| Bright Voices |
As a poetry editor it is my task and privilege to read tens of thousands of poems every year. The style of the poems varies to an amazing degree. Some writers use a style which is deliberately old-fashioned and some use modern words and phrases which have, perhaps, never been seen in a poem before.
These range from the poets who use words like thee and thine to poets who use email and website. But I must confess I haven't yet come across a poet who merges these styles. So I still haven't read the phrase I emailed thee about thy website t'other day.
As a poetry editor it is my task to consider and appraise all styles of poetry - from ornate to rap.
But my personal opinion is that the simplest is the best. I think it was Somerset Maugham who said: "The hardest thing is to write simply."
In poetry this axiom certainly applies, because poetry is an expression and communication of thoughts and feelings. So if a poem does not communicate in an understandable form, it has failed.
But I hope you agree with me, that, in this collection we have brought together a group of poets who can express themselves clearly. Because among these writers we have found some truly Bright Voices in the world of poetry.
SEE
THROUGH
I am mesmerised.
Grey-green marble flecks
Flash dance from behind
Full eclipses.
Maypole ribbons
Fringed by a chorus of lashes.
My pupils,
Black coffee and cream ellipses,
As dark as deep space.
God-given specs.
A myopic haze
Feel their way through
A drunken blur.
My pupils,
Bottomless wells,
Keep silent witness to secrets
Sucked into Black Holes.
Natalie Daniel, Enfield, Greater London
Natalie Daniel said: “My venture into writing began when I was
about 14, springing from a desire to express my ideas and thoughts. With
John Keats and Seamus Heaney being my two main influences, my style is
often nostalgic or philosophical in tone, reflecting emotional states,
spirituality and images of nature. A predominant theme is the nature
of the inner life. I think one of the most important things a person
can do during their lifetime is aim to understand and nurture their inner
life - their spirit, creativity and soul. For me, writing is part of
my journey towards this objective.”
THE FUNERAL MARCH
A creeping centipede.
Muted, reflective.
Thaws the winter chill.
Halogen eyes,
Darkness drilling,
Flame salvation’s path.
Then a rush of sobbing,
Sudden and intrusive,
Cleaves the library hush;
Before hastily cocooned
In allied succour.
Still onward trudge,
Hunched in assiduous penitence.
Drones of litany
Petitioning her redemption.
No joy today
For old friends reunited.
Peter Caulfield, Airdrie, Scotland
For Cecily Torrice.
SPRING START
Snow in dotted, kinked lines
Languish over the fields and hillsides,
Like a myriad disjointed white horses strewn across the land.
Sunblaze of spots of searing summer green,
Eager echoes of the radiant rising sun,
On thousands of outstretched fragile fingertips.
Nathanael Lewis, St Andrews, Scotland
GARLIESTON BAY
In the bay, boats squat in claret mudpools at dawn,
as a lone heron absorbed by the rocks stalks, neck stretched, intent.
Seagulls stretch singly on high roof and chimney
silently slipping skywards towards the tide edge, sharp eyes arrested.
From headland to headland, at the tip of the bay,
lightly, delightedly, a vixen and her cubs dance
across the rim of the wine glass.
Jo Abbot, Dunscore, Scotland
THE SURFACE
Sometimes I think that I go so deep that I will never come back.
It seems to me, lover,
That you don’t go deep enough.
I sparkle and shine.
Everyone sees it.
Apart from you.
Why don’t you see it?
I try to make you look,
Sparkle in your face,
You turn away.
Like you only see darkness.
As if you’re scared my lightness will dazzle you to death.
If I was only the surface, with nothing inside,
Would you look more?
Want me to be deeper?
Keep searching in vain, but only ever unravelling
emptiness.
Diane Crawford, Glasgow, Scotland
THE GARDEN OF LIFE
From a carpet of green, the colours emerge,
As if untouched, since birth, by human hand.
Some stretch towards the warmth of the sun
In a shaded corner, others rest in small space,
Unassuming.
Some separate and spread themselves,
Climbing with sheer determination
To their place of rest to fix contentedly on brick or wood.
Some try to take control,
Knowing theirs will be a short journey,
Ended by the blade, to keep the balance.
Some have lived gloriously, but now must die.
As they fall from velvet red and purple,
To withered brown and black,
They silently surrender.
I watch you as you weave through your garden of life,
Gently laying the dead to rest,
Careful not to disturb the living.
It is hard to separate you from this scene.
Growth and life in abundance,
You live here as a beautiful flower.
Your colour blends with theirs and brings
happiness and peace to all who view you, and admire.
