Wordlovers Weekly
Marion Greene, Noel Fuller, Pavel Chichikov, Marc Sherland, Peter Gallaher,
Sorana Salomeia, Bill Cunningham and
Mariellen Gallaher
Volume I:vi. 27 February, 2004

from the editor's mail box .... A New Poet


Marion Greene



Inherited Ghosts


We are a nation of inherited ghosts
Welcoming the unfamiliar hauntings with brazen grace

While our own ancestral memories are trampled

In the headlong rush to make passage.


Losing ourselves in the grip of a mid-life crisis

We attire ourselves in raiment shaped for other bodies,

Unaware of the pinch that strands us in a house of mirrors.


We are a nation of borrowed legends and invented history

Carved from the soft chalk of our fossilized guilt.

We wear a necklace of lake coloured stone as a badge of exile.


We are a nation of abandoned places.


Marion Greene

December 2003







    Master of deception, time

    Trickster, huckster,

    Partn'ring crime,


    Let life be.  Ease

    Your unending, relentless, tease

    Hounding now into oblivion

    Enshring yesteryear fears

    Exalting worried anxieties

    Beyond all deservings

    Be still.



    Mariellen Gallaher 





The Fawn



I saw the doe of Solomon lying on her side

All the wings of ignorance descending in a glide


Small and stupid naked heads, eyes as hard as stones

Treading places on the doe, witless on their thrones


I saw them poke her curving ribs, rigid-legged pace,

Bow their ugly implements to velvet flank and face


Now the vultures from her sinew pull the skin apart

Who will sing a poem of her, praise her by his art?


I have neither tongue nor soul that's equal to the job

To praise the doe of Solomon beneath the foul mob


So dainty are the footsteps of the quiet doe of dawn

Who in the silent cage of noon conceals the silent fawn


Pavel Chichikov

February 22, 2004







Old, discarded and forgotten, dusty

dirty, spent. Lost but for the hands that pry

in search of bygone pride, and talent still

invested there which time has not denied.


Loving hands restoring life with will

to see it done, as memories distilled

of years bring essence re-described, and win

a chance to serve: Again to be fulfilled.


Beauty from a day long gone its skin

akin to new, with elegance to spin

its tales, it waits to cast it's hue and be

returned to life, in glory to begin.


A bit of then brought forth to now, brings more

to life then if `twere born brand new: Encore






    World View


    Harbour shores a misty blue

    In my face a  gale wind blew

    Sticks and pack soft sunshade hat

    Just at end of daylong hike

    Small boy circled on his bike

    Question  scribing with his whirl

    Have you walked all round the world?

    No! although I wish I had

    Very nearly now I've walked

    Right around the Manukau!

    Wow! far out! Have a good day!

    Fast pedaled off to his play.


    Noel Fuller

    February 20, 2004



    Where are the Orca?



Gossips of crabs scuttling so plentiful

Feed flights of stingrays too many abound

Bites of sharks their thousands of bellies full

Accomplish nothing to keep stingrays down


Gurnard, snapper, mackerel and mullet

Too few getting caught in ray tangled nets

Fishermen feeding the human gullet

With flaps of stingrays are increasing vexed


Making sinks of holes over miles of mud

Where do the rays go when the tide is low?

Leave diamond impressions made in the flood

Back and forth with the great lung's ebb and flow?


Where are the orca? the fishermen yearn

To see orca flipping rays in the air

Thrashing and splashing rays done to a turn

Oh where? Oh where are the orca this year?


Noel Fuller

February 21, 2004



 drinking beer


Mill district rainy afternoon

Brew pub sampler warmth renews.


Mariellen Gallaher 



Postulating in the Empty Desert


"Why hello boys. Nice to see you. Come in, come in.

Don't stand on ceremony. The door's always open.

Will you have a cup of tea, something stronger, gin

And bitters, or a single malt ? I pour a healthy dram.



How are things with all the world today?

I seldom read the news. I just don't take the time.

How are things in Glasgow, Auckland, Australay.

I should know, I know. After all, it's mine.



And then it isn't don't you know. It's like

I said back then just before unpleasant

Things started happening to me, large spikes.

