Author: Chris Goode

Policeman at the door backfire from a motorbike next door’s penchant for hammering – never heard of screws silently turning nuclear submarine lurking in the gloom propellers torquing slowly. Baseball bat to head cricket bat to ball crack of a pistol shot criminal gang’s revenge or start of a race hundred metre sprint all that…

Lost in the south Shropshire hills, A sleepy, quiet land of farms and tea rooms, No longer the violent borderlands, Uneasy, restlessly awaiting The imminent arrival of Welsh raiders. A land made incongruous by its contrasts: Undulating fields, green pasture, streams and forest Torn apart by steep-sided, forbidding highland escarpments. One minute: a sunny picnic,…

One needs to be quite lexical To rhyme a word with bicycle A two wheeled one saddled vehicle Not to be confused with aerricle A device once thought as mythical. With some parts quite mechanical To repair is not too technical Racers can be fanatical Excuse this rhyme rhetorical All about the bicycle. Jayne Marshall…

Hi-there, Michael, It’s your AI here, Flashing, to wish you A prolific New Year. Whatever you’re into, I-can-help-you-do-it-better So taste-me, Try-me, Use-me-as-a-diary! I’m-the-friendly-fact-tree Bubbling in your ear. Feeling…hopeful? Need…to find Fresh new words To expand your mind? Looking for the flames To forge a new rhythm? Ask-me, Task-me, Cautiously unmask-me. I-do-everything-I’m-told And I’m always kind….

The literary eyes and ears of Seaford were focused on the Crypt Gallery last Wednesday when we held another Open Mic poetry event. Our thanks to our two wonderful guest poets, Robert Edwards and Jasmine (pictured), who completed the line-up for each half of the evening. Our thanks too to all the amazing poets who…

Caught in a time warp On  a march through history Imprinted on a hill In midst of an unending walk stands quite still The white giant Leaning on walking staves Outlined against shades Of patchwork green Searching for a village, clan or sheep, No longer seen. Through wars and peace, Winter’s bite and summer’s song….

He got there first and we are all now paying his price deep in debt to that one black square soaking up the rays then spitting them out a heat signal alive in the brush strokes the best colour for desert garb and domestic radiators, but we don’t like to go there stay chromo phobic…

Fast in feminine confines of the House Your songs fought hard to reach the open air – From quiet drawing-rooms and salons fair To Arno’s banks, where soft sweet winds carouse. Of Quietude you stayed the loving Spouse Keeping your keener yearnings from despair; Playing your well-tuned instrument with care – Well-tended fire no enmity…

We’ll all be united now/ The ones that paid the price/ he thought as he strolled down the dusty yellow path/ pulling out arrows as he went/ like a bird without a mission/ already condemned/ wings too tiny to fly/ tired of flight failures/ on a long tumultuous trek to the disc-world.