Any poet will tell you that being a poet isn't just a state of mind. All true poets live and breathe the passion and pain of their art to the very fibre of their being.

Poetry gives them wings to soar above the mundane and trivial. In any true poet the spirit of poetry burns bright and fierce.

And when poets write, they write with their whole body and soul. Nothing is held back.

All the great poets have been able to strip away the concerns and fears that can put a barrier in their way. They write from the heart and express themselves in a manner which reveals their inner selves.

In this compilation we have endeavoured to bring together the work of a group of poets who all have that one strength in common. They write poetry because they have a deep, powerful urge to describe their emotions - to set them down in words. They want both to reveal and explore themselves through the written word. There is no art more demanding or difficult. You, the reader, can be the judge of their success.

But there is no doubt that when poets put their Body and Soul into their work, the results can be dramatic.

GLOBAL WARNING

Go forth and burn your fossil fuels
Emitting pollutants into the atmosphere
For the destruction of our ecosystem
Is not the fault of man - have no fear.

Man’s conscience can now be assuaged
For profound scientific study allows
The main cause of ozone destruction
Is caused by the burping of the cows.

The methane they so abundantly exhale
Is much more dangerous, by far
Than the emissions of exhausts of engines
Propelling aeroplane or car.

The answer to global overheating?
Cull the cows and stop them eating.

Montgomery Hennegin, Stewarton, Scotland

Montgomery Hennegin said: "I was born of American parents in Edinburgh on Walpurgis, 30th April, 1923. Shortly afterwards, the family emigrated to South Africa and I served in the South African air force during the war in the North African and Italian campaigns. After my demob, I became an actor/musician. On my return to Britain in the late 50s, I became The Wand’ring Minstrel, touring the south coast as an itinerant musician. My poetry is mainly influenced by personal experiences and I am also interested in environmental matters."

ONCE I WAS YOUNG

When I was young, life seemed so long.
It stretched forever more.
Then I was big and I was strong,
And I was nearly four.

When I reached ten I’d learned to count
And knew that time went fast,
I’d better put myself about
For childhood would not last.

By seventeen forgetting all,
I danced the nights away,
And all those tasks I should have done
Would do another day.

My youth was careless with his gifts
I wasted too much time,
My talents, they were left to drift
Not knowing what was mine.

Now I am old, my hair turns grey,
And schemes I once began,
Like endless years, they’ve flown away,
So much remains undone.

Richard Stead, Acharacle

FIRST AND LAST VOYAGE

A maiden voyage from Liverpool
Some say the greatest of all
But as she neared the waters of icy cool
Her journey was about to stall
Meanwhile, in frozen waters
An iceberg was drifting on course
Titanic, laden with sons and daughters
Would meet its incredible force
On this dark and cold night
Passengers would all sing and dine
Not knowing when out went the lights
It was the end of the Titanic and the White Star Line
Then between the mist and sea
Appeared the shadowy figure of doom
Bells are ringing and sailors flee
There’s ice in the engine room
As lifeboats are lowered and events unfold
The captain retreats to a watery end
This story will be told and told
Please God, save our souls, send, send, send

Joshua Brian De Vere, Frodsham, Cheshire

Born in Warrington, Joshua Brian De Vere has interests including playing the guitar, writing songs and playing golf. "My work is influenced by John Lennon and Spike Milligan, and I would describe my style as poetic storytelling." Aged 56, Joshua is a property developer with an ambition to write a bestselling thriller. "My biggest fantasy is to blast off in a space shuttle and my worst nightmare is an air crash at night in the sea. The person I would most like to meet is Kofi Annan because he is an honest person with a great understanding of global communications", added Joshua.

BANGERS AND RAIN CLOUDS

Across the determined land and sea,
A whiff of dinner called out to me,
A whispy gust of cloud divine
A concrete note to claim what’s mine.

Horizon meet a cannonade,
Descend the stairs, intentions made,
A bulb lights up upon the range,
Stomach grinds up something strange.

Monsoon and downpour beam in vain,
Can nothing silence me this pain?
A cyclone reflex, Zeus or Thor,
Bangers and mash I hankered for.

Tidal wave meets pounding breeze,
Indulge what’s mine, desires ease,
A beam of heat breaks through the mash,
Final sigh, I can relax.

With clouds diffused and terrain dried,
This hole of mine seems satisfied,
You ask the chaos that I ate?
Bangers and rain clouds on my plate.

Jonathan Charles Rayson Birch, Hull, East Yorkshire

A BETTER PHILOSOPHY

Let others make a mock of sin,
Of eternity, heaven and hell,
You learn a better philosophy,
Than that of the infidel,
The seat of scorn may be high,
But it is near to the gate of hell,
Have too much sense and run from it,
Where the pestilent teachers dwell,
They have taken their degree in vice,
True doctors of damnation,
Looked up to by others as masters of belial,
Lost in their education,
Let others make a mock of sin,
Theirs is the loss,
You learn a better philosophy,
And cling to Jesus cross.

Tilly Williams, Blaenrhondda

WAITING

I’ve been waiting and hoping and dreaming
Have been plotting and planning and scheming,
Brain pounding ‘til my senses are reeling,
Wishing you were here with me.

I’ve touched lucky charms, searched for two magpies,
Have picked up pins, watched the evenings red skies,
In all things seeing the depth of your eyes,
Wishing you were here with me.

I’ve gone out of my way to find black cats,
Have taken pains to avoid pavements cracks,
Obsessively placed my CD’s in stacks,
Willing you here with me.

I’ve crossed toes and fingers and held on tight,
Have chanted mantras way into the night
And all of a sudden it all comes right,
At last you’re here with me.

Mary L De Ville, Ashbourne, Derbyshire

MEN

Men mess up your house,
Mess up your head,
If you let them, they’ll
Mess up your bed.

You could be on different planets,
You’ll cook and clean,
They’ll eat like gannets.

They might be occasionally nice,
For a bit of spice,
Good looking and charming,
Then things end up alarming.

So if you meet them girls,
Single or we
Hold on to your heart,
Keep your head.

Ann J D’Arcy, Newquay, Cornwall

Dedicated to my son Steven and his wife Leigh and all my nieces, with love and best wishes.

Born in Glasgow, Ann Darcy has interests including writing, music, singing, pets and children. “I suffer mental illness and write about my feelings,” she remarked. “I write from my heart and mind about life and I would like to be remembered as a survivor of adversity who helped others and was successful as a mum and carer.” Aged 61, Ann has a son, Steven, and has written many poems. “My biggest fantasy is to have a film made about my life, and my worst nightmare is becoming ill again and going into hospital,” she added.

THE HORRIBLE BASALISK

Watch out to basalisk creeping through the night,
Never look in it’s eye or you won be sight all right,
Sleep with the windows closed and close the door,
Or you won’t see your bones when you go to the sea,
Shore, the basalisk eats you like a shark,
But beware, in him it’s gloomy and dark,
He could kill a bee,
But wait till you see,
He might kill anyone even someone who’s thinner,
But wait and see what’s for his dinner,
You might think the basalisk is harmless as rabbit,
When you peak through a basalisk hole you will see,
His main habbit.

Christy Vargihese, Ashford, Kent

THE FLORIDA MOON

A pale porcelain saucer so softly poised on high,
The single palm tree beckoned over the rosy sky,
She’s changing shapes and colours through the day,
The lunar landscape and her life appear far away.
In the morning’s azure sky, there’s her wide smiling face,
The dark features of her furrowed brow looking out of place,
In the hazy heat of noon she looks further away to me,
At night her silver reflection dances upon the sea.
With a fine crew of three, dressed in their space apparel
Neil Armstrong lifted off from the Cape Canaveral.
On the twentieth of July 1969,
“ That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Mary Robertson, London

Mary Robertson said: “I live in London with my husband and have been writing poetry for over 20 years. I trained in medicine and spent a year at sea, completing a trans-Atlantic yacht race and then on a square rigger, circumnavigating the globe. I have spent most of my medical career in London. I am a professor of Neuropsychiatry and an international authority on Tourette’s syndrome, with over 230 medical and scientific publications. I have co-authored four and co-edited two medical books. I have always written poetry on specific journeys, having written 170 poems, 64 having been published or are forthcoming.”