Being nailed to a tree. My friends all went


As far as they could get from me as fast

As they could go. Nothing's learned since then.

Oh, they listened I suppose at long last

But for most part, alas, astray they went.


Some few've soldiered on, although, very well

Spreading the "message" and dying for it

Just like I did. Sad business truth to tell.

And now, it seems, all but they ignore it.


Instead most rather like the Renaissance,

The Enlightenment. Refreshing things, they.

All that reason, all that truth and science

All that sense at last in the light of day.


Don't think I hadn't noticed how you all

Had grown to old for games with angels and

Pins. I knew you'd find that would soon pall

When galaxies could be gathered in your hand.


"It's just natural." How that makes me laugh,

Deciding I was unnecessary,

Superfluous, once you had all of that

Knowledge and power, fact and theory.


And so, you've positively grown of late

You've gotten smart, and strong. You've even cloned

Some bits of self. That you'll soon come to hate.

Building monsters is bad for flesh and bone.


What's worse is what you all call the good life, The choices you all make for yourselves, now

That you have autobahns , electric light,

Logical positivism, the Dow.


And yet, I mind. I remember a time

Not so very long ago, though you may

Have forgotten in the effort of your climb

To these heights from what dark obscurity,


When others had adventured on your path

Of knowledge, truth and logic, engaging

Themselves in brave deeds, deeds destined to last

Honored and remembered beyond ages.


How strange it seems now, I suppose, to them

As they look down on ruins in the sand

Where looters dig for goblets, precious gems,

And scientists hold dry bones in their hands


Postulating in the empty desert

About the lives and habits of the dead

As if cultures were what really mattered.

True, indeed, if the cosmos was your head.



Peter Gallaher

Ash Wednesday, 2004






Every household harbors ghosts

Squealing toddlers grimy-mouthed

Paper peeling where fingers helped

Smudge-marked panes from curious noses.


Every house holds memory close,

Blackened eaves from grandma's candle

Clumsy moving nicked doorjambs,

Every house holds many ghosts.



My Gods, My Gods



His eyes were brown. I remember them

Brown and soft, deeply soft.

Her eyes were blue. I remember them

Blue and bright, love and life.

The sky god had earth eyes.

The earth goddess eyes of sky.


He had a Gothic face, long and thin,

Full lips over a firm chin.

His hair had gone from red to brown

He sang to me before I was grown.

I remember her darker hair

Thick about her white face and fair.

Sometimes a strand fell before her eyes

Her hand, pale and slim, gave chase.

She spoke and watered my growing heart.

Her laughter lifted me on the wind of it.


Her long legs and his long ear lobes

I pulled on them when I was young.

And all his songs were hand made poetry

Of wild words and never ever words

While she made magic in the kitchen dressing

Ordinary dishes with love and blessing.


Looking great in dress up clothes

From the closet where they hung

They greeted everyone in all the world.

His one suit, his hat, his overcoat

His public face his public smile

Her silky dress her slim beguile

Of all I've seen still catches my throat.


My first love was me

But I soon abandoned self for these

Two who smiled and sang my days

Crooned the quiet nights and prayed

Broad rivers of harmony and peace I sailed on.


I lay awake in my creaky bed one night

Brother beside me in his, awake too.

Our sister in the other room,

It was so dark, the world darker,

The singing crooning voices

Down the hall now loud and coarse,

Frowns and tears. Where were the smiles,

The songs they sang, the dancing, and the prayers?


They had reigned in my world and went away.

After that I left Paradise

And their soft and lively eyes.

Oh, Paradise! It had not stayed

There where I had left it when I was

Too young to know it was Paradise.


Peter Gallaher

 Feb 25, 2004







Voices outside, TV clamor

chatter, stammer,

all unmeaning

Voices inside, wants and instincts,

nothing matters , though --

Not really.

Past the voices,

Past the twinging

Deep within

All is simply

And quite clearly





Blind Labyrinth



Motto: Love is a beautiful snake shaped necklace; when you put it around your neck it plugs its fangs into your veins and poisons you.



Could it be true?

Could sadness be an artist's only aurora?

