Category Archives: Wales

Free Verse by Maureen Weldon

  THE PAST   I have left the past, or so I thought; yet it sits in every corner, sits on my back.   Sometimes the long garden with a hammock to swing in, to laze in, near the sweet … Continue reading

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Daily Haiku: Oct. 23, 2021

last light the slipstream of swallows over my shoulder by Paul Beech (Wales) Blithe Spirit, Vol. 31, No. 2, May 2021

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Daily Haiku: Feb. 2, 2021

river bridge the distance of my prayer         by Paul Chambers (Wales)   Frogpond, 39:2, Summer 2016  

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Poem by Maureen Weldon

RHYDYMWYN Yesterday was a walking day, in a Welsh Valley – whispers past an ice age. We wandered to the wetland where teasel flowers live: nesting boxes for sand martins: big sandy cylinders on poles; a sort of porch, an … Continue reading

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Free Verse by Maureen Weldon

RING Having sold it for more than it was worth –   I bought a ticket – Return Day Dublin.   On the way home, laughing into my drink.   Third finger left hand for a moment so grand.   … Continue reading

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Free Verse by Maureen Weldon

MIDNIGHT ROBIN While the sky shimmers like shot silk, chimneypots a toothy smile, I count the pots, 1 2 3 4 5.   On my kitchen table, sheets and sheets of screwed up poems, I will flatten them tomorrow for … Continue reading

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Triolet by Paul Beech

STEEPLE Landmark, lifemark, the steeple of St John’s. Pausing, we hear the bells faintly in snow. Down the chill river, destiny beckons. Landmark, lifemark, the steeple of St John’s. Pals all our lives, we’re the lucky ones, Tramping the valley … Continue reading

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Haibun by Paul Beech

This haibun tells the true story of my very beginnings in post-war Lancashire… The Prayer Book My middle bookshelf groans under the weight though the tiny diesel engine, boxed starting pistol, and boxed prayer book piled at the end add … Continue reading

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Free Verse by Maureen Weldon

SINK AND THE GREAT HOUSE   ‘My poor hands, red and rough,’ this is what Sink hears as the greasy-spiky water sloshes, scullery maid scrubs with gentle precision porcelain plates, cups, saucers, jugs …   On freezing five o’clock mornings Sink feels … Continue reading

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Free Verse by Paul Beech

THE UNFORGIVEN   Well past middle-age, bald, he sits there with his love, milkshakes – his banana, hers vanilla – as midnight drizzle beyond the pane slicks the black tarmac of the car park of this garishly neon-lit deserted retail … Continue reading

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