Kate Neilson, Tillicoultry, Scotland
DIFFERENT
Lord, when you created
This bundle of imperfection
Did you foresee society’s reaction
To deformed body, limb and face,
An outcast of the human race
Who we’ve hidden away lest his audacity
Dare disturb us from our
self-complacency
But with this child, you sent your blessing
“For such is the kingdom
of my Heaven.”
Fiona J McMutrie, Livingston, Scotland
Dedicated to Dr Edward Russell-Smith for his support and encouragement.
I SAW YOUR FACE
I saw your face in the street today
But as I turned you’d slipped away,
Your ghostly smile a translucent shroud,
Left me standing lonely in the crowd.
I know ‘twas you, I saw your eyes
As a dove looks round before she flies,
No thought of what she leaves behind
Only the wing beats in her mind.
Would I that smile had flesh and bone
I would that dove had never flown.
Your ghost commands my daily grind
Tormented I, no peace can find.
Kate Field, Tregaron, Wales
CHILLARCH
He glimpsed a share of heaven
From the unkempt hedgerows of his mind.
His spirit feet
Felt the snares and tugs
Of a myriad lives along that trepid way.
Now shot of scorpion shoe, and shod with soul
They felt the pulse
Of earth’s humanity.
A heaven afire with godliness.
His soul a sacred staff,
Sweet pain of ceaseless urges
Life’s prop,
That drove and flogged him to his mountaintop
Sandra Stone, Swansea, Wales
UNDER THE SOD
Do you know words come easily
When emotions flow like water
Out of every orifice
To find all of you gone
Enter the gates opened wide
No doors shut in your sad face
So lovely in the moonlight
Over the sea across the mountain top
Blame nobody or call back
Those who can no longer answer or talk back
Your need to communicate
Under the sod all dust to dust gone to heaven
S
M Thompson, Southampton, Hampshire
POSTCARD
I am thinking of you
As a quick drift of insects
Brighten cloud shadows
I am thinking of you
As chimes on an oak branch
Float notes through this midtime
With a sigh in their slipstream
I am thinking of you
Feet scuff on scrubbed floors
I do what needs to be done
I am thinking of you
In the half dark of near sleep
I reach into emptiness
I wish you were here
Helen Rowlands, Cardiff, Wales
To Jay, with my love.
LOVE’S LABOUR LOSING
Maybe if I hold you very close, tight.
My soul will cease to echo.
I’ll stroke your brow, your neck.
I’ll touch the love I soft laid there.
I’ll rest my head upon your heart
feeling it quicken, then quicker I,
flooded by relief’s tsunami
Will Love again.
Undenuded I stand wretchedly dry
I do not press,
caress,
confess,
I lie.
Jennifer Jones, Wrexham, Wales
DREAM SCENT
Delight and anticipation of
The tar lorry
We inhaled
And stayed high for days
On the nectar of summer roadmen
Spreading tacky black bubbling streams
Of clothes ruin
(It never came off with butter)
We breathed deep and mouthed Ta
To J L McAdam.
Phillip M Davies, Penmaenmawr, Wales
FRUSTRATION
I gaze at a small, screaming face.
Crunching control; swallowing
Unspoken anger.
Sour, soft, screeching infant breath.
Furious, floundering, desperation,
Bewildered passers by.
I look at your small storming face
Wanting to leave, instantly,
Escaping anger.
Spittle, screams, splitting sodden space
Unites and divides, us both.
Startled onlookers.
I clasp at a damp, mewling mound.
Grasping control; murmuring,
Soothing anger.
Nuzzle, near, muffling feisty folds
Of infant flesh, as one.
Smiling passers by.
Jackie Davies, Colwyn Bay, Wales
THE JOURNEY
You have been digging, delving
Whilst I have been hiding, shelving
You strike a rock of indifference
Words dent the soul, split it in two
Unveiling the spirit
That has long been submerged
Media, pain and buzzing brain
Effectively hiding the truth
Routine, rota and rut
Are slaves to indifference
I thank you for your endless labour
In your search for unity
Of who we are
And why we travel together
Like the phoenix rising from the ash
The stupor lifts from my soul
My spirit now shines bright
Restoring the journey we agreed to travel
Thank you for waiting
Amanda Hale, Torfaen, Wales
Born in Barnet, Amanda Hale has interests including studying,
politics, needlecraft, gardening, environmental issues, Christianity
and social justice. “I find it easier to express myself through writing,” she
explained. “My work is influenced by my faith in God and I would describe
my style as full of hope and awe. I would like to be remembered as a
constant companion, who was open-minded yet solid and unashamed of what
she was and what she believed.” Aged 31, Amanda is a student. She is
married to Jonathan, and the person she would most like to meet is Nelson
Mandela. “His solidarity and steadfastness in his beliefs are amazing,” she
said.
