BAPTISM OF THE DEAD

Died in arms, of hours lived
Harmed in womb by undeliverable guilt
The baby of dream and wonder
Spoiled like a garden cabbage.
Polling day was near when
The day of birth encroached
But only null and void cast
Their number to the ballot.

In water of the blessed
The head is under
And like a new born underling
It makes the white gown full.
Only the silent grateful calm
Belies the truth of death
At birth.

And only when the minister
In triumphant call does muster
A feeling of arrival in the heaven
Of creation closes to shattered quiet.

Peter Noble

Born in Aberdeen, Peter Noble has interests including football and golf. “I started writing to make words feel like my own and because I find there is great pleasure in them,” he explained. “My work is influenced by futuristic social commentaries and I would describe my style as open. I would like to be remembered as original and Scottish.” Aged 27, Peter has an ambition to write acceptable poetry and the people he would most like to meet are Bill Clinton, Tony Blair and Mark Knopfler.

SEEKING SOLACE

By the stained glass of St Peter’s
You tempt me.
I reach to touch your hand
And sense I tip your flesh,
Before my fingers light
On cold cobalt,
And trace the tears that Mary wept.

I know you are not there,
Yet the smell of wet heather,
Like Harris Tweed
Clothes your presence.

Tantalus,
Let your spirit rise
That I might mourn.

Pamela Duncan

Pamela Duncan said: “Born in Sussex, I’ve lived most of my life in Scotland. I was a local reporter before studying creative writing and have since published articles, stories, poetry and had a play produced. In 2002, Soul Search, a collection of my poems was published. I am co-organiser of Words and Music, a Glasgow performance club for writers and musicians. My other passion is golf and I’m a past lady captain of my club.”

REFLECTIONS

The bleached branches
Stretched like a skeletal hand
From the brown peaty hillside -
A dead tree reaching out for life

In contrast, in the green verdant grass
Beside it, the blood red foxgloves
Reached up to the clear azure sky against
The backcloth of the blanched tree

The ancient dance of life and death
Embracing in the natural order
The Kintail mountains holding protectively
The dancers in the corrie
The reeds in the bog pond
Moved to the light and in time
With the gently rippling breeze

The dance of life activated
In the moving winds of time
Time spiralling like the white birds
Higher and higher
Towards the sun and eternity

Christine Cameron

MISSING

Why did you leave me on my own that night?
When I was sleeping, with eyes shut tight,
You left the door open and in he came
My life will never, ever be the same.

Bundled up and put in a car
Taken many miles to a place afar
He says I can see you if I am good
Do what he tells me and eat my food.

I’m being good and doing what he says
He promises to take me back one of these days.
I don’t like it here and I want to go home
I want to be with my family, I am so alone.

Please don’t give up looking for me
I know you won’t, you are my mummy.
But why, oh why did you leave me that night
When I was sleeping with eyes shut tight?

Anne Jenkins

WELSH WARRIORS

There was a war and the Archers went
To a foreign land so far from Gwent,
Bowmen warriors from this special land
Marched to Agincourt to make a stand.

There was a war and the borderers sang
Bayonets drawn, their charges rang,
Brave Welsh warriors whose deeds remain
Forever remembered on an African Plain.

There was a war and the Fusiliers sailed
To the Somme where bullets hailed.
Riflemen warriors with their mascot goat
Marched shoulder to shoulder in a khaki coat.

There was a war and the Guardsmen mustered
To the Falklands where missiles clustered,
Night-sighted warriors with computer skills
Precision aiming for perfected kills.

So many wars where these patriots served
Brave as lions and iron nerved,
Voices of Gwalia in timeless space
Carried on the breeze from place to place.

Sandy Acathan

Dedicated to my family of whom I am very proud, especially my father George Shore and my special friend Elizabeth McPartling.

WELCOME

I wait expectantly for the sun to slip over the horizon
With drifting tangible red-stained blaze in the sky to fade.
The irresistible call of the great outdoors swept me off to a Walkabout.
My town absorbed into the shoulders of Brecon Beacons.
A timeless beauty which moves me beyond words.
Mountains always in the distance. Canals stretching for Miles.
Trees whisper seductively, shimmering with moon dust.

The air is infused with delicious mixture of perfumes.
It is so hot here, the arrangements of flowers spring from Earth as if by magic.

The local population latch on, enjoying the footloose Nightclub.
Adolescents breathing life with strangers,
Displaying colourful frustration, it’s the way they Communicate today.
I reach my way home along the winding path,
Pass the sleeping houses with my moon shadow following Closely behind me.
My lifelong love affair with the visual beauty of my world,
And I feel compelled to record it for you.

Elizabeth Reville

GARDENING FOR FUN

Now there’s an open acre or so,
All cleared and empty and ready to sow.
There’s not too much light and not too much shade,
Where’s my metaphorical fork and similar spade?

It’s all in my mind ’bout what to plant where,
But the right type of seedlings are needed for there.
The compost to grow in must be loaded with mirth,
Should be buckets of chuckles, dug into the earth.

Round about here, I’d plant a small giggle,
And over by there, a spasmodical sniggle.
That border requires a lovely big smile,
For ground-cover, a million laughs per square mile.

These flowers all show in their own simple way,
The humour I try, in all that I say.
The brightness of colour, all primary fun,
Are brought into life by your bounteous sun.

Michael Haller

Born in Aylesbury, Michael Haller has interests including writing, music and fishing. “I started writing in 1969 as part of A Level English and my work is influenced by my emotions,” he commented. “I would describe my style as humourous with a message and I would like to be remembered as someone who left the world a happier place.” Aged 69, Michael is a retired missile engineer. He is married to Carol and they have four children. “I have done some work on my autobiography and written many poems and my worst nightmare is to have an idea but have no pen or paper to write it down on,” added Michael.

BLOOD BROTHERS

One was Apache, the other a Sioux
Two six year old boys with a friendship taboo.
Both tribes at war, one with the other,
The boys vowed that day each would be his blood brother.
The knife cut deep into each others hand,
Friendship sealed for ever in this Indian land.
Each spoke the name of his friend to the other,
Sweat and blood sealed the bond of each to his brother.