MEDALS OF THE GREAT WAR

A trio rediscovered,
Star, moon and sun,
Symbolic of the darkness,
In which a war was won.

Strips of colour contrast,
With the monochrome of war,
Metal cold, a corpses touch,
A soul stripped to the core.

Were sleeping memories wakened,
To march out next to pride,
Or shot down once again by guilt,
For young friends who had died.

Can we ever comprehend,
The sacrifices made,
The war for civilisation,
How quickly lessons fade.

Samantha Philo-Gill, Langley, Berkshire

PEACE

How simple yet absolute is the simple word peace,
Our acknowledgement of it’s deep meaning only fleeting,
Peace is advocated by the worlds great faiths,
Nevertheless it’s truth has been cast aside,
In favour of conflict through the ages,
Using God’s name like a protective shield,
Unspeakable acts of violence mar our battlefields.

The time has come to raise our collective voices,
Let us inform our leaders of our choices,
We have the infinite power to end,
The interminable suffering of countless others,
Have we the courage in our daily lives,
To encourage the seeds of peace to thrive.

Do we ignore the tears of the starving children,
As with soulful eyes our compassion they beseech,
Let us work in unison to the task committed,
Restoring world peace undeterred,
Each little action a major contribution,
In the renewal of justice and peace to the earths,
Populations.

Shirley Hayden, Crowthorne, Berkshire

YOU NEVER HEAR THE BULLET THAT GETS YOU

You never hear the bullet that gets you,
Was what they said to me,
But that’s a lie at very best,
I should know, I’m dead you see.
There are sixty million of us here,
Bloodied, twisted and cold,
Waiting for our bones of today to join the ones of old.
I heard the bullet that got me,
There was a click, a bang, a yell,
And hot lead carried me off,
Beyond that living hell.

Jake Parker-Bishop, Perterborough, Cambridgeshire

SPRING REFLECTIONS

Walking by a dozen shades of green,
Each bush and tree just begging to be seen,
With endless fragrant blossom everywhere,
Encountering new season’s growth to share.
Phantom shades, in early morning light,
Reflecting shadows from shaft and rays so bright.
An occasional shrill,
From an owl, then still,
The rustle of a fox, not yet content,
Too little skills, so young and spent.
Collecting worms to ease the hunger pain,
Rest up the day, this evening, try again.
Pleasure,
From early leisure,
To rest the soul and mind,
Meeting friends rehearsing “Dawn’s Chorus” with very little time.
Daylight is here, time to fly home,
Come back at break of dawn,
When peace and tranquillity return,
And another new day is born.

Reg Savill, Roche, Cornwall

Born in Northfleet, Reg Savill has interests including walking and keeping fit. “I started writing poetry on my retirement, inspired by the compelling views and walks of Cornwall,” he explained. “Any kind of beauty influences my work and I would describe my style as natural.” Aged 78, Reg is retired and married to Linda. “The person I would most like to be for the day is my wife, just to see what she really thinks of me, and my biggest fantasy is to climb Mount Everest,” he added. “I have written short stories and several poems.”

KALI MA

She shadow howling,
Within you prowling,
Serpent mother,
War cry lover,
Chaos dancer,
Fear enhancer,
She wolf stalking,
Pestilence walking,
Red thread twister,
Sacred sister,
Sacrifice taker,
Madwoman maker.

Suzi Goose, Romford, Essex

Born in London, Suzi Goose has interests including history, painting, country walks and keeping fit. “I started to write poetry as a teenager, mostly for self-expression,” she explained. “My poetry is influenced by my job as an artist and tattooist and also by my Pagan faith. I would like to be remembered as an artist and poet who was dedicated to the earth and the goddess. I have written short stories and hundreds of poems. My biggest fantasy is to travel back to the Bronze Age.”

HAIL MOTHER MARY FULL OF GRACE

Heaven sent she bore him sweet,
By power of the Paraclete,
A virgin by God’s own decree,
The daughter of divinity,
Mother of the son of man,
According to his holy plan,
Intercessor more implored,
And tabernacle of the Lord,
From whom no sin was there a trace,
Hail mother Mary full of grace.

Fred Ablitt, Southend-on-Sea, Essex

Dedicated to the blessed Virgin Mary for the glory of God.

Born in Westcliff-on-Sea, Fred Ablitt has interests including fishing, writing and inventing. “I started writing poetry in 1999 due to a sudden inspiration,” he explained. “I would describe my style as simple but imaginative and I would like to be remembered for bringing a positive contribution to the world.” Aged 46, Fred is a plumber. He is married to Julie and they have children Michael, Simon, Jason, Scott, Anna-Marie and Elizabeth. “I am writing a book and have written many poems, several of which have been published,” added Fred.

LATE SUMMER

A clamour of children
And a hot sun
The best of summer.
This heat, long-parched for,
Thwarted by glare
Of a long winter,
Then furious winds
Of a reluctant spring,
Is healing.
Like children and flowers,
We lift our faces
To the sun,
But our rejoicing is different.
Sting of memory,
Sharp assurance
Of another winter
Give to present heat
A richer bite.
Flowers, unaware
Live in the anchored moment,
Innocent children,
Magically content
Breathe a careless joy.
Our gladness, rinsed
With experience, mature
With partial pain,
Is doubly precious.

Elsie Hamilton, Failsworth, Greater Manchester

Born in Manchester, Elsie Hamilton has interests including reading and writing correspondence. “I started writing poetry as a child and gradually began to use it to express my emotions and thoughts,” she explained. “My work is influenced by nature, friends and situations and I would like to be remembered in friendship by those I know and love.” Aged 82, Elsie is a retired teacher. She is the widow of James. “The person I would most like to meet is my long-suffering MP who I often write to about political issues,” added Elsie.

UNTITLED

We are cold
But inside our hearts
There lies warmth.
In side us all
There lies
The piano keys.
Never wears out,
Hence the tune it plays
And in every story lies a song
Where words elude
Themselves through
Unsung songs, due to thoughts
Of those left unsaid
Whose love never dies
For you see that smoke
Does get in your eyes
But it does not mean that
You are heartless
And that is the reason we live today
For one day we will meet.

Jacqueline Saminaden, Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire

Born in Mauritus, Jacqueline Saminaden has interests including writing and crosswords. “I started writing poetry to create an inner peace through bad times and my work is influenced by songs, sight, landscape and people,” she explained. “My style comes from within and I would like to be remembered as a woman who saw more and knew life could be better. I am a 48-year-old mother and carer with an ambition to be a full-time writer. My biggest fantasy is to visit my homeland of Mauritus and I would love to live long enough to run in a park with my grandchildren.”

PEACE FOR IRELAND

We pray that Ireland soon will be
A home of the brave and of the free
That peace will very soon descend
Upon this lovely pleasant land.

Oh may we all learn to agree
And each others’ views try to see,
No two people see eye to eye,
We only learn as time goes by.

We must remember the folk we meet
Everyday upon the street
Have got problems of their own
We soon find we are not alone.

Everyday of every year
Let us live free from fear,
Love and respect our weaker brother
Show respect for one another.