A ROSE
I write some verse and make this wish
If just one poem blossom like a rose
Where petal words form fragrant lines
All held together by a rhythmic shape,
A rose which draws the passer-by
To take a more respectful look
And, in a soft admiring way, to touch.
Then would I humbly, proudly stand
And say those rose roots rest in me.
Alan Keith Duddy, Dromore, Northern Ireland
THE OLD MAN AND THE STORM
They saw him stumbling up the street,
Rainfall lapping at his naked feet.
They watched as the wind whipped his skinny hind,
But no communication could he find.
They saw him shelter beneath our porch,
Rain fell hard, the lightning lit him like a torch,
They watched him stand there casual as
He was waiting for a bus, quite as cool as brass.
We saw him from inside the house,
Standing in the darkened hall, as quiet as a mouse.
We watched him wet and shaking there,
Head down low, his blue-grey face without a care.
We saw him try to light a cigarette,
But wind in his lungs was all he’d get.
We watched until the early hours,
Until my father caught him watering the flowers.
They saw him stumbling up the street,
Rainfall lapping at his naked feet.
They watched him blow across the road,
Never to be seen again, the old man and his heavy load.
Scott Mallett, Fleetwood, Lancashire
LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER
Two lines of traffic in a main street;
Me in my taxi-seating
Alongside a slatted truck of sheep bleating.
For a few moments fleeting
Me and ewe eyes meeting.
Sheep bleating on their way to
A fate greeting them,
Cheating them,
Deleting them.
Sheep abattoir-bound.
Bleating;
Pleading;
Soon to hang bleeding.
For those few moments beside me.
I won’t be eating chopped lambs
In their grave of gravy
Anymore.
Lyn Punt, Blackpool, Lancashire
IF ONLY
The frozen earth in limbo
awaits the touch
of Spring’s warm fingertips
And like the frozen earth
her heart awaits
the touch of love’s caress
But love is fickle
as the drifting snow
Pure and deep
it melts and is gone
Like the resolute march
of icy drifts
Her spirit broken
by life’s cruel games
Adrift, on an endless ocean
Reaching, to catch the moon
Anne Sharples, Morecambe, Lancashire
THOUGHTS AFTER A FISHING BOAT DISASTER
Sunlight glinting on
Small waves tippling,
Gently rippling.
Lightness, brightness.
Living.
Dark fronds winding,
Tightly wrapping
A slippery shroud.
Blackness, silence.
Drowning.
Ann R Phythian, Scarisbrick, Lancashire
MID-LIFE CRY
Tread lightly through my life,
You spirits of hopes and dreams,
In a room that holds its breath
In a world that’s close to tears.
Hold still, and wait, and touch my soul,
And show me all that future.
Those expectations that filled my heart,
Weigh heavy with their emptiness.
There was a day that came unnoticed,
It was the day that I stopped dreaming,
So laden down with here and now,
Tomorrow’s passed as nothing.
And the sadness is there comes a time
We fear to dream of things we want,
For here and now is where we are,
And those dreams that all escaped us,
Leave only hope for comfort.
So tread lightly through my life,
You spirits of hopes and dreams,
You’re all I really have.
Dermot Cranswick, Morecambe, Lancashire
CONNECTION
Turquoise sunsets
Burn me fast.
Eyes see through me
A thousand thoughts race
Lips touch,
Souls connect,
I breathe again
Natalie Tyldesley, Swinton, Greater Manchester
I dedicate this poem to a heart so pure, a soul so deep, a love so true.
He inspires me.
THE MOON STAYS ON
The full moon in Pisces
Rises from behind a city roof,
From a clear black sky
We come eye to eye
Face to face,
A street light flashes on and off
The moon stays on.
The moon stays on.
A street light flashes on and off,
Face to face
We come eye to eye
From a clear black sky,
Rises from behind a city roof
The full moon in Pisces.
Margery Mahon, Ashton-on-Ribble, Lancashire
THINKING
Looking at clouds in infinity,
Picturing greatness in oneself.
Great image reaches light in dark, empty sky,
Turns monstrous.
Haunting images flash through night sky,
A rollercoaster of insane imagery,
As if mind-made hallucinogenics pour before my eyes.
A million small eyes stare in gaps
Through fences, windows and doors.
Human, natural, supernatural,
As ghostly figures look down on me.
Andrew Hannam, Bredbury, Greater Manchester
RUNNING WITH WRENS
More controlled than a flutter,
And less than a flap,
Birds so small as to wonder if they can exist there.