Many battles had been fought; many moons had passed by,
Warriors had ridden their ponies to the Spirit in the sky.
He laid bloodied and wounded, life slipping from sight,
When the pony that was to carry him came into the light.
He had no fear for he knew that this was the end,
A voice from the past whispered, Let me help you my friend
The hand that reached for him bore a scar like no other.
Tears filled the eyes of each long lost blood brother.
He carried him back to his loved ones - said goodbye and then,
Rode his pony into the sky and was not seen again.

James Kennedy

THE MAN IN THE HALL

The man in the hall gilt framed on the wall,
Collar starched and frock coat trim.
What is it we make of him?

This upright captain of the sea,
Does he hear his progeny?
Children playing without a care,
Sliding down the banister.

Two hundred years, a long, long time,
Guarding steps he cannot climb.
Quickly we clatter on the stairs,
He growls, you silly young mares.
But as the tread of each one shows
Another generation goes.

Barometer and long cased clock,
Eyes that follow, looks that mock,
Wild seas he sailed, what did he sow?
His profits, his black cargo?

Now a cold dark night, locks turned, doors shut tight,
What does this great grandfather see
But spiralling mahogany.

Jill Bushell

FLIGHT TO MADEIRA

We soared into the sky squeezed
Into a potbellied grey gull with shining metal wings.
Flying over patchwork fields our eyes followed
Pale ribbon roads leading to mosaic towns.
A silver thread river sinuously snaked
Across lush countryside.
Glimpses of picture landscapes emerged
Through wispy windows in clouds.
High in craggy mountains a heart-shaped tarn gleamed,
A silver mirror reflecting streaks of glistening sun.
Shadows of clouds lazily drifted
Over the rippling silver sea.
Climbing, reaching for the sun we winged
Above heaped snowdrifts.
Descending at last, a small mountainous island lay below,
Basking in the sultry afternoon haze.
Flaked, rocky cliffs were washed
By deep, marine-blue ocean.
White red-roofed houses glowed, carelessly scattered over tropical green, wooded hillsides. Madeira.

June Crozier

UNSPOKEN LOVE

When I am down and feeling low, with depression all around,
And silent tears, like waterfalls, are dropping to the ground,
I ask myself this question, time and time again,
What is the purpose here Lord, upon this earth of yours,
I feel so very helpless, not worthy of any cause.
And just as I think he has ignored me, and my life is all in vain,
Along he comes and holds my hand and takes away my pain.
He lifts my depression up, without a word being spoken,
Knowing deep down in my heart,
His love for me is not broken,
And as silently as my tears dropped,
Falling to the ground,
The Lord’s love drops quietly, on everyone around.

Laura Phillips

Dedicated to my daughter Joanne, son Jason and all my grandchildren. God be with you now and forever. Love you.

Laura Phillips said: “I started writing poetry in March this year after visiting my local church and listening to the Lord’s word, which really inspired me. When the words come, they are fast and furious so I have to have pen and paper at the ready. My family consists of two grown-up children, Joanne and Jason, and three grandchildren. I am a very big animal lover, having six in total.”

TO MY WIFE ON OUR WEDDING DAY

From this day forth,
From now, forever
I promise you
That I will never
Stop loving you

Whatever fate and fortune brings
Whatever song destiny sings
However bad and stormy the weather
You and I should be together

There’ll be lots of joy
Happiness too
There has to be
For me and you

We’ll laugh, we’ll cry
For that is life
Lots of good and occasional strife
But through it all
For the rest of my life
Things will be perfect
When you are my wife

John Rayner

VALENTINE’S DAY

This year no flowers
Roses entwined with ribbons.
No card, or letter, that expresses
What was truly, freely given.
The world, unchanged, left itself, forgot so thoughtlessly.
Not telling, he had been taken, so quickly, so mysteriously.
Love is such a fragile thing, tender and sometimes tragic.
But he is never far from me, in my heart the same, soft magic.
So this year perhaps, no flowers, no roses entwined with ribbons,
But always I will feel his love, the love that was freely given.

Pat Middlemiss-Stobart

Dedicated to Pete, whose life made mine an awesome task. But I loved every minute.

OUR DAYS ARE AS GRASS

Our days are as grass.
Are we truly born in sin
All things here will pass.

Darkly, we look through glass
Seeking where we did begin.
Our days are as grass.

By the eagle formed of brass
And shallow font we’re christened in,
All things here will pass.

From London, Timbuktu and old Madras
By joining hands, two become one kin.
Our days are as grass.

Later, we find that love is never sparse
Among the joys of childish din,
All things here will pass.

We will know, passing death’s duress
To the final battle we can never win,
Our days are as grass,
All things here will pass.

Rosemary Sandford

ODE TO A FRIEND

I have a friend called Alex
Who one Boxing Day put her family in a panic
Because right before their eyes
Just as the village hunt was about to ride
Alex took a horrendous crash dive
Which painfully dented her pride

So a hospital bed was a beckoning
Twenty-four hours observation was the reckoning
Battered and bruised Alex was left pondering her Christmas blues.
So the next time there’s a village hunt
Take heed less speed and avoid being left in a heap
On the village green nursing a very large lump

Janice Brown

ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE

You came into my life, filling it with happiness and love
You made my life complete. With you it was enough
You told me you loved me, more and more each day
I returned my love for you, I felt the same way
We were a part of each other’s lives
You even asked me to become your wife
You would always be there, I would feel hurt no more
Each day spent with you,
I believed it more and more
Then one day you left, why, I do not know
Why did you leave me, why did you go
I cried and sobbed, you broke my heart
What you did was cruel, you tore my world apart
I will learn to forget as each day goes past
And the next love I find I know it will last
In years to come, when I am grey and old
I will think of you, and thank you for letting me go.

Joan Fisher

Dedicated to my children Stephen, Kevin, Helen and their partners Sarah, Melissa and Dale for their love and support.

I AM ALL YOU NEED

I know you care,
I feel your pain,
But you do not have the heart
To change.

Your life, your love,
To be with me,
For I am all you need
You see.

I am that part
That makes you whole,
I am your light,
your love, Your all.

But you just cannot see at all,
That I am all you need.