Ruth Glasgow, Portadown, Northern Ireland

A STEEPLEJACK’S LIFE

A steeplejack, that’s what I’d be,
Just like Fred Dibnah on TV.
I’d climb those chimneys tall and black,
When at the top, I’d climb right back.
Until once more on solid ground,
I’d sing and dance and jump around.
To celebrate another climb,
Survive once more, another time.
To climb into the sky with ease,
The watching crowd below to please.
But wait a mo’, have I gone mad?
Just think of all the times I’ve had.
Some awful scares, I dread to think,
Why I’ve never turned to drink.
To settle nerves so sorely frayed,
By all the times I’ve been afraid.
I think it’s time to think this out,
There really can be little doubt.
I realise now, with all those frights,
I haven’t got a head for heights.

Ronnie Kilgore, Londonderry, Northern Ireland

Born in Londonderry, Ronnie Kilgore has interests including writing, gardening, reading and camping. “I started writing in 2002 after the death of Annette, my first wife. My work is influenced by mystical and bygone times,” he explained. “I would describe my style as free-flowing and thought-provoking.” Aged 58, Ronnie works as an office clerk. He is married to Maura and has two sons and three stepchildren. “My biggest fantasy is to live in a log cabin at the edge of the Black Forest and my worst nightmare is to find myself without family or friends,” added Ronnie.

SERENITY

Sea like a canvas, strokes of a brush.
Idyllic scene, no one’s in a rush.
Two boats are anchored, inside harbour walls.
Sea gently ripples, tide rises and falls.

Children are playing, adults linger around.
Cafe is serving, coffee that’s ground.
People are walking or lazing in the sun.
Away from the world, is this perfect haven.

Crags over hanging, birds nest in a cove.
Small cottage burning, peat in the stove.
Artist is capturing, the wonderful scene.
Which is perfectly created, by a hand unseen.

This is God’s nature, to us extended.
People and creatures, perfectly blended.
We are only passing, out to enjoy.
The serenity provided at Ballintoy.

Jennifer Frew, Ballymena, Northern Ireland

Jennifer Frew said: “I am a wife, mother, grandmother and bookkeeper. I started to write poetry in December 2004. I wrote a poem called Thoughts depicted the true meaning of Christmas. My Christian faith inspired this poem. Since then I have written over 60 poems. They vary from spiritual, family, funny, events in the media and places that moved me when visiting. Serenity is about one of those places. I have also written books in rhyme for my young grandchildren. This is the first time I have entered any of my work and I must thank my husband for encouraging me.”

JEALOUS

When human’s heart storage is evil, they cannot grow benevolent heart.
Is unable to thinking other people, their heart only saving awry.
Awry is the jealous seed, jealous likes saying calumniates person’s speaking.
The dirty speaking same as the sword acme, it can be invisible injure the other people.
If prayed God only blesses oneself, good fortune how to come.

Lesley Yip, Swansea

Born in Hong Kong, Lesley Yip has interests including movies, music, writing and reading. “I started writing in summer 2003 inspired by nostalgia for my youth and I would describe my style as deep feelings,” she explained. “My ambition is to become a novelist or dramatist and the person I would most like to meet is the Prime Minister, Tony Blair, because he is my idol. I would love to be the author J K Rowling for a day. I have written many poems but this is the first to be published. My biggest fantasy is to be a successful writer and my worst nightmare is for no-one to love me,” she added.

NORTH ISLAND BOY

North Island boy stands barefoot on the beach,
Another world away, another universe
Like a tea stained sepia photograph from long ago times,
Solid and unchanging.
Safe in a rhythm of time and tide, koru curling serpentine,
And birds who’ve lost the will to fly stroll on,
While men’s desires soar skyward.
A life is but a glimpse,
When viewed against the backdrop of mountains,
That never seem to age.
And buildings spring up to populate the plains and
memories of old.
A once familiar place, seventeen years of change,
Yet North Island boy stands alone, least he remains the same.

M J Charles, Welshpool

AGNOSTIC PRAYER

Show me what you know is best,
Tomorrow will do.
Shed a light upon my quest
And clarify the view.

Give my reason chance to rhyme,
Keep me hopeful for mankind.
Send me sight behind my eyes
Of what I fail to realise,
That only with a growth in time,
Will answers sprout
And reason rhyme.

Robert Warwick Green, Wallasey, Merseyside

Dedicated to my daughter Jessica Joy, without whom my world would be a shallow grave indeed. Thanks for your smile.

Born in Scotland, Robert Warwick Green has interests including fishing and taxidermy. “I started composing poetry in 1979 after a long illness, and I do not let anyone or anything influence my work,” he explained. “I would describe my style as contemporary realism and I would like to be remembered with affection and respect.” Aged 55, Robert works as a carpenter and has an ambition to have all his written work in print for others to enjoy. “The person I would most like to see is my mother who is 88 and lives in New Zealand,” added Robert.

ABSENT

Absent night for folding clouds,
Desert skies and for the darkness space allows,
Silenced wings are furled in capes of sleep,
Wide are my eyes when heaven is deep.

Set for play as the rain reflects,
On orange mirrors to drown what’s left,
Modelled from the ageless something new,
Burdened soles of mine ground crystal dew,

Scraps of fate left out for twilight wolves,
The neon lanes renamed for ways to fool,
Absent night in dreams for stalling time,
Are the lonely echoes of absent minds.

Andrew Wood, East Kilbride

Dedicated to my family.

Born in Glasgow, Andrew Wood has interests including writing and studying. “I started writing poetry at the age of 12 as a means of escape,” he pointed out. “My work is influenced by all music, Shakespeare and day-to-day experiences, and I would describe my style as simple, philosophical and contemplative. I would like to be remembered as an artist who helped inspire social and political change through simple realisation.” Aged 19, Andrew is currently a student and has an ambition to spread his points of view across as many spectrums of the media as possible. “I am working on a novel and have written 300 poems,” he added.

THE NADIR

Is a fallen god not recognised
In his own time, still worshiped
The inverted zenith still feels
Like the zenith to the faithful
Blinded, as they are
By the present and its trappings
Of office, guns, boats, administration
Reasonable percentages of tax revenue
Despite growing discontent at levies
Wages, sin, overarching uniformity
Pity

The little, pathetic clay god
Of hindsight
Makes the stupidest dunderhead wise
Throws an unassailable light
Of the invulnerability of Nadir
They therefore clash
In a petty world shaking battle won
Right on the tip of the historian’s
Pen

Richard Kettlewood, Goole, East Yorkshire

THE CROSS

Cross out the I, be compassionate towards others
I becomes we, when living as brothers
We lift high the cross every Eastertide
Gazing upon its majesty should delete our pride

Some folks describe a sinner as an animal
Having to hunt and kill for survival
In the long run, who’s killing this earth?
Man in his ignorance, greedy from birth

The truth is, every one of us are sinners
The sooner we grasp this, we can become beginners,
Accept, believe, confess, reform, repent, restore
Meeting our Lord half way, we live forever more

Jennifer Hudson, Stocksbridge, South Yorkshire

GLOBAL WARNING

Go forth and burn your fossil fuels
Emitting pollutants into the atmosphere
For the destruction of our ecosystem
Is not the fault of man - have no fear.

Man’s conscience can now be assuaged
For profound scientific study allows
The main cause of ozone destruction
Is caused by the burping of the cows.

The methane they so abundantly exhale
Is much more dangerous, by far
Than the emissions of exhausts of engines
Propelling aeroplane or car.

The answer to global overheating?
Cull the cows and stop them eating.

Montgomery Hennegin, Kilmarnock

Montgomery Hennegin said: “I was born of American parents in Edinburgh on Walpurgis, 30th April, 1923. Shortly afterwards, the family emigrated to South Africa and I served in the South African air force during the war in the North African and Italian campaigns. After my demob, I became an actor/musician. On my return to Britain in the late 50s, I became The Wand’ring Minstrel, touring the south coast as an itinerant musician. My poetry is mainly influenced by personal experiences and I am also interested in environmental matters.”

