earwig creeps

An eerie Mantis prays

An oil tanker slug navigates

Drip, drop, splash

The cancer gone

The kitten pounces

The purple toy trowel aplomb

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Marina McGovern

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I fear.
I fear my world falling apart.
I fear I have reached the end like the barren tree before my eyes.
My senses troubled in this peaceful calm
As the quietude spasmodically shattered by passing cars.

I seek.
I seek solace in my view.
I seek solace in the brick house gleaming in its beige trim.
My senses soothed by the sweet coffee aromas
Emanating from the lounge.

I yearn.
I yearn to keep what I have.
I yearn to freeze the view from here.
My simplest of hopes
Now seem like a pipe dream.

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Her eyes trail the movements of the birds,

They travel to the forest

on the horizon almost simultaneously

A few struggling catch up slowly

She presses her forehead to the glass, wishing

But her view remains the same.

She presses her head to the glass, longing

The rift between her mind and brain keeps her reeling

In pain

She presses a needle into herself,

It keeps her honest,

This process of healing is tough.

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The View from Here - by Teresa M. R. Simões Pereira

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The View from Here - by Teresa M. R. Simões Pereira

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Breaking the silence of my thought
I heard Spring knocking at my door.
Coming from afar Nostalgia brought
Yellow, pink and white, out of the blue.

And there I was blowing your name
In a cup of lemon-leaf tree.
We both joined in a party, you and me
Could hear, smell, taste and see

Dressed-up memories swiftly danced
Holding their garish clothes on the go
In a childhood picture, in a velvet frame
No pain, no joy, no fault to blame.

Present weeds either invited or not,
No difference made, no tears caught.

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Daffodils in yellow, shaking                                                                              crowns at the rhythm of salsa, wires grow                                                          and cling to clouds, from water                                                                                to dust. Rush

of silk, I wonder:                                                                                                           a dream blown in casual reality, echoes                                                             wind on burning edges. Here

how come, to a window                                                                                          that is new. Ashes of today, tomorrow’s butterflies                                          burst in endless skies                                                                                          where words as hope disguise

Now come.

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We sit.

The new day

All drenched in colour-

a fuzzy children’s cartoon,.

Here! -The neighbour’s dog,

Yapping along the

Serpentine path

There!-
My bumbling neighbour- Turnip-nosed,

straight-laced and with a large,

‘What, ho!’ voice

That shook the wind firmly by the hand

And carried off with it,

to the sea

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The View From Here  By Trixie Smith 2021 

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The View From Here  By Trixie Smith 2021 

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Warm suburban haze,

dusty bumbling of bees, grumble of traffic,

a roaring bus, the echoing wails of a distant siren a

few metres away

birds singing over the gravelly dirge below, a canopy of skeletons with

buds blooming from their fingertips a lemony lens held over

the scene

blinding whiteness stretches far above I

imagine the breeze stroke my skin but I

can only imagine from behind the screen,

the light from the window falls on my side and feels its way

up from my toes,

I stretch out my neck to feel the sun kiss my face but a shadowy veil will

not move.

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The View from Here                                                                           Helen Brown                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   I see my garden shedding                                                                      its winter coat,                                                                                                                                                                                                                      exposing the ornament survivors.                                                   They of sterling steadfastness.                                                               If there was an award for                                                        Shackleton endurance, I'd nominate                                                 The concrete Grecian birdbath for                                              looking charmingly mossier.                                                               The iron pot-bellied patio heater for                                      becoming a warmer shade of rust.                                                     The wiry fat ball feeder for                                                                                          enduring the strain of flapping jackdaws.                                        The plastic lonely peg on the whirligig for                           displaying the windiest of acrobatics.                                                   If only, this lockdown                                                                    veteran, could boast                                                                                 of weathering winter                                                                           with equal equanimity.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

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The View from Here                                                                           Helen Brown                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   I see my garden shedding                                                                      its winter coat,                                                                                                                                                                                                                      exposing the ornament survivors.                                                   They of sterling steadfastness.                                                               If there was an award for                                                        Shackleton endurance, I'd nominate                                                 The concrete Grecian birdbath for                                              looking charmingly mossier.                                                               The iron pot-bellied patio heater for                                      becoming a warmer shade of rust.                                                     The wiry fat ball feeder for                                                                                          enduring the strain of flapping jackdaws.                                        The plastic lonely peg on the whirligig for                           displaying the windiest of acrobatics.                                                   If only, this lockdown                                                                    veteran, could boast                                                                                 of weathering winter                                                                           with equal equanimity.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

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by angela millard

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wanting to gesture somewhere else

to some other place while winding

down elegies clinging to sad despair

animalist and plant quotients unjust

extinction both dawning & evening

yet no human handhold on the tiller

between here & one last great feast

motes of light dance and sing along

to last rites held on well-worn roads

despair as urgencies and extinctions

melt in a sun setting on a last horizon

waterless as plants to songless birds

dennisg

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The view from hereOne year on I’m still in my flatOne year on Now as crazy as a batOne year on Cooked, baked and ateOne year onOn ice I dare not skateOne year onMy job is gornOne year on Bring on a new dawnOne year onI’ve had my first jab One year onFreedom soon, I will grabThe view from here…                                      S Viljoen 

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The view from hereOne year on I’m still in my flatOne year on Now as crazy as a batOne year on Cooked, baked and ateOne year onOn ice I dare not skateOne year onMy job is gornOne year on Bring on a new dawnOne year onI’ve had my first jab One year onFreedom soon, I will grabThe view from here…                                      S Viljoen 

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One year on

I’m still in my flat

One year on

Now as crazy as a bat

One year on

Cooked, baked and ate

One year on

On ice I dare not skate

One year on

My job is gorn

One year on

Bring on a new dawn

One year on

I’ve had my first jab

One year on

Freedom soon, I will grab...

The view from here…

S Viljoen

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"a scene not to be made,I feel sad looking at this potrat of a thousand mixed feelings

It's like nothing I have glimsed of what a mare case of artwork

Pretty though intoxicating to find something so beautiful very generous

A mile away taste fetal but at least I have found peace.

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Cycle feels so fast, I don't know where
the soul will reside. I walked through
this path of life step by step. That's where
I found a meaning,

that I had lost badly.
I wept with hope.
because my principle life
just a matter of achieving dreams.

by. Fatur rahmat rasyid