Valerie Willis

DAY AT THE BEACH

I can still hear the sound of the ocean,
As I slowly close my eyes,
Soft breeze blowing across the sand,
Under a beautiful blue sky.

The rolling waves lapping at my feet,
As I stand at the edge of the sea,
Just for a moment my thoughts drift away,
Forgetting that I am me.

Sitting on the beach with my head in a book,
People just passing me by,
I suddenly realise the day’s almost gone,
As the sun starts to set in the sky.

I take one last look at the ocean,
whilst pondering on the day,
Leave my footprints in the sand,
As I slowly walk away.

Pauline Baker

MILL GIRL, SEVEN-THIRTY START

The click of a terraced house door,
The scurry of feet,
As quickly she moves down her ill-lit street,
To take her place in the daily queue.
For this is a task
She must not fail to do.
Yet wind not whistle your vengeance on her,
Stood at the bus stop with the child she must care.
At last the bus glides into its place.
On they go with jostle and haste,
To the street she has gone,
Lost without trace.

Derrick Wilson

THE FAST LANE OR THE SLOW

Our lives are so beguiling
Attractions spin to face
Their speed and constant loudness
Demand us to join the race.

But should we stop to wonder,
How all of this began.
’Twas the leafy land of England
Brought bounty to expand.

Are we considered backward
Who want to sit and stare?
At beautiful surroundings and not to have a care.

There is no noise in hillside,
A small bleat from a sheep
But all’s alive and kicking
Though flowers have their sleep.

When we’re at one with nature
Our cycle can progress.
For life is full of seasons.
No burn out, peace no less.

Dorothy Kenny

A JOURNEY ON THE MOORS

We walk our dog
Every day like a ritual.

We hold our hands
Tight counting numbers
That once was But now no more.

A child runs past
His eyes focused far away.
He seems to say goodbye.

In the distance a white veil appears
To cover yet another spot.

Tears flow from the eyes
On the slopes of the moors

How easy to forget these lands
Have greeted sorrow
As we hold to the dog.

Robert Namushi

LADY VANESSA

Everything’s ready, the table is laid
The butler is waiting, and so is the maid
The guests are arriving, it’s time to begin
But Lady Vanessa has drunk all the gin.

The footmen are standing with trays of champagne
But Lady Vanessa is at it again
She’s gone to the stables to check on the horse
And taken a bottle of champers, of course.

Cook is now in a terrible state
With everyone hungry, the meal’s running late
This banquet has cost a colossal amount
But Lady Vanessa is out for the count.

Audrey Parry

SUNRISE

I was looking through my window
As the dawn began to break,
The dark of night was fading,
A new day would soon awake.
As the clouds began to lighten,
Faint colours caught my eye,
And for a while my thoughts were drawn
To the magic in the sky.

I saw the morning sunrise,
It was my greatest thrill,
As she rose up in full glory,
From behind a distant hill.
Soft colours as a rainbow,
Swept across the sky,
No artist here could ever paint,
Like the one who resides on high.

Sylvia Quayle

NATURE’S DANCE

The blossoms rise to meet the sun
Like open arms to God
In praise of their own beauty made
They bow and gently nod
In the breeze they dance with mirth
And with the rain they swoon
Before the stars they lay their heads
To sleep beneath the moon

Jim Connell

HEALING STONES

Smooth pebbles found on the seashore
Seemed to possess some healing powers.
Held in hand, calming influence,
Soothing life’s troubles within hours.

Six pebbles, all a rare blue shade,
Seemed to offer a feeling of peace.
The rough seas revealed their treasures,
Helping life’s worries, problems, to cease.

Blue pebbles, true powers unknown
Seemed to radiate life changing force.
Hold them tight, nature’s medicine
Healing anxieties at their source.

Pebble spell casting its net wide
Seemed to embrace future emotions.
Serene thoughts, quiet reflection,
Transcending time and mighty oceans.

Angela Pritchard

O T JOB CARLISLE

Dour O T Job Carlisle:
Scabrous stench of holy kine
Upon the funeral pyre;
Cessation of chocolate fragrance
In the seven foot flood;
Garden of Eden, Bitts Park
In all its glory, sunk;
Beheaded city, castle severed
From city body by a road.

Dour O T Job Carlisle:
Regeneration is in your reiver genes;
Your precincts populated with
Mobile clutching shoppers,
Earning and spending in abundance,
Like all Job’s friends who
Blessed him more than in his beginning.
Though I’m uncertain what we’ll do
With six thousand camels in Carlisle.

Sally Dalglish

FREAK

Freak of nature
I hear you say
In what construct?
In what way?

Is it my lengthy stride?
The way I crumble
The way I hide
Hide away from your judging eyes

Your constant mocking and scathing lies
Your unfounded knowledge
Your rejection of fact
Your cold, hard heart, and your lack of tact.

On what proof,
On what authority
Did you presume my inferiority?

Laura Blunt

SERAPHIC SEALS

Embrace, embrace, oh ye of faith,
Where‘ere your path must lead.
Hand-in-hand through fog and mist,
To the celestial realm you may assist.
Gossamer wings and a heart so light,
Behold the given wondrous sight.
Looking down from the sky above,
Heaven enfolds the earth with love.
An Aeolian harp played so well,
Notes float in the air, a story to tell.
A gentle breeze so fresh and calm,
Acting as a healing balm.

Supreme and wise, Lord of all,
Serene and peaceful words invoke.
Calming thoughts for all to share,
Crystallising in the air.
Stars twinkling in the sky,
Souls hovering trying to fly.

Sylvia Lee

LOVE’S BLOOM

Love’s fury uproars,
Fumes of anger pour out,
Passions of the heart turn to cinders.
Pain of regret jets out,
To brainwash the loving heart,
For missing out on the main,
And giving in to anger.
Soon the loving heart learns,
To spring out the regret,
To summarise in repentance,
Love’s blossom blooms out to stay.

Anantha Rudravajhala

MIXED BLESSINGS

Should the colour of your skin offend me by daylight,
I will urge the dark to blind my eyes,
So that your presence enthralls me by night.
For passion has no eyes and when love is true,
No tongue can interpret the language of contented sighs.
So let us close our eyes and kiss,
In case this fleeting chance of happiness we miss,
And stumble on alone our separate ways,
When in each other we could find rest from weary days.
For if I should turn out the light,
We could not tell who is black and who is white.