ONE FINE THING

I’ve lived.
A life without purpose save self interest and greed
A life without thought for the world’s want or need
I’ve taken my pleasure without care for the cost
and I’ve never considered myself one of the lost.

But I did a fine thing a long time ago
I did it in secret so no one would know
Not for favour of heaven nor from fear of hell
I did it because I could do it well

And when it comes my time to die
I’ll look the devil square in the eye
saying I’ve made myself yours you won’t hear me whine
but look you back once over this black life of mine

See there in the darkness a sparklet gleams bright
the one time in my life when I walked in the light.
I did a fine thing without thought of a gain
that I did it but once is my glory and shame.

George Moore, Mosspark

Dedicated to Margaret, a wonderful wife to me and a wonderful friend to the rest of the world.

George Moore said: “My childhood was marred by illness and reading was all that made my life bearable. With the aid of a dictionary, I read everything I could get my hands on. My favourite poet is William Blake and my favourite poem is Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29. Until now, I’ve never been moved to write either the great novel or poetry of any kind. My passion in life has always been my family and I think that my re-awakened love of poetry has come about because of delight in looking at the world afresh through the eyes of my grandchildren.”

VALUES OF LIFE

My soul is crying,
Whilst my body is dying,
For ’tis too short a life span on Earth.
True love is divine,
War and hate is a crime,
This, only my dream, what it’s worth.
To banish all greed, give to those who need,
My eyes long for the seeing of the sight.
To correct such wrongs,
My heart belongs,
With a voice, like a small spark in the night.
Where prejudice is nought,
Only friendship sought.
A prosperous future for man would be seen.
What is that I hear?
Could it be a cheer?
For I think one person knows what I mean

Ken Horton, Wallasey, Merseyside

END WORLD POVERTY

End world poverty, peacefully dream,
Let good water flow clean,
Around the world,
Irrigate the soil,
Put an end to hunger and the war for oil.

Redistribute the wealth; and now,
We demand and we vow,
To cancel the third world debt,
Sign the petition on the internet.

Enough on planet earth to go around,
Medicine, food, shoot up through the ground,
Once was lost, but now we are found,
Amazingly, gracefully heard the sound,
Of a mantra, for this day, this age,
Feed the world, turn the page,
Eyes well up filled with tears of rage,
Feed the world, turn the page.

Robert Collins, Birmingham, West Midlands

WISH YOU WERE HERE

Memories of these past few years
Life has gone on, we’ve veiled our tears
Things to do and places to go
But still we’ll always miss you so
It’s not the same, wish you were here
To share with us each wondrous scene
Rocky mountains, valleys of green
Lovely rainbow’s glistening hue
Sunsets, waters of deepest blue
Exploring Wales, wish you were here
Seashells clustered on Devon sand
Lundy, that magical island
Glimpsing graceful dolphins at play
Unforgettable holiday
You would love it, wish you were here
Sometimes in the quiet of night
All becomes clear, we’ll be all right
When you walk with us in our dreams
Our two worlds merge, or so it seems
Just a thought away, you are here

Karen Broad, Lowestoft, Suffolk

Dedicated to my first-born son, Steven Gary Broad (Broady) 13-11-1976 - 01-08-2000. “You’ll never walk alone,” love always.

Karen Broad said: “Wish You Were Here, is my third poem of five that I have written since the Millennium when my eldest son tragically took his own life. Grief-stricken and confused, I turned to spiritualism. I jotted down my thoughts and questions. My first poem Why? was published in the local newspaper on the anniversary of his death and I have continued to do that every year since. I believe the answers are given to me in verse form from the spirit world and I hope the words bring peace of mind to others who lose a loved one.”

ON THE ROOF OF A CHEAP HOTEL

Worked here for years, yet never
Climbed that ladder, jutting out
Near the kitchen door,
You and me in flirting dare
Went up to see where it led.
We seen the shoddy tiling
That the guests would never know of
And the rusting aerials, twisted
Out to space, above the building
We watched our ordinary town
Show its secret illuminations,
I wanted to kiss you but it would only
Have staggered the moment

Glen Wilson, Richhill, Northern Ireland

Born in Omagh, Glen WIlson has interests including writing, reading, photography and rock music. “I started writing poetry when I was 15 to express difficult emotions. After university, I developed my poetry writing as a form of therapy,” he explained. “My work is influenced by Jesus, C S Lewis, W H Auden and the music of REM, and I would describe my style as imagist poetry with a strong lyrical and surreal bent. I would like to be remembered as a poet of original and inspiring verse, and as a writer who explored less-travelled themes.” Aged 26, Glen works as a civil servant and has an ambition to make a living through his poetry.

WELCOME TO LONDON

Grey and bleak
Polluted streets.
The stench of urine,
A discarded needle.

A tired beggar,
A Chelsea socialite;
“ Just a penny please,”
Her Prada purse remains closed.

West End theatre,
Reported stabbings;
Life’s a commodity,
Starbucks on every corner.

Cold and bitter,
Forceful and isolating,
Gusts of wind and drops of rain
Wash through the streets.

Mind the gap.
Watch your wallet.
Welcome to London,
I’m sure you’ll love it.

Tara Judah, London

Tara Judah said: “I have been living in London for three years and the city is a great point of interest to me. Though London born, I grew up in Melbourne, Australia and returned to London to discover both myself and the city. I live in Clerkenwell and am a student at King’s College London, studying English and Film. I believe London is a city with a personality and one is best acquainted with it by walking its streets.”

WHO KNOWS THE SECRETS?

Who knows the secrets of the ocean’s rage,
When ferocious waves crash on the sandy shores?
Who knows the secrets of the luscious grass,
When their whispers chorus?
Who knows the secret of the flower’s beauty,
Its independent features, but when to bloom?
Who knows the secrets of the hill’s mass,
The main landscape?
Who knows the secrets of the trees,
The feminine blossom with renowned loveliness?

Ellie Morgan, Monmouth

WE MET ON CHRISTMAS EVE

The tall, black hooded figure
With sockets for his eyes,
Was carrying a sickle,
An omen of my demise.
He said everything must balance
In your world so fragile and dear.
Tomorrow someone is coming
To take your place down here.
An alpha and omega,
A beginning and an end.
There is a time for everything,
And now, for you my friend.
But, I said, I am not ready,
Who is he going to send?
Why, one who is more worthy,
His glory will never end.
The glistening of the slashing blade
Became a star in the sky.
My mortal coil was severed
For a better man than I.

Nigel Briggs, Leamington Spa, Warwickshire

WHEN

And I watched her playing
In the sandbox in the park,
And when she fell asleep
I’d protect her from the dark.

And when she wanted travel,
I’d go with her every mile
And when she was so happy,
I’d laugh too and share her smile.

And when she wanted food
I’d watch her greedy eyes,
And when she got upset
I’d rock her when she cried.

And when she said her first words
She called and laughed with fun,
And now I see her grave stone
Because now my baby’s gone.

Natasha Bennett, Dudley, West Midlands

Born in Dudley, Natasha Bennett has interests including songwriting, singing, acting, dancing and poetry. “I started writing poetry when I was eight. I travelled to London for an audition and was so affected by the sight of so many homeless people that I wrote my first poem about them,” she pointed out. “My work is influenced by the emotion and hardship in people’s lives and I would like to be remembered as someone who made a difference. My ambition is to become a well-respected singer and songwriter and the person I would most like to meet is Richard Carpenter from the group The Carpenters. He has been a big influence on my life,” she added.

