FebulousFebruary 2026: The Old Photograph

day four

me mum

She had a vision

she could see

she mentioned the pink singers

“never heard of ’em”

I had

She gave me books

Virago lessie stories

I read The well of loneliness

hers were livelier

Photos for the funeral

“is that your dad?”

reveal cigar smoking

dapper  chap

was that how she saw herself?

Now I chuck away

her draft novel

her radio play,

the “I hate you letter”

the novel ruined

by demented vision

the radio play rejected

I have kept the illustrated “last of the jellytums”

we all liked that

one day maybe

I will look at the diaries

and really see her

Harriet MacDonald

61

The world

day three

Vision

I thought it was the We

I could see,

the Us,

underneath our overcoats of ordinary.

We stared at each other,

skirting around our dresses,

hoping for a morsel of close,

some free-will, blown by the wind.

But the glasses we each wore were different –

Mine, mostly made for reading,

a matronly angle across my nose –

Yours, a humble, horn-rimmed set,

belied the hatred behind the glare of glass.

A non-love, not of me, but of your own, beguiling self.

My vision could not pierce this.

No infra-red roar

no laser love

no x-ray specs for me.

I squinted at you sideways.

Karen Finley

Brighton

day two

Vision from the Bandstand at 4 0’ Clock!

“Lucky Kim”! That’s what they call her!

And “Slim Kim” and “Trim Kim” too!

She is fleet of foot and fit for her age

and her heart is good, and true.

But will she be “Lucky Kim” today,

on the day she most needs good luck?

For Lolita has told her to meet her

by the Bandstand at 4 0′ Clock!

Kim’s head has been completely turned, …

by this vigorous, voluptuous, Venus

At 80, she’s like a nervous youth, terrified of being spurned!

Kim has brought flowers for Lolita and even written her verse,

but what will Sue have brought her?

The worry of this, makes Kim curse!

Here is the poem Kim wrote her, surely, she cannot resist? ….

“Lolita darling, walk with me a while

making memories while we smile

from the moment we first met

to the Bandstand, where our love was set.

Through our consuming ecstasy

through unbridled honesty

through the rapture in our souls

know it is your love, that makes me whole”.

By Kim. ♥️XXXXX

Then, from a distance she saw them, Lolita was with Sue,

Kim’s heart nearly stopped when she saw them kiss, and then saw Susan go..

Raging she wanted to kill her, – Kim needed Susan gone!

But what could she do? – Kim felt so foolish, and so low.

Lolita waved and turned giving Kim a lovely smile,

Her heart quickly melted and Kim hurried towards her “gal”.

Upon reaching her she said, “Darling, I have to know,

will it be me or Susan whom you choose to be your beau?”

She suggested they walk towards the shore and kicked off her shoes to paddle,

Up on a rock she read Kim’s verse, and her immersed feet did waggle!

She loved Kim’s romance, she loved Kim’s verse

she so admired Kim’s flowers,

Then at last she said, “I know who I want”! ….

Kim held her breath, while she held Kim, in her powers. ”

It’s been hard”, she said as Susan has a lovely car,

and she’s useful, good at D.I.Y.

We planned to travel,

both near and afar …

But Kim she said, it’s you I want, because you’re such a good lover,

And thinking about your romancing, ahhhh! … has made me see no other!

by Jenny King

Deal, Kent.

day one

Ruby Macaque

You came all the way from America

to the wild west of Wales in winter

reckless you braved our snow line,

got lost on the dinosaur boned Cambrians

to take an outdoor bath with me.

will we ever forget

any of those implausibly large flakes

melting in the menopausal heat

of our flaming faces

as we boil ourselves

into sister soup,

laughing so loud.

other women bring us tea

4 hours in minus 7 degrees,

snow covering the grey in our hair

with something debonair

the furnace of this friendship

roars so many times

that we must undip

rush naked across a white lawn

to turn on the cold tap.

still babbling like brooks about

old lady camouflage and

flying beneath the radar of despair,

curating recipes for world rescue

of hopes and kids and dreams

of every happy end

that started sharing a bath

with a favourite friend.

Jane Campbell aged 55 based in rural West Wales UK

day twenty eight

Home

Three bed terrace, back garden.

A step up from the room and kitchen

Coal fire, freezing mornings.

Playing houses under the bed and under the stairs.

Mum hanging out of the upstairs window. The ice-cream van comes. Me and the girls from across the road, sitting on the front steps, swapping scraps. They tried to steal my best ones (Angels, the blue cat with the milk bottle).

Mum made them give them back.

First Lie.

First Thieving from me.