Deanne Heron

DEMONS

We live with what is,
Because we have no choices,
In silent resignation we listen to the voices
Echoing in the chambers of our brain,
Again and again and again.

With automated feet
We tread familiar streets,
Face grinning rigid mask
As friendly neighbours ask,
How goes the world with you?

Inside a voice is screaming,
You’re not awake, you’re dreaming,
This nightmare can’t be true,
This isn’t really you,
And how are you? they say,
Oh I am fine today.
But I lie, I lie, I lie.

Frankie Shepherd

THE ENEMY WITHIN

And so today the long battle starts to begin
With the monster crawling beneath my skin
But I refuse to give up, or ever give in
I’m going to war with the enemy within.

Avoid saying the word, they call it the Big C
But why did it choose to pick a fight with me?
Never done drugs, drink, or smoked cigarettes
Though I could have exercised more, I expect

In boxing terms we’re going the full twelve rounds
I’ll keep getting up each time it knocks me down
And I don’t want to hear your talk of dying
Because I won’t get better sitting here crying.

The treatment will start to make my hair go thinner
Soon I’m gonna look like that film star, Yul Brynner
You see I won’t let this tumour defeat my sense of humour
I’m determined to win this battle with the enemy within.

Shaun Dixon

PLEASURES IN LIFE

The rustle of leaves beneath my feet,
Smiles I get from friends as we meet.
Bleating lambs I hear from afar,
The aroma of coffee as I open the jar.
Swans on the river, that swim with such grace,
Gentle breeze that strokes my face.
Children’s laughter from the playground,
Bulbs I’ve set, peeping out from the ground.
White fluffy clouds floating in the sky above,
My family around me fills me with love.
Sparkling frost on a winter’s morn,
The first cry of my children, as they were born.
All of these things are so simple, yet so nice,
They cannot be bought, they have no price.
These pleasures in life that I hear, feel and see,
Cost me no money at, to me they come free.

Pamela Faulkner

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Raise a glass, the stench of New Year is in the air,
Another year of joyful highs?
Another year of despair
Celebrate the New Year, mourn for the future destroyed by the last,
Hateful parties, hateful people, consigning the future away to the past.
Truth behind bars, the bitter resentment is hidden in glass,
Singular loss, tragedian times, suffered by each but scorned by the mass,
God knows, we’re dying, we always do, but some are dying more than most,
Give it up, we’re fading fast, the hope, the future,
Hollow ghost.

Matthew Julian

SPIRITS

When the world stops turning
and all life has no meaning.
Then the dead will start to live once more
with feelings, hope, and senses of awe.
Though the flowers and trees are gone
they won’t care if it’s right or wrong.
The days and nights will come and go
but the rain and wind no longer will blow.
Maybe then we will live in harmony and love
and be as free and peaceful as a dove.
Our lives will be happy and full of gladness
no more fighting, hating, poverty and sadness.

Marian Humber

SOMEONE TO LOVE

Somewhere within me
I do have a heart,
Sometimes it is warm
Yet many worlds apart.

Fate is the hand
That I choose to hold,
One day I will find you
So the fortune teller told.

I saw you so near
Yet always felt the distance,
If I had the courage
I would meet you in an instant.

I have it within me
To show and hold such love,
I’d love to be loved by you
And to have someone to love.

Jayne Humphreys

THE SUN AND MOON

The sun is a flame that keeps burning bright,
It gives us the on-going presence of light.
It glows in the day like a big ball of fire,
And when we are low, it makes us feel higher.

The moon is a diamond that shimmers and glows,
It lights up the path as we follow our nose.
It looks like a coin that fell on the ground,
It gives us great joy, like a friend we have found.

The moon and the sun give a beautiful light,
And when they are out, they make such a sight.
The wonderful thing about these two spheres,
Is that they both act like two happy peers.

They were each made to dance in the sky,
And play hide and seek with the clouds passing by.
The wonderful thing about the moon and the sun,
Is that they were made for all, everyone.

Elena Wilson

THE CHRISTMAS WALTZ

Dance with me in the Christmas waltz
On this lovely Christmas night
Look at the holly on the tree
Every star is shining so bright

Round and round the mistletoe
One little kiss from you
Would make me sweep you off your feet
And dance the whole night through

I’m content to be with you
For I want nothing more
Than to hold you in my arms
Closer than ever before

Come to me in the Christmas waltz
For every beat of my heart
Is telling me you are the one
To always stay in my heart

So come to me and dance with me
To the beautiful Christmas waltz

Ian Proctor

THE KEY OF THE DOOR

I am baby, yet hold the key of the door to my parents’ hearts:
I cry and they come running -
I laugh and they laugh too.
As infant, I reach for the key of the door to learning:
I take my first uncertain steps,
I prattle and am understood.
I am child and grasp the key of the door to education:
I go to school,
Acquire new skills and friends.
I am teenager, turning the key of the door to independence:
I fall in love
And make career plans.
I am adult, wielding the key of the door to destiny:
Married, with children of my own,
I am responsible.
In middle life I see the key of the door was controlled
By far more powerful hands than mine
In this great world.
With age I trust the guardian of the key
To guide and succour all my kin.
I am content.

Sue Brown

THE DAY AFTER

Eerie silence in the sky,
There is no plane now flying high.
It seemed so normal, the day before
Enjoying the morning sunshine on Drakes Island.
When sudden terror invaded the blue sky
And the planes hit the towers so high.
Now travelling on the road American flags everywhere.
Nothing seems the same again.
Journeying on the riverbank a strange calmness in the atmosphere.
The only sound eerie silence in the air.
The islanders gathered on the beach.
Candles were lit and stuck in the sand, and prayers were said.
The flames burned long into the night, hundreds of little lights flickering in the darkness.
They seemed to whisper hope and justice will prevail
The ocean shimmered in the moonlight gently washing waves ashore.
The world had changed and I yearned to go home,
To embrace and hold you tight,
And tell you how much you are loved.

Christine Goode

RAW

Feeling raw, cut to the core
Can’t cry anymore, eyes stinging and sore
Please walk back through the door.