Trying to pull me out of my human abyss and realise the miracle before
me,
Skimming past foot’s overhang of green,
Away into more, as I enjoy the dirt track,
Stuck, it seems, on a path.
Alex Holt, Southport, Merseyside
LOVE ON A PARK BENCH
Her be-spectacled boyfriend sits by her side
On the bench, like a gloomy owl.
They’re supposed to be courting, you’d never guess;
And her features are marred by a scowl.
This meeting has been arranged with such care,
Yet he’s sitting there mute and hardly aware
of his charming companion, but what can she do?
“Will he ever,” she mourns, “have the least wit to woo?”
Josephine Offord, Southport, Merseyside
DREAM CATCHER
I do my work alone at night.
I do just as it seems.
I stand here like a fisherman
And cast my net for dreams.
You dream your dream and once you’re done
Into the wind they’re cast
For me to hold and keep them here,
A record of the past.
Some dreams show the future,
They show what you might do.
I hold them here to prove their worth
To show when they come true.
Some dreams are a mystery,
A riddle to be resolved.
Them to I catch and hold in time
Until the day they’re solved.
So that’s my work.
It’s what I do
I hold dreams here.
They wait for you.
David Howard, Moreton, Merseyside
Born in Wallasey, David Howard has interests including writing,
DIY and running a social club. “I wrote my first poem when I was ten
and my first story at 20,” he pointed out. “My work is influenced by
life and my family, and my style is mixed.” Aged 39, David has an ambition
to have a book published. “I have written a novel and over 40 poems,
but this is my first to be published so far,” he said. “My biggest
fantasies are to do a magic show on TV, as I am a magician, or to appear
in Star
Trek.”
THE URBAN TERRORIST
The wood cracks and splits
The boot crashes down
Urine dripping, yellowing, faeces
Anger spitting, straight face
Hiding sorrow, grimace into frown
All is spent and empty
Childhood fears abound
The youth forever wanting
Deposits venom in his wake
Needy tired, lonely, lost not found
Dreams and thoughts culture weave
Fields of poppy, clover, hay
Hedgerow’s rich abundant blanket
Dividing the meteoroid of life
Another time, not for him to achieve
Marj Kurthausen, West Kirby, Merseyside
POOL OF ENIGMA
Pool of enigma
Sip from your misty edges
My soul replenished
Dancing infinite
Indelible swirling wisps
Rise ethereal
Forever twilight
Effervescent watery glint
Soothingly rippling
Incandescent stars
Pierce infinite velveteen
Luminous psyche
Tree-lined sanctity
Lay to rest in roots entwine
Spirit dissipates
Inner mystery
Tangible sub-conscious dream
Exists inside me
Claire Heaton, Widnes, Cheshire
Claire Heaton said: “For me, poetry is a voice - a creative
expression of individuality and imagination. I have been writing short
stories and
poems for as long as I can remember. I find inspiration in the strangest
places and aspire to write full-time, preferably from a laptop on a
scorching beach in an exotic country. This is the first piece I have
submitted
for publishing.”
THE POPPIES
A splash of scarlet
Stark upon the ground
Beauty in the rubble.
Symbolic of regeneration.
Life can come from chaos
Beauty out of ugliness
Hope out of despair.
D C Nall, Farndon, Cheshire
SUNDAY
Lethargy and listlessness grip me
like hands grasping my throat.
I struggle to evade enveloping
clutches before becoming engulfed,
as a tsunami with surfers.
Papers, too big and bulky,
overwhelm me with voluminous text.
Pullout sections implode,
creating chaos and clutter,
mirroring my mind.
Awaiting buses which never arrive,
I feel the day drifting; in freefall,
plumbing new, uncharted depths,
like white-water rafting
with only one oar.
Paul Burton, Hazel Grove, Greater Manchester
DOOMED CHILD
Doomed child, made in misery and confusion.
Raised in rejection of mildness and illusion,
His bogey-men were constant, real and cold.
Told lies by uniformed redeemers,
Unloved, the client of social schemers,
Then home, where weary care grips hold
Not known, but honed without consideration,
Commanded, but without love’s limitation,
Then an adult, remodelling the mould.
Jan Malpas, Hyde, Cheshire
THE KITCHEN TABLE
When I was young I never knew
The friend that I would find in you.
To me, then, you were just a name,
I’m sure if asked, you’d say the same.
Two different people, different lives,
Just table things like forks and knives.
No-one to turn to, no-one to tell,
Each living through their private hell.
In time, to break that shell of lies,
And turn out just like butterflies.
In public view all proud and vain,
To hide a web of hurt and pain.
Left with too few who understand,
Save others from that woeful band.