GENTLE RAIN

Gentle rain fell down on me,
Cool and soft, so wild and free,
Gentle rain upon my face,
Refreshed my soul with gentle grace.

Gentle rain from upon high,
Fell down on me from the sky,
Gentle rain like angel tears,
Washed away my stress and fears.

Gentle rain from up above,
Cleansed my soul with peace and love,
Gentle rain helped me unwind,
It left my troubles far behind.

Gentle rain upon my town,
Made others complain and frown,
Gentle rain then died away,
And left us with a sunny day.

Andrew Daniels, Leeds, West Yorkshire

HE CAME HOME

He came home to an empty house
The chill oppressed him as he closed the door
No love, no warmth, just an empty grate
With memories of yesterday galore

No hustle or bustle in the kitchen
No aroma of a meal cooked with pride
No table set for two, no hug, no kiss
Just a raw hollowness inside

He sat in semi-darkness
In a desolate state of mood
He kissed her photograph and whispered gently
I love and miss you so I do

Joan Kernick, Newton Abbot, Devon

A FRIEND IN NEED

We all need friends,
Someone to share,
Our ups and downs,
Someone to care,
What of the man who says he has no one?
Wallowing in life all alone,
Gloating over his lonely lot,
He should stop and think what he has got,
He has the ability to make a friend,
Be outgoing, with a hand to lend,
There is surely someone he could greet,
With a happy smile,
And arrange to meet,
Someone who would be glad to share,
His ups and downs,
And show they care,
If you are lonely, your ways you should mend,
By caring for someone,
And being their friend.

Evelyn A Evans, Crowborough, East Sussex

DAWNTREADER

I am the first to catch the dawn,
I see the sun arise,
I hear the first note from the thrush,
Sharp and melodical, filled with pride.

I know when sun shall falter,
And hail serrate my eyes,
yet I know to walk the glens at dawn,
Is a long forgotten prize.

Caragh Cassidy, Belfast, Northern Ireland

Born in Belfast, Caragh Cassidy has interests including reading, writing and horses. “I have adored reading and writing ever since I was three,” she pointed out. “My work is influenced by nature and I would describe my style as pure, raw, unadulterated thought. I have an ambition to be an actress and I would like to be remembered as the best actress since the great Grace Kelly. I have written a few short stories and over 100 poems, three of which have been published.”

FROM BENJI THE DOG

I hear you’ve been quite poorly
But now your on the mind
See I’m this new boy Benji
and Helen’s my best friend.

I stay at no 88
I see her every day
But it would be so very nice
You come to visit me.

So get yourself more better
And pop in for some tea
And if I promise to be good
You’ll play out back with me.

Anne Wright, Musselburgh

ORANGE CRUSH

Is it my fault, for bleeding
Each time you peel away at my skin?
Is it my fault, for the way you greedily tear
Each segment of my being from my core?
Is it my fault, you enjoy
Consuming my all, torn into nothing?
Until
All that remains is my shredded skin,
Tossed to the floor by your heavy boots.
Trample on me if you wish,
Carelessly wash your hands of my suffering.
Did my blood taste too good?
Is it my fault?

Kelly Moore, Derby, Derbyshire

AN EXTRA LITTLE SOMETHING

Initially I thought a tasty treat I’d got
An extra little something inside my yogurt pot
But closer examination revealed a fingernail
An unexpected extra, turning me quite pale
This was bad enough, but then I had to stare
The fingernail was part of half a finger there
I called the police at once to view my yogurt pot
With its macabre contents, happy I was not
They rushed to the place of my yogurt's origin
Might they find a body, the victim of this sin?
The manager was nasty, he ordered them to flit
Pointing with his finger, or what was left of it!

Mary Wood, Hull, East Yorkshire

Mary Wood said: “If An Extra Little Something made you laugh, my series of twisted humour books published by UPSO Ltd will have you in stitches for hours. Titles include Twisted Humour Exposed and Twisted Humour Inspired. Log on to www.twistedhumour.co.uk for more examples, news, reviews, competition and on-line order details, or place an order at your local bookshop - be prepared, these books carry a humour warning.”

MY DREAM

There’s a house with roses around the door,
That’s always in my dreams,
Near the majestic mountains where
The river runs into cool streams.
Way down into the glens
And green valleys below
Where the thistle and the heathers
In abundance grow.
Beneath the tall fir trees,
That sway down low
As they stand by the loch
Where silver fish swim by.
Tranquil and peaceful
Beneath the open sky
After weathering the storms
That life has to give.
I want to be there in my house
By the bridge
Where the waters flow freely
And the deer will gently roam.
In Scotland, my dream island
My paradise, my home.

Jan Imeson, Allington, Lincolnshire

WHERE IS IT?

Where the hell has that gone now?
It’s never where you look
It doesn’t matter what it is
The scissors, paper, book.

I don’t mind someone taking it,
I’m quite able to share,
But when you’ve finished using it
For God’s sake, put it there.

It really drives me mad to say
Again and again and again
When I’ve sat down to write a note
“ Where is the bloody pen?”

I’ve had enough, I’m clamping down,
I can’t take anymore.
Next time you want to borrow things
Just go next-sodding-door.

It’s getting worse, I feel that I
Am just about to crack
I’ll kill someone, I know I will
If they don’t put it back.

P S Knowles, Solihull, West Midlands

SNOWDROPS

Beneath the leaf-green shadows, glow
Pale buds that herald spring
On borders of receding snow
Where grasping grasses cling

Evoking early childhood days
When I would lie for hours
And see the slanting sunbeams blaze
Golden in the flowers

Their faultless, sturdy blooms withstand
The turbulence of skies
And in the vernal warmth expand
To form wide bell-shaped eyes

They watched my boyhood blossom bright
In simple innocence
The swaying flowers lambent-white
With drooping indolence

Now fading with the failing light
Where spreads the dusk’s calm haze
The trembling petals closing tight
Reflect the moon’s faint rays

Dave Austin, Sheffield, South Yorkshire

Dave Austin said: “I am 55, divorced with no children. I have won numerous prizes for my poetry, including one of £250. I also write essays about my childhood and ghost stories, the majority of which have been published. I have been voted Author of the Year for two years running by one publishing company. I have self-published two booklets, The Moss Garden and A Beggar’s Feast, which are available at £3 each from 11 Hallam Rock, 100 Norwood Road, Sheffield. S5 7BE.”

ODE TO THE MOON

Your old pitted face with its grey patches
your pokey head and your pointed chin
Lying back in the night sea of the sky
Slipping out of a cloud like an egg from a bird.

Sometime yellow sometimes silver
Sometimes luminous grey
Your semi-circle cocks a snook
Like a swirling knot in a piece of wood.

You cross the sky to reach the morning
A caravan sailing to meet the dawn
A queen that keeps nocturnal company
In the ermine wake of her majestic orb.

Stewart Findlay, Kilmarnock

WHAT A SMILE CAN DO

A smile can mean so very much,
So why not smile at someone today,
A smile can help with anger and stress,
And help you feel brighter straight away.

A smile can tell your children,
I’m here to support and to defend,
A smile can turn an enemy,
Eventually into a friend.

Smiling at an older person,
Can tell them you’re not alone,
A smile can mean so much more,
Than a text message or the phone.

A smile can be so positive,
There’s just so much to gain,
If we all smiled at each other,
The world may never know war again.

Harriet Hobbs, Overton-on-Dee

Dedicated to God for my wonderful gift. I will achieve what you want me to, Lord.

Born in Bedford, Harriet Hobbs has interests including writing poetry and travelling. “I began writing in 1991 after the death of my mother and my work is influenced by writers like Pam Ayres,” she explained. “I think my style is unique and I would love to be remembered through my writing.” Aged 47, Harriet has an ambition to be famous and read to packed theatres. “My biggest fantasy is to be known worldwide and my worst nightmare is to die an unknown writer. The person I would most like to be for a day is the tennis star Martina Navratilova,” added Harriet.