Now you’re gone, don’t want to move on
Can’t go out and have fun, have to hide from the sun.
Why did you go? What have you done?

See me here, alone with fear
Have no-one here, guarding my rear
Loving me or holding me dear.

Left me there, you don’t care
You won’t share, life’s not fair
Leaving me? Don’t you dare.

Feeling raw, cut to the core
Falling to the floor
What’s love for, when you can’t give anymore.

So raw.

Clare Terry

SOFTLY MY LOVE

Softly my love, come to me in the morning,
With dew on the meadow and mist in your hair,
And awaken my dreams with your lips and caresses,
And I will rejoice to know you are there.

Softly my love, come to me in the sunshine,
With an armful of roses and bonnet of blue,
And brighten my day with your silvery laughter,
And I’ll be content as I reach out to you.

Softly my love, come to me in the evening,
In fine woven cloak and jewels that shine,
Bewitching my thoughts with your grace and your beauty,
And I’ll be so proud to know you are mine.

Softly my love, come to me in the night time,
When the earth lies so still, and the moon shines above,
And I will be waiting, my poor heart a yearning,
Come softly, my darling, come softly my love.

Douglas Hale

PENRICE CASTLE

Unbowed upon the tapered tor you firmly stand,
Above the mellow marsh and the beach’s yellow sand.
With crusted crenellations upon the whorled walls intact,
As placid plantlets struggle, with thirst, to raise a bract.

In your prime the grounds echoed with battle cries,
When besieged by warriors with fiery, bloodshot eyes.
Then, frightened charges in their shady stables neighed,
Before bold knights mounted, and their heavy armour weighed.

Today, no clovened chains control a rusty, iron grid,
That once rammed the cobbled entrance whereupon it slid.
Nor do creaky doors plug apertures within the wall,
The only sounds are from jaunty jackdaws as they flee and call.

On the mered marsh the waterfowl still dive to feed,
And herons stand patiently amongst the brindled reed.
Whilst trumpet-tunes are now mimicked by tall, forest trees,
as the baton-branches conduct with each embracing breeze.

Jenkyn Evans

A LAND ALL OF ITS OWN

An enchanting array of diversity
On the land, in the sea and the air
There are creatures we see nowhere else on this earth
In a climate that many can’t bear

Sugar cane grows in abundance
Where the land is luscious and green
Near where the rainforest and reef come together
‘Tis a place I am glad I have been

Further afield lies the outback
A bushland that’s arid and dry
Where the kangaroo survives on the driest of lands
But all amateurs wither and die

The country is made up mostly of desert
A spectacle of red earth and blue sky
The natives know how to make the best of their land
We could learn a lot from them, if only we’d try

Julie Hill

LIFE

From our first breath to our very last, living can be hard and unforgiving.
We find little time to see what is right in front of us
Or to cherish that which is close and precious.
In time the sun breaks through
Its rays warm our souls and feed our hearts
And with the little pleasures in life remembered
We can learn to leave the darkness behind.
Realise that you do make a difference to this life
And rejoice in all that is simple and good.
Happiness is not something to be searched for, for it is there constantly
We just choose not to see it.
Always carry in your heart the love you have and the love you receive
Believe in yourself and those you hold dearest,
We alone are responsible for the one life we are given So grab hold with both hands
And make the choice to be alive and not just to live.

Susan Feeney

CHILDHOOD

There are secrets of creation locked in childhood,
Dawn of thinking
Power of will.
Soft, lovely skin
And shy illuminated glance.
Flat refusal,
Eager help.
Self, warmth, demands
And tantrums of frustrated mind.
The mysteries of growth and why
The limbs should lengthen so,
Not how.
Curiosity expanding
Like circles from a pebble in a pool.
Taking, giving, total laughter.
Total sleep.
Childhood,
A universe of knowledge,
But no more than a beginning.

Cynthia Ridger

SWEET EVERYTHINGS

I didn’t know how to care
Before I met you
I didn’t know just how to care
When I met you
I didn’t know what to say or do
Now I know
Just what it feels like
To love you.

Alison White

THE HAIR TONGS

Tricia was a silly little girl
She had straight hair, it wouldn’t curl
Rollers, hair pins, all were tried
But nothing worked and Tricia cried

Just one time she’d like it curly
So this morning rising early
She crept into her nanna’s room
And spied the hair tongs in the gloom

Grabbing them she ran downstairs
Oh these will give me curly hairs
She lit the gas, put on the tongs
And watched the flames lick round the prongs

The time had come the tongs were hot
She didn’t test them, she forgot
She plunged the tongs into her hair
With true abandonment of care

A plume of smoke rose in the air
And oh the heat was hard to bear
Ugh, the smell, it began to sizzle
And now she has appalling frizzle

Trish Littlefair

SOUL MATES

They brought fun to the lifeless
churchyard, wet grey slabs
winter trees trickling mist.

Encouraged ageless spirits,
boisterous boys, scraped
knees, sleepy socks,

leap-frogged over stone remains,
leapt from grave to grave,
left footprints in the leaf mould,
feet flying over chiselled names.

Sally Gardner

FIFTY-SOMETHING

Now I’m fifty-something
Wisdom has come to me
Along with a saggy bum
And the promise of HRT

What good is this wisdom?
If my memory can’t retain
Any of the information
Stored inside my brain

Now I wear glasses
I hide behind them a lot
So you will never be able to tell
When I have lost the plot

Being fifty-something
May be all well and good
If you are able to remember
All the things you should

Is wisdom the price you pay
For being long in the tooth?
If so, call me stupid and
Just give me back my youth

Christine Swann

MY FRIENDSHIP

Show me kindness,
I’ll be your friend.
And my loyalty,
It will never bend.

I’ll stand with you
And face your dangers.
Then we’ll dismiss them as
Unwanted strangers.

Hand in hand, we’ll keep at bay
All our common foes.
From this strength, where it leads,
It’s only God who knows.

To a lasting friendship,
Forever, beyond this existence.
Always in each other’s thoughts,
Withstanding all outside resistance.

A bond that grows so strong,
It will never be broken.
Despite the fact so many of our feelings
Are destined to stay unspoken.