Who’d twist and turn much as they may,
But fail to push the past away.
And still like you hide underneath,
The sense of loss and hidden grief.
And down to that since all these years,
We all still shed our childhood tears.
And share with those who feel the same,
When time enough has passed to blame.
Martin Bottomley, Scarborough, North Yorkshire
Born in Bradford, Martin Bottomley has interests including art,
piano, rugby league and fishing. “I found from an early age that poetry
was a perfect medium to explore my emotions,” he remarked. “My work is
influenced by love and adversity and my style is down-to-earth and emotional.
I would like to be remembered as a caring person who was not afraid to
show his feelings in helping others.” Aged 47, Martin is a printer
with an ambition to leave a little bit of himself through his art,
words or
coaching. He has one daughter and one son and has written songs, short
stories and many poems, some of which have been published.
FENG SHUI
The trees were chopped down in their prime
To clear a space
A sudden gap
An opening
Saplings torn up and cast aside
Like hopes and dreams
We must let go
And grow again
By those who know about these things
We are told
No crisis here
An opportunity
The way of business, life and hedges
It’s all the same
We will soon see
A new beginning
Thea Watson, Knaresborough, North Yorkshire
Thea Watson said: “I have been writing poems for three years
since rediscovering my creativity on a holistic psychology course.
I have recently
set up a company, Buzz4life to help others to achieve their potential
in the field of their choice and I offer one-to-one telephone coaching
and weekend courses near my home in Knaresborough. I draw on my interests
and experiences in counselling and personal development and use my
poetry to resolve personal issues and emotions in a creative and often
amusing
way. I can be contacted via my website www.buzz4life.co.uk.”
BLACKBIRD’S SONG
I sing a song for everyone
What ever could be fairer
The morning light puts dark to flight
And wakes the land o-laira
My lovely bride is all my pride
I’m never going to share her
She’s made a nest, all smoothly pressed
And sits so sweet o-laira
I’ll teach my brood and bring them food
I’ll be a patient carer
And as they grow, one day they’ll know
Their very own o-laira
Rosemary Wormald, Richmond, North Yorkshire
A DECEMBER DAY
Cold icy fingers skim the land,
Dusting frost from a silver wand.
Crystal icicles hang from trees,
Twinkling in the winter breeze.
A winterland of powdered snow,
Nature’s glory all on show.
A watery sun through skies of grey,
Awake a new December day.
Shirley May Croxford, Scarborough, North Yorkshire
GROWING OLD
The indignity of the body
As it grows old around our youth
When I get up to dance
And it merely hobbles a few yards
When I find myself rushing, dizzy, on the floor
And its bowels have emptied despite me
When my babies fuss about me
Grown more than middle-aged
When I watch a fascinating drama
To discover my consciousness has strayed
When I plan to cook my dinner
And my hands refuse to turn the lid
When I’ve a story to narrate
And my memory will not recall
When in my mind I am still twenty
Wrapped in wrinkled skin then
The world is a moving fast and racy place
When it’s my place to face the fall
Pauline Brown, Oxenhope, West Yorkshire
I dedicate this poem to my dad, and Swiss born mum, Elsa Cox-Ueberschlag.
Unlike this subject she’s still dancing!
Pauline Brown said: “I am from a family of seven girls. I have
three school-aged boys, university degrees in Interdisciplinary Human
Studies and Youth and Community, and spent 25 years working with offenders
and in other areas of social concern. I find making sculptures a medium
conducive to expressing loving relationships. Conversely, I usually
write about frustrating aspects of emotions and relationships; being
a woman,
points in lifecycles, sad reflections, pen-pictures of characters,
short scenarios, social comment, sometimes sceptical questioning.”
GUILT
Guilt surrounds us
And confounds us
It blots out joy
And gives us pain
Fresh guilt, stale guilt
Bleached and faded
Yet remains.
Let the day be fresh
The slate be clean
Waste no time on guilt
For guilt is mean
Don’t let it spoil
You’re here and now
Make amends
Just move on
Cut free your tow
Jennifer Dean, Leeds, West Yorkshire
CHOOSING
Of all the millions of people in the world,
Why did I choose you?
Someone who is not free to give
Of himself, his time, his name
You are the one precious thing I’ve longed for,
Hoped for, why can’t you be mine?
Of all the millions of people in the world,
Why did you choose her?
Someone who was free to give
Of herself, her time, her name
You are the one precious thing I’ve longed for,
Hoped for, why couldn’t it have been me?
Of all the millions of people in the world,
Why did she choose you?
Someone who was willing to give
Of himself, his time, his love,
You are the one precious thing I’ve longed for,
Hoped for, why? because she saw what I see.