The beech trees down the road.

My oldest brother got appendicitis.

My favourite dolls Sandra (blonde hair, blue eyes) and Millie (black hair, brown eyes)

What a Great Man Churchill was!

Golly Wog?

Setting a place for my imaginary friend.

The African Xavier brother, “Will you give me your brother for God?”

Me “ No!”

Pennies for the black babies

My middle brother telling me tales of a gang kidnapping a young boy, tying him to a cross and torturing him.

Family card games, Sunday afternoons.

Home 2

Moving up the hill.

Four bed semi-detached, wrap around garden.

Underfloor heating.

“Please, please me” on the Dancette.

President Kennedy (another Great Man?) killed.

Cassius Clay/Mohammed Ali.

My Dad sick in bed.

Mum and Dad fearing the Black Panthers.

Freedom.

Fields of grass, as tall as me.

The bing.

New friends.

The tree house.

An igloo.

No telly (my brothers were studying).

Endless days of summer.

Gardening, Sunday afternoons.

Dad says “And what are you doing for the cause, girl?”

I hide.

Creeping down the stairs to my first adult family party,

Mum on the piano,

Dad singing songs from the auld country.

Pint in hand.

Dad died when I was ten.

Home 8

I’ve fought for many causes since, Dad.

Mum didn’t approve.

Now I climb an even steeper hill in my beloved green city

To the splendid isolation of my garret, filled with wide blue, grey, lilac skies and light.

High winds rattle the windows and howl through the tunnels of tenements.

In the distance, the Kilpatrick Hills.

Freedom.

Only the most intrepid make it to my door.

Sometimes, I walk, sing, dance.

Now and again, I make a foray

Outside.

But long only for the Return.

Mostly, I sit and nurse my pain and wrath and occasionally take it out on the telly.

Honesty is not very fashionable.

Global Theft and Violence are par for the course, as ever.

Hate is on the march, Again.

They’re Killing Our Mother.

I’ve got an emergency bag packed in case any of us survive.

I’m still hiding.

Cathy Welsh (not much over 60) Glasgow

day twenty seven

Tidy house

Sorted suburbia

spread like neat

geometry for unrelated families

to pass each other easily

becalmed by sleeping policemen

in leafy bedroom avenues

In slinks cancer sharking still

vintage lacy curtains offers slim protection

against her looking glass skill

but beyond the fury at life hewn savage blue

a love of moments

may yet find you.

by Jane Campbell who is a 54yrs old dyke and is proud to live off grid in a handmade home in rural West Wales UK.

Majikle.blogspot.com

day twenty six

day twenty four

Margate

“Swimming at Christmas”

other people cry

with leaves torn from trees

and ice chunks floating by?

But the splat patter

of my over exposed feet

willingly toe the frigid shallows

before I plunge legs, liver and face

below jade pale waves,

heading for shore

absolutely nothing left

except the only gift worth having

beating gloriously in my chest.

Jane Campbell

day twenty three

Roll Up! Roll Up!

The harbour arm beckons us with its chorus line of lights.

A rainbow flag unfurls from a creaky crane.

Now let the show begin!

Candy pink limo full of popping prom girls stretches round the sweeping sands.

Teenage clubbers who carry a condom enter for free

while a barman juggles sunrise sling and sheets.

In from the wings fly paragliders through a sky of shimmering light

that Turner may have stroked.

Windsurfers soar cruise and spin glimpsing whites of the wind farms’ sails.

Christians raise their voices in the heat of the sandy afternoon

and their amen harmonises with a horny saxophone

playing to the people sipping chilled wine in the square.

A seashell lady gives you the nod when a fresh batch of fish is frying

or tea is being served at the Walpole Bay Hotel

on the geranium terrace at the top of the hill.

Backstage in the old town, local artists hum.

Staining glass moulding clay

wiring wrapping wreaths bouquets.

Beyond sandcastles she’s preparing to unveil

her house of installations and oils

hoping high speed trains will draw art lovers and the curious.

Curtains now on a flood of gold and streaky pinks

arching the old hugging couple on a bench.

He whispers in Polish of her beautiful eyes “masz piękne oczy” and they let the next bus go by.

Fiona Thomson

31 March 2010

Margate

day twenty two

Stones

Solid millstone grit outlasting the composite squares,

flattened footfall on faded time.

Mason strength to haul and grind our histories

Your graft and precision aesthetic beauty,

imprinting minds of those who didn’t own the means

but fell in line to live and die in only that moment and

hollowed out harsh brutalities of being human.

Janet Jones (age 54) Halifax,