MERSEY MAGIC

When people ask me where I’m from, I’m very proud it’s clear,
Oh I was born in Liverpool and still live very near.
You must know both our football teams and great singers like The Beatles,
I tell them more about the port, the pride of local people.
Walk along the Pier Head, find the buildings called three graces,
Look up at a Liver bird and see which way it faces.
Five theatres, two cathedrals, Albert Dock and the museums,
However long you stay with us, do make sure you see them.
So visit Liverpool, book some tickets, make a date,
For our capital of culture in two thousand and eight.

Elizabeth Galvin, Neston, Cheshire

GIVE THEM A TOMORROW

I sit here today not knowing what tomorrow will bring
Sit here today not knowing
Will I cry or will I sing
What beauty I see, when I peer through the glass
And it’s anyone’s guess how long it will last
The children today don’t care of tomorrow
But I don’t see much joy, it could all end in sorrow.
We’re all playing our part in polluting our earth
And it is the only place we’ve got to stay
So let’s realise her worth
The colours could stay if we all made a pact
Get out of our chairs and made words into an act
So let’s think of our children and not just for today
And give them a future without fear they can play

Robert Garvie, Livingston

DREAMS

Sharp dreams about hunting the bear
The bear hiding in the tall bushes
A bad dream to dream about the bear
About the bear of the night
About a magical bear I can not see
In the tall bushes of the night
A dream about hunting the bear
A bear about dreaming of the fox
A dream about a screaming fox
Bearer of bad omen
A dream about the woodpecker
A woodpecker pounding the home
A warning dream of death

Mariana Zavati, Dereham, Norfolk

Mariana Zavati said: “I have been writing poetry since my teens and have a number of published works including Whispers, The Journey, Watermarks, Travellers, The Spinning Top, Pilgrims, The Remains of the Dream Catcher, Bequests, Seasons and Sketches. My interest in poetry developed with readings from Dante Alighieri, Charles Baudelaire, Rainer Maria Rilke, T S Eliot and Dylan Thomas. My verse is about old, familiar people and their traditions. I write about the transience of all things. Deep feelings, silent in my heart, are searching for a voice. My verse tells the story of what is happening in my soul and time is my only witness.”

PLEASE DON’T CRY

Do not stand at my grave and cry
I’m miles away up in the sky
A shell is all that’s left down there
But you and others do still care

I’ve seen you there and much ado
Because you see, I still care too
The place I live so far above
Is beautiful and full of love

You all miss me still I know
But it’s better here than down below
You will come here some day, soon
That place is Heaven not the moon.

Margaret McHardy, Beith

Dedicated to my grandson Steven Wilson who was the perfect child but left us after eight months.

Margaret McHardy said; “I am 62 years old and have lived in Beith, Ayrshire all my life. I have seven grandchildren and have just become a great gran on the 31st July. I have always written silly rhymes which I never kept a record of until recently when, with the encouragement of friends, I began to take it more seriously. I had a grandchild Steven who died a cot death at the age of eight months. I am a helper at a club for the mentally and physically disabled and my hobbies are TV and dominoes”

INTIMATE

To stare deep into your eyes,
Seeing your every thought.

To listen to your heartbeat,
Floating away on your breath.

To bathe in your kisses,
Your lips melting me.

To feel your breath in my ear,
Hearing whispered secrets.

To let your smile lasso my heart,
Tying our souls together.

To take your weight upon me,
Feeling you inside.

To know the real you,
The hidden man.

To be intimate with you,
This is my dream.

Paula Harvey, Bishops Stortford, Hertfordshire

HOPE

When emotions are high a tear has to weep
The river of dreams is always too deep
When the hopes and wishes fall from a height
And vision is challenged by the depth of the night
When the hill is too steep no breath for a sigh
And the bitter taste of a tear is so nigh
When the journey is long and no end can be seen
And the lights of good fortune no longer gleam
When the hours are long no voices to hear
And a prayer to the lord for him to appear
When times are hard and no one can no longer cope
Remember the reason, the reason is hope

Gary Clarke, Braunstone, Leicestershire

AN ENGLISH FARCE

The scene is set, the play goes on,
But where have all the actors gone.
There are but two, in this small cast,
And as actors they are unsurpassed.
I play the leading role, some say,
I chose the starring role to play.
I am the girl, you are the boy,
But this is just a wishful ploy.
For I am on stage alone ,
An ageing, sad, decrepit crone,
And you are just my fantasy,
To the audience that’s plain to see.
For ten long scenes I have acted fiction,
To satisfy my love addiction.
But now the final scene is set.
No curtain call will I get.
Vanity is to expect acclaim,
For a performance which was just a game.
You hiss and boo and rightly so,
And as the curtain falls it’s time to go.
Time to recover, time to grieve,
Time to cry but time to leave.
Throughout the play one voice rang true,
The crones absolute love for you.

Maggie Williams, Christchurch, Dorset

Born in Hartlepool, Maggie Williams has interests including travel, writing and playing chess. “I started writing poetry in the 70’s. I have always loved English,” she remarked. “My work is influenced by people I love and people I have lost, and I would describe my style as rhythmic and easy. I would like to be remembered as a compassionate, loving and talented person.” Maggie is a former purser with ambitions to have a novel published, speak fluent Italian and live in Italy. She has children Michelle and Nicole.

CRIES OF A NATION

Africa, Africa, a land so true
With a feeling oh so blue
Stand tall inside your shoes
Here’s my message, just for you

Just how I see
What is troubling me
Tired eyes looking at trees
Stinging just like a bee

Babies, weak with hunger
Clinging to breast like thunder
Trying heard to fill their tiny beaks
Their plight oh so bleak

We all must try in vein
Hands wrapped around in chains
Their hearts and souls full of pain
On land dry, without rain

Cathy Wain, Birmingham, West Midlands

Born in Bradford, Cathy Wain has interests including writing and music. “I have been writing for over 20 years, and music has the biggest influence on my work,” she remarked. “I would describe my style as outgoing and down to earth, and I would like to be remembered as a caring person who was willing to lend a helping hand.” Aged 52, Cathy has one child and has an ambition to be a good writer so that she can support herself. “The person I would most like to meet is my all time hero, Bob Seger, who I think is the best singer in the world,” she added.

HADRIAN’S WALL

Seasoned with blood,
Wind blasted,
Mist soaked,
A line of stone that was the might of Rome,
The ascendant star,
Chink of metal, burnished shields,
Flashing in the pale Northumbrian sun,
Memories of home,
Of olive clad hillsides,
My father’s vineyard overlooked,
A warm sea,
Far away in time and fading from memory.

Christine Rayner, Hexham, Northumberland

Dedicated to Liz Purvis, my friend, teacher and life coach. Thank you for your patience, humour and inspiration.

Born in Gateshead, Christine Rayner has interests including red squirrel watching and walking in the Northumbrian fells. “I started writing as a teenager to express the beauty of the world and I have been further inspired by joining a local writing group four years ago,” she explained. Aged 53, Christine works as a teacher and has ambitions to reach a bigger audience with her work and have a children’s book published. She is married to Haydn and would like to be remembered as someone who spread the message of the inter-connectedness of creation. “My biggest fantasy is to be a respected author and composer,” she added.