Fran Perry, Pontefract, West Yorkshire
DAFFODIL
Daffodils in the morning sun
Yellow white and gold
Petals round, trumpets sound
Moist dew upon the ground
Mingle blooms of hosts
Soft ripples, silent breeze
Flowing sea of gold
Born of natures fold
Joy, happiness, heart’s desire
Sweet like honey-daffodil flower.
Carole Windle, Sheffield, South Yorkshire
Dedicated to my only son Tony - miracle of life.
AT SEA WITH SINGLES
Single passenger-ship ploughs its steady creamy way
Leaving single frothy furrow behind
Single fishing-boat bobs along its rippled way
Leaving a single seabird behind
Without a friend.
Single girl alongs the boarded deck
Single boy jogs his playful way
Single buoy marks an unknown spot.
A man alone stands by my side
His empty cigarette carton seaward marks another end.
Kenneth George Woods, Sacriston, County Durham
WRITE A MESSAGE
He gave me withered flowers
Tied together with a weed,
He wrote a message saying
“Is this what you need?”
He gave me a blanket
To cover up these lies,
He wrote a message saying
“Maybe this can disguise.”
He gave me a ring
Decorated with a jewel,
I wrote a message saying
“Do you think I’m a fool?”
He gave me a candle
To burn when he’s away,
I wrote a message saying
“That’ll be the day.”
Simply mark it with a gravestone
And cover it with tears,
Write a message saying
“Thank you for the years.”
Laura Bullock, Stanton-under-Bardon, Leicestershire
Born in Leicester, Laura Bullock has interests including reading,
writing, yoga and going to gigs and concerts. “I’ve been writing bits
and pieces since primary school but I guess I’ve been writing seriously
for approximately six years,” she pointed out. “I have a vivid imagination
so writing is something which comes naturally to me. My work is influenced
by personal experiences and those of others, and everyday life around
me. My style changes depending on what form I’m using or what I’m writing
about.”
MUM TOLD ME
The cliffs are made of ivory,
The sea is made of green.
The hills are made of emeralds,
The moon is made of cheese.
The snow is made of laughter,
The volcano made of coal.
The sand is made of fairy-dust,
The heart is made of gold.
Flame is made of anger,
Hate is made of greed.
Greed is made of wanting more,
When love is all you need.
P J Gibbs, Rushden, Northamptonshire
THE DEATH OF A TREE
Oh, once I was blossoming fair,
Reaching towards the light spring dew,
And the sweet smell of honeysuckle
Mingled with precious roses of blue.
A home for the glorious songbirds
Humming to heaven each day,
Nosy squirrels inspecting my branches
Then scampering quickly away.
Then my last moment of glory departed,
As the blade sparkled in the winter morn.
Down crashed my days of wonder,
The thread of my life had been torn.
My broken fragments, like glass
Glistening sharply in the trembling rain,
The milky blue sky at twilight
Simply reflecting my pain.
Oh, how cruel is man
When I have lived longer than he?
What will this planet do, if it’s left up to you?
My lament, the death of a tree.
Shereda Stanchfield, Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire
Dedicated to my wonderful mother, my sister Susan, and my beautiful son
Odin James. May our pastures always be green.
Shereda Stanchfield said: “I have been writing since I was a girl.
I began being published after developing ME in 1994, At one point I became
bedridden, but used my confinement to recognise a lifelong ambition to
become a creative writer. I receive inspiration from my son, Odin and
from the many experiences of life’s travels. I write regularly for
my local newspaper The Sentinel and for a newsletter for fellow ME
sufferers.”
SHOUT FOR LOVE
Whether coming in, or going out,
Your love is the loudest shout.
It screams to me from open spaces,
And lifts smiles of a thousand faces.
Oh, tis so hard to be without,
To raise my voice and shout.
Whether going up, or coming down,
Your love is a wonderful sound.
I know it listens to me speak
From deep within heart’s creek.
Yes, but you are bound to hear
The whisper of a tender tear.
Gary Oliver Falconer, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire
Born in Stoke-on-Trent, Gary Oliver Falconer has interests including
current affairs, walking and music. “I started writing poetry because
I wanted to talk to the world about what I felt,” he explained. “I would
describe my style as both modern and post-modern and I would like to
be remembered as a person who changed things.” Aged 37, Gary is married
to Emma Kamara and they have a daughter, Lydia. “I have written short
stories, two novels and two poetry books,” he said. “My biggest fantasy
is to be the manager of the England football team at a World Cup.”
WAKING UP
Cosy in my sleepy hollow
I lie, between slumber and wakefulness,
A contented smile upon my face,
Lulled by the love of the distant night.
