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Brian Reynolds Poem
Christmas tree seasons symbol
Life of the party.
New year,dumped in a skip
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2025
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Brian Reynolds Poem
I'm searching for an electric kettle.
But all I can find to plug in
In my overnight cottage lodgings
Is a bedside lamp.
And while its 40 watts emits a ration of heat.
It would never in a month of dreary Sundays.
Boil water to make a Cappucciono
Think I'll just settle for a Stella instead.
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2025
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Brian Reynolds Poem
The Final Descent
He is making the final descent,
from a long, turbulent Parkinsons flight.
Flown across many days,weeks,months,years and time zones..
Dim now the cabin lights.
Watch the stars flicker on the runway below;
As the wheels of life kiss the ground one last time.
The last conversion has been kicked.
The final kilometre kite is in sight.
The last call to,take the strain and pull,rings out.
The Drumlin hills bow their heads in respect.
Siochs, full with winter rains,flow in silence.
Leaves,on the fairy tree rustle at half mast.
The sun,dances one last ray across Windy Harbour;
as dusk comes dropping slowly.
A red sky, sinks into a western glow
As the shepard settles,one last time, into a peacful sleep..
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2026
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Brian Reynolds Poem
If you wish to escape a while from reality,
And the humdrum of day to day life.
To mute for a time the noises of humanity
I will write you a love letter..
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2026
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Brian Reynolds Poem
Bleep.
Tap.
Trolly overload.
Some look as if they consume too much;others,not enough.
Bleep Bleep.
Tap Tap.
Discount app,
Three for two.
Bleep bleep bleep.
Tap tap tap.
Some appear as if in a Zen-like state of grace;
Others, as if waiting on a delayed train.
Bleep bleep bleep
Tap tap tap.
Remove card now.
Bleep bleep bleep.
From start to finish.
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2026
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Brian Reynolds Poem
There is a pub next door to a beauty salon,
On the main street of our town.
Men go there to drink.
All day and every day.
Next door to a beauty salon
On the main street of our town.
He stands,unsteady in the doorway
Pulling on the remains of a roll up cigarrette.
Lungs,already weak,inhaling right down to the last ash
.
Unkempt,unshaven,his eyes unsteady stare at nothing.
No longer believing in life, love or that tomorrow,
next week or year will be better.
Unlike the young girls, beaming with life,
sitting inside the beauty salon,next door to the pub,
On the main street of our town.
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2026
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Brian Reynolds Poem
I am now in my.middle age,and some will say,
' You are getting old.'
But as of yet, I have not looked into a mirror
That has cast its cold eye on me and declared,
' You are beginning to look old'.
Nor have I encountered a bicycle,that prior to boarding, has warned,
' Ride at your own risk,you are too old'.
Nor has a muffled voice whispered in my brain,
,'Act your age,accept.you are old'.
And as my.whole story is not yet told,
I,as of yet,cannot grow old.
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2026
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Brian Reynolds Poem
Her pink hair is like a beacon
Similar to the green roof on my van.
It stands out from a crowd of, white vehicles
In the carpark of a busy shopping centre.
She ,stands out from the crowd of;
Blacks,browns, blondes,auburns
and balding greys
Inside the bustle of a, busy shopping centre.
Where in the blink of an eye you spot her,
Elegant ,and pretty,like a flamingo.
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2026
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Brian Reynolds Poem
The invasion has begun.
In the distance,I hear the rattle of heavy artillery.
Silage trailers,as they thunder along pock-marked country roads.
Young conscripts,barely legal,battling with the controls of a modern day,
monster tractor.
Happy as the day is long,
they tick tok around the clock,
Posting updates and images of the work in progress
to their army of followers.
They'll be starving by lunch time.
Putins' long white table would seat a platoon of men,
In for the dinner,
On a break from gathering potatoes, building a stack of hay or toiling at a dusty thrasher.
But my mother would barely have a table cloth long enough
for Putins' table.
To cover the blood stains, from the flesh
dripping slowly from the the meat grinder.
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2026
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Brian Reynolds Poem
Fisherman serene by the lake.
Sunday in December.
Others sit grid locked going shopping
Copyright © Brian Reynolds | Year Posted 2026
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