Brian Gandy

Born in London, Brian Gandy has interests including boxing, football, golf and casinos. “I started writing poetry about seven years ago. At first I started by chance but then I realised how calming and therapeutic its effect was,” he explained. “I would describe my style as thought-provoking, amusing and lifting and I would like to be remembered as someone who gave everything his best shot.” Brian is a builder. He is married to Linda and they have one son, Joseph.

YOUNG AT HEART

Don't put me in with them
I don’t want to go.
I’m not like them you see
I’m not old and grey and senile
Happy watching tv and sipping tea
Don’t call me love or dear
Or shout in my ear
I’m not deaf or stupid you know
I’m not interested in a seaside show
There are better places I want to go
Don’t say I’m an OAP
I don’t like that you see
I’m not happy to sit and sew
Play bingo, cards and all
I’m not like that you know
Don’t call me an oldie, wrinkly
Or even Gran
It’s not polite you know
I want to show you what I can do
The things I was once able to

Gill Jones

MISSING YOU

I held your hand before you died
When I said farewell, I never cried
But now in the quiet I wait for your
Phone
But I know in my heart you’re not at
Home
I’ve lost my friend, my comfort and my
Resolve
I’m lost without you, no more to hold
Now you’ve gone, nowhere to run
I miss you
So much
My friend
My Mum

Jeffery Walland

CHELSEA FLOWER SHOW

Welcome to
The wilderness
The Chelsea
Flower show
Beauty on display
That who would
Ever know
The charm of
The colour
To greet
Twisting in their dance
So sky high
Maybe the mystery
Of nature’s love
Gives us the belief
Of heaven above.

Denys Shinn

Denys Shinn said: “I completed an apprenticeship to become an electrical engineer and also played top amateur soccer as a young man. I attended many dancing events and in the sixties I took a significant interest in the lyrics of Bob Dylan songs. It was this interest that influenced me to start writing lyrics using his style. Now 64, I started writing poetry in my mid-forties and got my first poem published in 1990. I had two more published by United Press in 2004, which, including this latest poem, is four published from a total of five submitted.”

VOYAGE

It has a taste of salt
Feels like a curve inside a wave
Before it breaks
Green sunlight shimmering

It is a starlit sky
High winds, a compass and a wheel
A lonely watch, a meal in haste
And sleeping mates below

Every loose item stowed away
Secured Life west and harness
In a roaring gale
The main task is to keep the course

Ing-Marie Eriksson-Osterlund

BIRTHDAY HAPPY

I’ll just make it snappy,
Wish you a Birthday Happy.
No tears now ‘cause you’re seventy two,
I’ve left seventy one behind, too.
You may be a little fragile,
But by golly, you’re still agile.
The old legs are not as zingy,
The bike’s rusty bell is not as ringy,
But you bravely sit astride
And go for at least a half mile ride.
Don’t go getting serious,
Stay kittenish and mysterious.
Many birthdays happy are in store,
Hope each is better than the one before.
Can’t say more!

Sylvia Moulds

Dedicated to dear Trish Prince.

Born in Kent, Sylvia Moulds has interests including needlework, art and knitting. “I started writing in the early 80’s as I realised that in the future I would not be able to move much and decided to leave myself behind in words,” she explained. “My work is influenced by my wry humour and brave suffering of people and I would describe my style as unusual.” Aged 77, Sylvia has written stories and has more to complete. “My biggest fantasy is to be beautifully dressed, in no pain and dancing and singing on television,” added Sylvia.

BIRDSONG

When there seems no spreading space,
Cram-crushed heart and those red roses
Failing, ailing, creeping things,
Crumble, tumble down and flake,
Lie quietly, gently breathing.
Watch no glistening star nor flame,
Hold that one sound crystal clear,
And hear of it no dissonant name.

Then the crystal glitters bright,
Heart, no heat, now sudden glows
Mind awake and fruitful fields
Show the precious gold of earth.
Hear the songs then in the trees,
Mingle jet with green of jade.
Freedom flights of fluttering wings,
Transparent in the sun, cascade.

Adrienne Mace

THINKING OF YOU

Each time I pass the old fighter base, I feel so sad inside,
My thoughts race back to the war-torn years
And the tragic way you died.
Many died upon the ground, even more fell from the sky,
But for your nerve and fortitude, I too would have surely died.
Sometimes I stand in this British field,
Thinking of secrets it could yield,
From around the world they came to us,
To fight day and night without a fuss.
Is that the sound of a hurricane I hear,
With a spitfire at its side?
No, it’s neither of these, it’s just the wind,
Playing with my mind.
I look around in this new age,
At youngsters in their prime,
You were once as they are now,
But died before your time.
Time is a great healer they do say,
But that’s not entirely true,
Not one day passes by, that I fail to think of you.

John Israel

DO YOU HAVE A HEAD FOR OSMOSIS?

I have an angel, here in my mind,
Do I see her, or am I blind?
For all she does to care for me,
To prompt my thoughts infinitely,
Paths may turn but I’m guided well,
Keep aloft for the truth to tell
To those around who will always doubt,
What quality life is all about,
A free man’s world, simplicity,
Shared love, shared grief and liberty.
The chance to pause and look within,
The choice of truth or easy sin,
To take and make afresh and new
My angel helps me to think it through
And while I rest, I feel I’m blessed
To release my thoughts into text,
Then clear my mind and surely find
What her big picture will show next.

Bob Martin

THE ROAD TO WISDOM PIE

We simply dwelt in a landscape
Before realising some of it was stone.
We were living in the stone age
But found some of it was flint.
We were ever so primitive
But we stumbled on making fire, ores, and the wheel.

This went on for a long time
Step by step, stage by stage.
We threw away petrol as a by-product
When refining oil.
But then our innocence again left us
For the umpteenth time.

And as I sift through human traffic
In a subway, street or tube
I see undiscovered treasure
In the figures passing by.
And I wonder where we really are
On the road to wisdom pie.

Richard Comaish

Born in Liverpool, Richard Comaish has hobbies including astrology and spelling reform. He is 46 and has written over 60 poems, but this is the first one in print. “I would describe my style as one of my tools of self-expression and would like to be remembered as someone who was very much alive in all my attitudes to existence,” he remarked.