Somewhere I softly feel you stir beside me,
Coaxing me with butterfly kisses
As your five o’clock stubble
Brushes my face.
Still smelling of soap and testosterone
You touch my skin with gentle hands
And I curl into you, warm, cocooned
In the intimacy of the dawn.
Dozing still, I slowly rouse,
And I turn into your arms,
Content in knowing
I’ll always be waking up with you.
Catherine Murphy, Burton-upon-Trent, Staffordshire
UPON A HILL
How many children have raced along your paths?
How many sheep have criss-crossed the acres of fern?
And what of the cartloads that have left the broad paths?
Do you remember them? all that have passed?
Now all the little children have grown up and gone
And those sheep all followed to the land of anon.
Those carts have left hollows for your tears of rain,
Shed on the memories that rise again and again.
Remember the sickle and the swish of the scythe,
Those farmers that gathered the green rush and the fern?
Remember the children who the hillsides did scorch,
And the foxes, the rabbits and the birds that lived there?
No longer is the bracken required for bedding,
The green rush is not used for thatch as a heading.
Yet, fires continue without control evermore
And few are the creatures that now live on the floor.
Jenkyn Evans, Wombourne, Staffordshire
THE DANCE OF THE WASHING LINE
A washing line full of drying clothes,
So bright, so clean,
Moving back and forth
Giving shape to the breeze.
The line prop swaying to and fro
Conducting this orchestra of movement.
The fruits of the washing machine’s labours
Are pegged out for all to admire
The garments do not disappoint.
Shirts, trousers, skirts and socks
Revelling in their freedom
To dance on the gust.
The wind subsides, everything is still.
Our show is over, now the wait
For the criticism of the ironing board.
Tony Elmore, Birmingham, West Midlands
LASCAUX STAGS
I see the stags of Lascaux Cave
Passing before me like a wave,
Some foreground dark and prominent,
Some softer brown in misty scent.
With tree-like antlers from heads minute
They cross the room in canvas tribute.
Just like the red ochres from the ground
Used by early Man, the first ones bound,
And sometimes paw the earth at sight
Of rivals arching up for fight.
Through the millennia they have run
`Cross that cave wall for food and fun,
In the race to survive all time;
To destroy them would be a crime.
Martyn Richards, Coventry, West Midlands
RAINBOW
Rain falls slowly
Accentuated by the sun
In sparkling, delicate diamonds.
Neon-like sign, gracefully
Bending
Over the
World
Sara Broomhall, Wednesbury, West Midlands
Sara Broomhall said: “I have been writing poetry for just over
four years and take my inspiration from the natural world, Celtic mythology
and everyday experiences. I enjoy sharing my poetry with others, and
so have recently started attending Poetry Wednesbury. I am a natural
medical therapist and relax by reading, walking in Wales or practising
T’ai Chi and Yoga. I am also currently compiling my third collection
of poems, Between Two Worlds, my other collections Pandora’s Box and
Colour Me Green, are available from 21 Lodge Road, Wednesbury, West Midlands
WS10 7RZ priced at £3.50 each (including p&p).”
NATURE’S TAPESTRY
The winter-leafless trees
Silhouetted against the sky
Are a sight to please
The artistic eye.
Embroidered from the thimble
Of an old and practised hand,
With fingers as nimble
As any in the land.
It is an almost windless day;
The trees appear still,
But at times they gently sway,
Standing up there on the hill.
So very soon now
The trees will be budding,
And above the brow
The clouds will be scudding.
And shortly the buds will burst,
Giving birth to the silken leaves,
To satisfy the universal thirst
For the tapestry that Nature weaves.
Jack Purdom, Stourbridge, West Midlands
TO MY HEART
My heart, is there a doubt
Intrudes upon your couch of joy?
Regret, a bitter taste among
The sweeter fruits that cloy?
It is a shallow heart that feels no pain,
Arid as the desert without rain.
Know that for every height of happiness
There is a valley filled with tears.
Mingled, they are the fruits of love,
The harvest of the years.
Joan Burman, Barnt Green, Worcestershire
Dedicated to Richard, who owned my heart, brought me great joy, understood
and shared my tears.
THE NEUTRAL ZONE
From the womb to the tomb.
Long time dead.
From the was to the whom.
I stay locked inside my head.
There was beginning; an end.
Both come and gone.
No enemy, no friend
Where I belong.
Just the neutral zone
Once you’ve crossed the line.
No sins to atone
Or reason to define.
Here by one’s free choice
Inside the mind.
Speaks in a softer voice
I find.........
