Sepia pictures and red wine By Nathan Bednarek.

Too familiar are the notes
of Moonlight Sonata to me,
like the hasty hum of roads
searching for a place to flee.

It plays to me always –
or whenever I look through
the stack of sepia pictures.
A wine glass, half-full,

stays within my reach
and sometimes never leaves
as I attempt to bleach
out the red-wine stains

that have dried many times
and are now in sepia – red
in a stack of memories
filling an empty bed.

Too familiar are the sounds
of half-full wine glasses to me
in a rhythmic jingle of rounds
searching for a place to flee...

What was left unsaid By Nathan Bednarek.

He is given the baby to hold
in his strong arms;
he remembers all he’s been told –
how a newborn disarms
a man’s heart; how a man begins to unfold

and untie the strings of fatherhood and
how his eyes are transfixed upon the life he carries –
a life no bigger than his own hands.

He remembers all they’ve shared,
but knows that one thing was left unsaid.
He holds the baby in his arms and he’s scared.
His arms begin to tremble with dread,

so he lays the baby softly
on his chest, where
it can sleep in safety,
close to his heart, not in midair.
The baby breathes calmly;
the man sheds a fatherly tear...

The chain and three dice By Nathan Bednarek.

I bought the chain with my eyes
when I saw it on display –
no price tag, just a sticker that says

‘Special offer! A negotiable price!’
So I negotiated with myself,
Throwing arguments like dice,
and each argument always rolled a triple six
as if the chain on display
had all three dice jinxed.

I bought the chain with my eyes,
willed it with my flesh,
and all I hear are the clattering cries of my clattering dice...

Winter Haikus! By Deanna Addis

Sharp blue piercing eyes
a gust of wind brings a tear.
More rain in London.

Icy chill
I close my curtains
goodnight world.

My heart beats slower
each breath is sharp and painful
winter is upon us

I can't feel the cold
his hands and his gaze hold mine
winter love story

Depression by Deanna Addis

In an empty underground room, with only a small dim light coming from a far corner, lies a chair in the direct centre. A small man of middle age sits slouched with a bowed head and a fixed gaze. His breathing follows a perfect rhythm. His arms lie hopelessly on his lap with no hope or intention of moving again. His face has so long been serious, his eyes and every crease bare deep signs of pain and hopelessness.If there was a way out, would he choose it?Would he realise it?He cares not, his position stays a forever wounded statue.

Autumn by Deanna Addis

She walks briskly, moving with the wind. Her red and orange scarf flutters behind her like a flame. Her face is rosy and her expression thoughtful. She hugs a folder close to her, containing the work she has almost completed, the work she does every year. She walks toward me, slowing down. Her smile widens as she hands it all into my hands; her gentle whisper says 'It's your turn now, you may put out the fire...'