GREY MATTER, MATTERS

The volcano erupts within, spilling my thoughts
and my imagination. My slender limb at the end
of my arm reaches for a writing tool. Words
after words are set side by side; I have to get it
all down or it will be lost for eternity.

My fingers are stretched over the twenty-six
letters, waiting for the instructions from the
waves of thought to push me on. The
appropriate keys are touched, but errors are
sometimes made, which are underlined to be
rectified later.

The lint sparks, igniting into a flame, later
erupting as a volcano. Ejected lava spills
mixed with anything in its way. It grows larger
by the second, embracing everything in its
pathway.

Suzette Lindsay

LETTER FROM THE RETIREMENT HOME

You write to me of battling to the post
Through vicious January wind and sleet,
Face stinging, cap pulled down, your collar soaked,
And how you’d thought if only you were bent
Beneath a bale of hay, were stumbling through
A rutted field to feed the winter beasts,
You’d be a happy man.

Nicola Mason

THE PASSING

So many times you come to me in dreams,
On waves of emotion too deep to express.
The thoughts of you,
In a twilight world,
With a silver sun
And all the colours of the spectrum.
Happy or sad,
I’m not sure,
The thin security blanket that warms me
For that brief time is pulled away
And here I lay in the harsh morning light,
The smell of you still on your cold pillow.

Debbie Clewer

Born in London, Debbie Clewer has interests including writing and reading. “I started writing poetry at the age of nine and found that the words just came to me,” she commented. “I would describe my style as varied and I would like to be remembered as a happy-go-lucky person.” Aged 41, Debbie works as a hair stylist and has an ambition to become a full-time writer of books and poetry. She is married to Chris and has two children. “My worst nightmare is to lose all the people I love,” added Debbie.

THE EMPEROR PENGUINS OF ANTARCTICA

Lonely white tracks of Antarctica.
Sea for miles frozen over.
Icebergs tower in a sunset sky.
Temperatures drop sixty below,
Winds moan gusting powdery snow,
In the polar winter twilight.

Dark shapes are moving in the darkening white.
Thousands of penguins walking upright,
In single file, migrating inland
To the safety of their breeding ground.
Waddling regally, some scooting on their bellies,
At stake, the survival of their species.

When they reach their breeding ground of old,
In their black and white and orangey gold.
The Emperors crowd in a colony,
Their sea bird cries a cacophony,
Above the blizzards and howling winds.
And their courtship ritual begins.

Rachel Smith

FLOWER

There’s nothing quite like an audience of flowers,
You can sit and admire for hours.

A flower starts its life in the ground,
Its prime nourishment is the soil that surrounds.
To feed the roots that make them grow,
So they can stand proud in a flower show.

They must have sun, water and light
To keep the flower looking bright.

The preparation is long and slow
The time it takes the flower to grow.
Then there is the devastation of a storm.
From the soil a new flower is born.

Once that flower is standing there,
Then comes the importance of tender loving care.
So they can withstand the rain, sleet and snow,
We must encourage them to strengthen and grow.

From germination through to pollination
The process of life begins.
With constant care and determination
You reap the joy they bring.

Robert Still

ON AGEING

Although I’m only twenty-nine
Months older than Her Majesty,
Her age now seems far less than mine:
I fear it’s all a travesty
To think I’ll ever walk again:
I’ve lost that dear ability -
But pray she may, while long to reign,
Retain her great agility.

When backwards from the Cenotaph
Down steps she moves unaided,
I silently admire - but laugh
When I relive my faded,
Old memories of school days when
Across the horse I vaulted!
How different my life was then,
Before it all was halted!

My foot and leg were broken:
and A wheelchair now I’m hoping
To have - and, though I may not stand,
I’ll write! and not be moping.

Cordelia de Grey

Dedicated to my dear son, Aubrey. As I have said in my poem, ‘Aubrey’s Beard,’ no son is more attentive.

Born in Surrey in 1924, Cordelia de Grey has been a vegan since 1990 and has lived in London, mainly in Chelsea, since she was nineteen. After the Admiralty and art school she taught architectural drawing and perspectives and visited over 30 countries. A keen photographer and gardener, she discovered a shrub rose, named Cordelia de Grey after trials and is writing a book about that and many others. She has written ten songs, words and tunes, for a musical and would like to be remembered by that, her poems, her stained glass window, her books, her paintings and her famous son, Aubrey.

FROM TAKING TO GIVING

It’s all give and take said the husband to the wife.
It’s always give and take, it’s all part of daily life.
But, stop, let’s look afresh at this give and take.
Could it possibly be part of a terrible mistake?
Giving is a positive virtue, we all have from birth
Whereas taking away is subtraction, which reduces the worth.
So giving without taking would greatly benefit the whole
As giving without taking is a natural action of the soul.
Let’s give ourselves time, let’s give others respect,
Let’s give expecting no return, just giving, what a prospect.

Now is the time to be real with no faking
Now is the time to permanently give up taking
Now is the time to develop better living
Now is the time for us all to take up giving.

John Webber

John Webber said: “I started writing poetry when I retired, motivated by a change in lifestyle. This followed my joining the university where I learned Roj Yoga meditation. The university brings together people of all cultural, religious and ethnic backgrounds and assists self-change. I find the inspiration and loving support of Baba and all the B K family invaluable.”

INSOMNIA

A blanket of blackness surrounds me,
Moths flitter from light to light,
I enjoy the coolness of evening
as I look at the dark summer night.

Nobody knows I am watching
Yet I hear some human sounds,
Maybe it’s wishful thinking
As I hide in my hole in the ground.

Most sensible people are sleeping,
Some may be lost in a book,
Yet here I am longing to meet them
Or maybe just take a look.

To be part of a world still living,
To know that there’s somebody there
These are my hopes and desires
And a longing to talk and share.

Elizabeth McDermott

FIELD OF MIRACLES

I dreamt a field of miracles,
With flowers of pale blue,
A cool night air teased through my hair,
Like fingers of someone I knew.

I dreamt a field of miracles,
A quiet and restful place,
The sun in the sky, rode on high
Like the smile on someone’s face.