TIME’S EYE

Colour me an endless shore
With growling wave and whispering foam
That disappears swiftly under sun-warmed sands
Nature’s creation a million years ago
And I walking on it with wet city toes
For a lifetime and a day
Would be but a flicker in time’s unblinking eye

Brian Kerry, Saham Toney, Norfolk

Born in Kent, Brian Kerry has interests including woodwork, reading and playing the guitar. “I started writing poetry when my wife died, to relieve some of the pain,” he remarked. “My work is influenced by people and my own anger, and I would describe my style as haphazard. I would like to be remembered as someone who tried.” Aged 70, Brian is retired and has an ambition to swim 20 lengths of Thetford swimming pool. “My biggest fantasy is to join the mile high club and I would love to play the guitar like Segovia,” he added.

SHAMELESS PURSUITS

What are they?
Who has them?
Why are they so cold?
Why can’t they be fulfilled?

They are the hopeless dreams.
They cannot find a place for you.
They are in control of those
Who play a significant part in life.

Pride is in their money.
Power is in their glory.
Prejudice is their choice.
Justice isn’t their force.

They are the shameless pursuits,
Of those who cannot afford them.

Anantha Rudravajhala, Middleton, Greater Manchester

SLEEPING BEAUTY

The iridescent moon, drifting in a crystal sea,
Stares down with a cold frosty glare at me,
Lighting the furrows of the bedroom curtains,
Like the sun on a newly ploughed field.

Through a tiny crack a moonbeam,
Stretches across the room silhouetting a figure,
Lying in deepest slumber,
As I cross from light to darkness,
The silence of the night,
Is only broken by the flickering shadows on the wall.

I pause and hold my breath,
Fearing I may transgress upon her peaceful rest,
For she is travelling in an unknown land,
A place of dreams, a wonderland.

Ian Murray Tough, Garmouth

Dedicated to my late wife, Margaret Ligertwood.

A PENNY FOR THE GUY

A penny for the guy mister a penny for the guy
This was the sound that children used to cry
As they wheeled the guy up and down the street
Hoping for some pennies that would buy them a treat
An old wooden barrow or maybe a cart
Was used to sit guy in before it fell apart
Beg steal or borrow their dad’s old suit
Fill the legs with straw he will look cute
Now we need a pillow to use for his chest
Wrap the jacket around it we want to look the best
Stuff the sleeves with straw use a balloon for his face
Put a hat on top we are ready to take our place
Up and down the streets the children used to say
A penny for the guy mister before the end of day
A familiar sight was had of children with their carts
With the guy on board outside the shops they parked
Sadly this site has gone as nothing lasts forever
Now it’s noisy fireworks getting people in a lather
No more can we hear the children calling from their carts
A penny for the guy mister before it gets too dark

Margaret Ward, Tunbridge Wells, Kent

CAFÉ FRUG

What does it mean?
No coffee, only wine,
No food, only poetry,
No quiet, only calamity.
Interesting poetry, as
The poet, strutting across the gallery,
In ostrich style, chasing a stray,
Loudly proclaiming to all,
“ The winds were vivid,
With the barking trees,
Caressing the hillside grass,
The sands storming the beach,
Till the waves began,
To tide their way,
And settle down the night,
And quiet the barking trees,
To the great old moon’s delight”
At the Café Frug,
It was Thursday night.

Diana Forrest, St Ives, Cornwall

Dedicated to poet Bob Devereux from the salthouse gallery, St. Ives, who created cafe Frug.

REFLECTIONS

A mirrored face stares back at me,
A reflection,
The face others see.
But behind the smile a different scene,
Emotions, dreams, known to no-one,
No-one?
The me that I would like to be,
Free;
Free to run barefoot through sifting sand
With the wind in my hair,
Long flowing hair.
Dancing with veils of gossamer threads,
Rainbow hues,
Floating, drifting, swirling round,
Round.
Gliding between silken sheets
On a bed of scented down,
In love, in love.
Perhaps, one day, perhaps.
One face staring back at me,
A reflection,
The face others see.

Janet Garner, Stockport, Greater Manchester

THE BLACKTHORNE

Proud, cold and hard
Shapely and thin.
Long evil claws
Dark daggers in a ring.
Yet beauty and graces
A white snow blown cloud,
Your elegant shroud.
Black and white guardian of hidden, wild places.

James Hunter, Towcester, Northamptonshire

A CIRCLE OF WIRE

A circle of wire
A funeral pyre
Bones turned to phosphorus
A body now posthumous
Cleansed by the fire

Wearily leaving
Not really believing
The life force has gone
Not seeing, not hearing
The heart is despairing
No longer sharing
The soul has moved on

Grim undertaking
With sad shoulder shaking
An enigma ascending
An energy blending
A force never ending
Together as one

Jennifer Dockray, Bramley, Leeds, West Yorkshire

IF THERE BE LOVE

If there be love, for you and me to cling to,
Be it strong as ivy climbing up the wall,
Let me be the one,
You can’t believe that I could harm, or bring to,
Bear, shame that others names would call,
If, in the shadows, dream enfolds you,
Be they sweet, with memories recall,
Let them be of me,
Don’t listen, when others tell you what to do,
We’ll stand fast, confound them all.

Ann L Teear, Cardiff

Dedicated with love to Robert Glyndwr Roberts, an incredible man, athlete and poet.

Born in Cardiff, Ann L Teear has interests including reading, writing, art, theatre, gym training and clairvoyance. “I started writing when I was very young. I could express my feelings and used my vivid imagination to do so,” she explained. “My work is influenced by people, events and my spirit and I would describe my style as varied, amusing and romantic. I would like to be remembered with affection as someone who was a Jack of all trades and master of all.” Ann has one son, Stephen. “The person I would most liked to have met was Cary Grant because I admired all of his films,” she added.

IF TEARS

If tears were pennies, how rich I would be,
If tears were raindrops they would fill the sea,
If tears were petals millions of roses would bloom,
If tears were wishes you would be here in this room,
But tears won’t bring you back to me,
I know because I’ve tried,
I would give up everything to have you by my side,
Just for a moment in time for me to say,
I love you so much and happy birthday,
My heart will always be yours.

Ruth Purvis, Seaham, County Durham

Dedicated to one of nature’s true gentlemen, my husband Wally, on his first birthday away from home.

BLACK ROSES ON MY GRAVE

It feels like the devil himself has hold of me,
And is slowly taking my breath.
The thought of living a life on earth is killing me.
Each day I feel more and more drained until one day it will Stop.
I will die!
The thought of dying is not hard or scary,
But having all this pain and anger inside me is.
Some people pray to live longer.
Me, I wish to die now or sooner,
And then and only then I will be set free.
As from hell I leave.
To look back and see the earth,
And to move forward to heaven I reach.

Is death the answer or does it just pose more questions?

Shaun Tinley, Chelmsford, Essex

PERSONAL FREEDOM

Shake my very soul, control my body’s movements,
In the madness of music, the feeling of the call,
Something haunting, something hounding me,
Clawing at my soft flesh, howling to me,
I have to show my need, I must loosen my desire free,
Give into the cries of my skin, as music surrounds me,
It victimises me determinedly, refusing silence to prevail,
Screaming guitars, thundering drums, piercing notes,
Tear into my very thoughts, the voices cry out again and again,
I am losing myself as they sing, sing so hard, push so cool,
Giving me the need to scream. Pleasure washes the soul,
In a cold heat, share in my personal freedom.

Shona Williamson, Kirkcaldy

Born in Thurso, Shona Williamson has interests including fine art and writing. “I began writing poetry at the age of 10 as a form of expression for the joys and woes of my life,” she remarked. “My work is influenced by all aspects of life and the world and I would describe my style as unrefined but honest. I would like to be remembered as someone who always followed her heart and refused to give up in life.” Aged 25, Shona works as a domestic and has an ambition to be able to give up her current employment and write for a living. “I have written stories of fantasy and many poems,” added Shona.

THE SUN’S GLASSES

Hmmm...
I’ve lost my glasses, too,
Long time No see,
Well, they belonged to the sun,
Not to Me.