Patricia Deban, Cambourne, Cambridgeshire
Dedicated to Danielle, Michelle, Martin and Jason. “All the world’s a
stage, and we are merely the players taking a part.” (Shakespeare).
With love, as always.
EXODUS
What mortal man can make a line
Upon a fading map? A passing
Marking soon obscured by time.
Man’s spirit is not for binding,
Yet bound it is by wrought iron cages,
And as the lines are drawn
The milk curdles and honey
Turns sour, illuminating a divided dawn.
Of what significance are such lines?
Divisions are created, fleeting fabrications,
But mankind is enduring.
And whilst stagnant minds grow close to death,
A once green and pleasant land
Must draw fresh breath.
Salman Shaheen, Beccles, Suffolk
SAFE SEX
The years get in between
and teeth, and hair and skin and eyes
are caught in death’s encircling early coils.
And that machine called Man
and that machine called Woman
creak into their well-accustomed toils.
But in that clear, bright candle flame there glows
The heat and flame and passion of a love that grows
Not dimmed as other things with time’s grey muffled tread
But echoing bright secrets from a sunny past instead.
Meg Clibbon, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
For John.
SELECTIVE HEARING
My husband’s hearing is not too good,
From driving cars without a hood.
High tonal deafness he has now,
My voice, alas, is not that low.
He tells me that he cannot hear,
And lip reads as he comes up near.
But when I talk upon the phone,
It magnifies and clears the tone.
And when I whisper rude remarks,
“I can hear you talk,” he barks.
Selective hearing? Just a touch,
Methinks he doth protest too much.
Gael Nash, Rye, Sussex
To my soulmate, Tim.
UNTITLED
My bed is white cotton
My heart is red satin
Stained with darkness
Stained by love
Grown full and sweet
With acceptance
And listening to silence.
We lay, aware of the stillness
The night deepening,
No sound,
Your skin on my skin.
Close to you I am warm,
It is not my body that I offer you
But my trust.
Lesley Murray, Eas
BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA
Distant land of snow-capped mountains,
and people proud and free,
I left a part of me with you,
And there’s a part of you in me.
In airy fleeting dreams I am back with you again.
On your wide and busy highways,
In the gentle, west coast rain.
In that vibrant, modern city,
And the islands just beyond,
I feel the ocean breezes
And the deepest, dearest bond.
Please keep my family safe within your shores,
A half a world away.
Let the maple leaf fly proudly
Till I come back again one day.
Carole Gilham, King’s Lynn, Norfolk
Born in Syderstone, Carole Gilham has interests including writing,
dancing, keeping fit, cycling, astrology, history and reading. “I started
writing poetry as a child and my work is influenced by events which have
occurred in my life and places I have visited,” she explained. “I would
describe my style as from the heart and sometimes serious, sometimes
funny. I would like to be remembered as someone who cared and never turned
away when she could help.” Carole is retired and has an ambition to
have her own book published. She has two sons and a daughter.
A QUARTER OF ME
I’m trying to lose it, I’m trying to shed
A quarter of me, so I’ve given up bread
With butter, and sugar and milk in tea,
But after a lifetime, fat still clings to me.
It duvets my body, trebles my chin,
Stops me from loving, keeps me from sin,
I never wear the clothes that I like,
My muscles ache from an exercise bike.
Inside these thick walls, there’s a prisoner within
Who laughs through a fat mouth but cries to be thin.
I wish someone bright would invent today,
A pill that would instantly melt fat away.
A quarter of me, I’d shed on the floor,
The prisoner inside, would be free evermore.
Josephine Wilde, Styal, Cheshire
MERELY A RIPPLE
The poem, at the start,
Like a small ripple on a pond.
It begins quite simply
With a pebble-sized idea.
New words come gushing out,
Tumbling and jostling for their spot.
Each new idea spreads
Ripple-like to join up the whole.
It gathers momentum,
You feel compelled to write it down.
Thoughts go round in your head,
You are now caught up in the whirl.
There is no stopping it,
Until it completes its cycle.
Swirling pond is now calm,
The poem has reached completion.
Yours a mere ripple.
In the vast pool of poetry.
Angela Pritchard, Sandbach, Cheshire
OAKEN FRIEND
My...
old oaken friend.
You stand alone,
Proud and majestic,
Amid this enchanting wood.
Much, much older than I,
Yet, perhaps not wiser,
But far stronger,
And certainly far more handsome,
And certainly far more useful.
Provider of food, shelter and safety
To that myriad of creatures
That within this wood do dwell.
You have purpose in life,
Good reason to live.
While I...A mere human being
Have nothing to give.
Andrew Shanley, Manchester