In a world of a genuine nature,

In a sphere of wisdom,

Could murder be the answer

To an artist's universal language?


Is decadence the reason why

We wander like blind slaves of agony

Through the labyrinth of hell,

In search for the apocalypse?


In a world where the rainbow arrives only for angels,

In a world where souls need no language

But the truthfulness of art,

It is the artist that  stands as a unique voice?


And yet, look how the mortals

Shut their ears,

Cover their eyes with their hands

Full of dust and ashes,

Praising their poor worthless primitivism

And uselessness.


And so they are the beams, the lights, the lovers

The pretending protectors,

The deceiving appearances

That patiently wait at the street corner

With the knife if cruel ignorance in their hands.


 Sorana Salomeia 





During mass

The curtain tears.

Time's ribs are cracked

Exposed to view

Creation's heart, athrob

In Ag'ny new.


After Mass, time's fabric closed,

All serene, repaired, fulfilled.

Peace fills the air like morning dew.

Still thrill.





Quiet peace reigns

When "I" relents

Stillness descends

And love regains

(Its) ascendance.



.... Fishy Things



Herrings are daring

but they do not ken

the tastes of Scots

nor lusts of men

And when they're gone

Could it be

that Scots will talk

less strangely?



 I'm making mudshoes, like snow shoes, for the next bit.  They're like short fat skis.  If I fall over in waist deep mud I'll have to pretend I'm swimming, take the shoes off, put my weight over them on my hands and push along with my feet.

Practice needed.



Differences of Opinion ...



Field Marshall, The Earl Haig, was a Major-General with the British Expeditionary Force in France in 1914. When, following the retreat from Mons,  Sir John French was relieved of his command of this force Haig was promoted to take command. As such, he with his staff, was the person most responsible for the disastrous battle of First Somme which commenced in July 1916.


Haig's personal correspondence and papers have been lodged with the Scottish National Library and some extracts have been released for reading by the general public.. From such as are available it would seem that when writing to his wife he stressed that he had a deep and abiding faith in God and this faith was helping him in his planning for all his major campaigns





    Haiku:  April


    unseen but singing

    Birds riot in spring springing

    Wild wet sweet April






Semper Fidelis ... Tamen!



'There is a Divine Power, and I believe', he said,

That first day on the Somme saw twenty-thousand dead.

'There are no atheists in the trenches,' was the cry

So twenty thousand believers were sent off to die.


They with their blood, their flesh, their bone

    Manured the Flanders mud.

    While their leader safe at GHQ

    Sought advice from his great God


    When Gods look down on battle

    They know neither friend nor foe

    Looking on, they hear the rattle

    Caring not where falls the blow.


    Widows, and children, lovers

    To church will weary creep

    To hear the lies of preachers

    'In God's bosom, loved ones sleep!'




 Bill Cunningham
Copyright, 20th February, 2004




Serpentine Fruit


Ah Eve, what guilty sins, did you release,

Encouraging a bite, of forbidden fruit,

Rude naked truth, sheer fall, man made the brute,

But challenge, choice, chance, seems like a constant tease.

Does God deem best, that ignorance, is bliss?

That to deny our passion, and potential,

Is somehow, perfection, reverential,

Doubt their cock-sure, I love to seal with kiss.

Adam, was dim, to think an apple bad,

It's rosy glow, tart crunch, sluice juice that flowed,

Gave him insight, of fig-hid nature glad,

Bought of slither snake, clearer vision showed.

Now we praise, an apple a day, not fad,

Keeps ignorant faith at bay. That's not mad!


Marc Sherland

30 June 2001




When God looks down on battle he sees neither friend nor foe

But his bewildered children whose suffering he knows.

Their agony is his.  Their anger pierces him

He carries all the weight of peoples' hatreds grim.


And when in all the churches songs and prayers are heard,

When blackest grief and sorrow hang heavy on the world

God in heaven here beside us knows the battle has been won.

Our hope is knowing too the rising of his Son.


Peter Gallaher

Poets A-F

Poets G-L
Poets M-R

 Poets S-Z


22 January, 2004
30 January, 2004

5 February, 2004

12 February, 2004

19 February 2004