Hanna Domagala

Dedicated to Stefano Moruzzi and Louis Moruzzi, with love and lust.

Hanna Domagala said: “I was born in Poland to an influential member of Lech Walesa’s solidarity party. I am a 25- year-old actress and future cinema icon and have interests including film, painting, fashion, surrealism and punk rock. I started writing as a young girl in Poland, my work being influenced by friends and my surroundings in Covent Garden, performers like Nico, Elvis Presley, Joy Division and the Sex Pistols, the writings of Joseph Conrad and the visual stylings of Salvador Dali and Nicholas Roeg. I would like to be remembered as an anarchist and a sex symbol while my fantasy is to be loved unconditionally by everyone.”

MY JOURNEY

I am not here, for I have gone,
The person you once knew never really was
I have gone, run away, existence no more
Life was just pretence,
A play for all to see

Don’t look, you won’t find
I’ve turned my back from this world,
Kept on walking,
Through the darkness and pain
Nothing to do but keep walking

Hearing your voice, calling my name,
Pulling me backwards
Slowly, I turn around
A feeling of hope is welling up inside
Drawn away from the darkness,
Lead towards the light.

Fresh hope of new things to come
I am here
I have returned.

Christine Jones, Ipswich, Suffolk

THE THREAD

A skein of blue thread loam-loose
In a wheat field soil-sand I bend to touch
Silking through my fingers each letter
Looping its pattern to the page

Iris Trainor, Abingdon, Oxfordshire

Dedicated to Catherine and David.

A BIRD IN THE THROAT

Our son has a bird in his throat. He was born that way.
Deep in the box of his neck an egg was laid.
Nurtured by milk and warmth and love it cracked,
And the bird began to grow, softly-feathered, its
Exploratory trills and semi-tones,
Half escaping from an imagined world,
Where lyres and shawms, harps and flutes recalled
A Pan-like idyll. With age the bird began to sing,
Full-throated melodies extinguishing plaintive longings,
Engaging with trumpets and cymbals and drums.
We were proud of our son and loved his singing bird.
But birds and sons grow up and fly the nest.
The singing bird has gone. The branch is bare.
We are left remembering in sadness, awaiting another Spring.

Blanche Sears, Beckenham, Kent

KENNY

I have thought about you, long and hard,
In trying to bridge the gap,
Between the distance and the years,
To make you world and mine align,
Yet, without success,
Because the depth of my love,
I cannot fathom.

But emptiness can be measured,
In minutes,
In seconds,
In days,
And most of all, in years,
Through joy and often in tears,
Yet, always in hope.

My love is like an ocean,
Whose depths are infinite,
It is immeasurable,
Just like my love for you,
And depth of feeling can only be measured,
By longing.

Scherin Barlow-Massay, Battersea

DAD

As a child I was always ill
Needing care and attention most times
You were always there to give me a pill
Telling stories and nursery rhymes

You held my hand to keep me safe
Telling me the pain would go away
I must have been a little waif
But by my side you would always stay

Your hand brushing softly across my brow
Soothing the fears that I once had
I am lucky to have you here right now
You are my wonderful dad

Janet Hedley, Castleford, West Yorkshire

PEACE TO ALL

A dog, a cat
A mouse, a rat
I wish I wasn’t born in Iraq.
It’s the fifth of November every night
We are all just creatures in this fight.

No birds are singing
They have lost their song
The bombs, they just go on and on
This place is just a free-for-all
Where do we hide, who do we call?
We are only animals after all.

Give us our country back some day
Let it be soon, Lord
Let us end our days
The way we should
In good sunshine
And peace on earth to all mankind.

Ann Mathieson, Airdrie

Dedicated to Patrick James Gardner.

Born in Wishaw, Ann Mathieson has interests including writing and drawing. “I started by writing stories in my head and I would describe my style as a spiritual account of life and death,” she pointed out. “I would like to be remembered as a friend and my biggest fantasy is for someone to read my work and put meaning to the words.” Aged 66, Ann is married to Alex and they have six children. “The people I would most like to meet are the entrepreneur Richard Branson and the country singer Charlie Lansborough. My worst nightmare is getting so old that thoughts and feelings don’t stay in my head,” she added.

CHILL

Take a life to the limits just to break the boundaries once again.
Live to end in flames that burn eternal on the souls of all who see.
Dream the everlasting dream, an infinite touch,
So much higher than a thought.
Wish to love and love to wish.
You can’t say it didn’t work this time.
You hold it all and share in so many ways.
With others I joined to drift, but with you,
I part to grow closer.
Both the loved and the lover, shouldering the pain,
You start to talk, I breathe again.
When true becomes the one and only word,
Fade to a kiss
And leave with everything and a chill.

Matthew Hayler, Lightwater, Surrey

A TRIP TO THE DENTIST

I went to see my dentist today
But I’m very sad to say
The experience was very traumatic for me
My fear was there for all to see
I sat in the waiting room
I couldn’t relax at all
I tried a magazine to read
While waiting for the call
To summon me into the dentist’s chair
What a relief to be finally sitting there
My eyes were shut waiting
For my treatment to start
No drilling was needed this time I was told in part
Only cleaning was required my joy was clear
Thank God, I needn’t go back
For six months to a year

Enid Skelton, Luton, Bedfordshire

THE BEAUTIFUL MOURNES

Oh rugged hills that took my eye
From first I had my sight.
Cradle the moon and part the clouds
So spectacular with your height.

Ravens call around your peaks,
In the Valley the echoes mock
Crystal waters from somewhere spring
And white rivers splash the rock.

In rustic peat and heather clad
Mighty walls and trodden pad.
In summer heat the sheep, a crowd
In bleakest winter a snowy shroud.

Big sleepy mountain, permanent rock
Do your just sit there taking stock
Come generations within your sight
All pass away like another night.

And when my God shall call for me
No more those earthly peaks I’ll see
But when I them in mortal rest
Your forever watch I count as blessed.

William Donaldson, Holywood, Northern Ireland

NO MATTER WHAT

I don’t claim to hold all the answers
But what I can offer is a willing ear
And should your words arrive in a torrent
I promise you I will always hear

My support is one thing you can count on
No matter what you may have to face
I’ll be by your side every step of the way
For in my heart you have a special place

Mark McAuley, Dunfermline

STILL BREATHING, STILL HERE

I think I’ve moved on,
But I don’t know where I’ve gone,
Do you know I’m still breathing, I’m still here?
Am I a sweet memory from your past,
How long did your bitterness last?
And oh, the intensity of love and fear.

I know you kinda like me,
You didn’t take us lightly,
Do you know I’m still breathing, I’m still here?
Thing is, I didn’t know myself,
But I always knew how I felt,
Like we’d never make it to our second year.

Life’s just a double edge sword,
To start again, you could afford,
Do you know I’m still breathing, I’m still here?
We all have to make our choices,
But you listened to the wrong voices,
And now it’s too late you’re seeing, things clear.

Samantha Lord, Peterborough, Cambridgeshire

HOMELESS

As evening’s fingers long and straight
Recede and shrink beyond the trees
And night awakes
A sigh unbidden sears my heart
I now must leave the dying day
Return to what?
What home? What cot?
There’s none
I’m here in Bosnia
It snows a lot

Bright scenes out on the desert plain
Are hidden then appear again
Through breeze softly sighing
My children are crying
Now all is calm
A sandstorm is coming
I need shelter
There’s none
I’m here in Africa
The wind is hot

Janet Scott Bonney, Newton Stewart

Born in Falkirk, Janet Scott Bonney has interests including reading, walking and visiting historical sites. “I have always been a scribbler, but since retirement I have had more time for my thoughts,” she explained. “My work is influenced by my fellow men