I dreamt a field of miracles,
With a stream that runs right through
A babbling brook where the moonbeams look
Like the eyes of a person so true.

I dreamt a field of miracles,
Then woke from a restful doze,
As I stirred, I heard the words
That the field of miracles was you.

Sara Hourigan

Dedicated to Cora Olive Hourigan, our beautiful mum and nana. Very much loved, very much missed. 22nd September 1941 - 22nd June 2007.

DARKNESS AND LIGHT

She feels my pain
Embedded inside, I see how much this affects our lives,
I have no more to keep me going
But she does, she’s strong, holds on
Always knowing.

My darkest days, my deepest fears
I see her face and how it tears,
She has hope when I have none
Always believing that something can be done.

My mother, my friend, my hope and my light,
Who clung to me in the death of the night,
Never letting me go, never giving in,
To save my soul from a mortal sin.

She was there for me
When I thought there was none,
Mother, I thank you
Forever your son.

Yvonne Gardner

VILLAGE, MY BELOVED

Trees danced in the dangling breeze,
Birds chanted on the branch of trees,
Flowers smiled at the mid of day,
Horses screeched when they were fed.
This was my village.

Sun blushed when looking at it,
Moon fainted when leaving it,
Stars felt shy when heaving it,
My village smiled, pitying them.

In the summers, when the crops yielded,
My village rind,
During the winters, when it nurtured again,
Its happiness restored and it roared again.
Indeed, this was my village.

Mud-baked walls of tub shaped houses,
Waterless remains of once flooded wells,
Infertile remains of once lush village.
Yes, this is my village.

Naman Kumar

THE DIVIDE

Emigration is a right.
No belief in daughter’s duty,
Struggled hard for small successes,
Large environmental gains,
Met like souls and counted blessings,
Never thought to reverse choice.

Thirty years on, half an adult life or more,
Twelve thousand miles a fair divide.
No request, but in distress,
Two parents ageing, one ailing,
The other in need of respite.

Over here a paler sky,
Narrowed circle, love life left.
Living in the house of others,
Whistling to a different tune.
Not the land of life’s endeavours,
But responding to an inner call.
Freedom of choice, still, above all.

Margaret Dipple

SOWING SEED

Been a fool sowing seed when drought is all the feed,
This daytime nocturnal habit reaps no reward,
Fat of depth gradually singed till sinews visibly strain,
This is a harvest in a bad year when cash registers sing With cagey caution
The earth is parched and raindrops fall five-hundred miles From here,

Wasting time sowing seed,
The hot Sirocco could well be here to gather and suck up
The lot
This tainted vegetation just about sums up the rot,
Mental cycles come and go and between these ears
An Arctic summer storm swirls full of fear,
It brews with self-indulgence, then taboo
Calm and cold as ice,
A billion light years away it seems, a million others
Sowing seed,
It should be comic but who laughs when the
Million others seem so cosmic.

Steven E Hibbs

Born in Windlesham, Steven E Hibbs has interests including music, gardening, nature and writing lyrics and poems. “I started writing verses in 1981. I was growing up and experiencing love, life, heartache and joy. I have a huge capacity for love but have rarely been successful in it,” he explained. “ I would describe my style as mostly free verse which is deep and complex and I would like to be remembered as a man who expressed deep love.” Aged 45, Steven works as a quality control supervisor.

UNLOVED CHILD

Please don’t smack me if I do something wrong,
Please don’t shout when I sing my little song.
Please don’t hurt me, I will make my bed,
I am sorry I cried, please don’t lock me in the shed.
I don’t like spiders and I hate the dark,
Please let’s make friends, maybe go to the park.
I will go to my room and I won’t make a sound,
I will sit on my bed and stare at the ground.
I will fall asleep without a kiss or a hug,
Oh, how I wish I had my parents’ love.

Karen Watson

SCUM?

Through the dank mist a ray of sun shines on the East End slum,
Out from the verminous hovels come the workshy, ignorant, feckless scum.
They’ve no finer feelings like us is the cry
Of the rich folk in carriages rolling by.
Life is hard for widows and orphans, they say. The winter winds blow chill,
But beggars can’t be choosers, and the workhouse is open still.
Then the rattle of the drums, and the cannons roar,
Changes the tune, Great Britain’s at war.
It’s Come on brave lads, show you’re willing,
Earn glory and honour, just take the Queen’s shilling.
Then the toffs and scum that answered the call,
Find they’re no different after all.
Forward as comrades, they face up to death,
And comfort each other with dying breath.
Then the carrion birds neither care nor know,
Whether the flesh that they feast on was born high or low.

Jeanette Voller

Born in London, Jeanette Voller has interests including reading, writing, belly dancing, t’ai chi, reiki and choral singing. “I have written plays for Victory Land Children’s Company as well as many poems but none have been published before,” she pointed out. “My friends say I’m an eccentric and my ambition is be mysterious and enigmatic instead of a nervous chatterbox.” Aged 70, Jeanette is a widow with two children. “The person I would most like to meet is Eve to tell her to stuff that apple straight down that snake’s throat,” joked Jeanette.

JESUS’S FEARFUL TEAR

Across the firmament so vast and wide,
The stars sparkle, twinkle, distant and bright,
On this, a very special velvet night,
A magic cosmic light, to gently guide
Rays of love, to introduce Christmastide,
Towards a babe of wondrous sight,
With Mary watching, with heavenly pride.

Our little speck of dust in boundless space,
This earth now bore a life so precious, dear,
Away in the manger’s warm embrace,
A birth for hope and end to mortal fear,
And peace to permeate the world with grace,
Yet on his cheek there dwells a soft sad tear.

Iolo Lewis

A LATHER OF SOAPS

I have this obsessive compulsion to say,
You were not where I thought I would find you today.
In your daily routine, is there some strange quirk
? I really believed you would be where you work.
With statements and questions his ears she will bash,
As he gloomily munches his bangers and mash.
What’s going on? We’ll have to talk,
What’s gone wrong? Let’s go for a walk.
In the sad little garden we’ll meet,
To sit, sigh and cry on its sad little seat.
She was a tease, dangled you on a string.
We thought it was bad when she went with your dad,
But that was a mistake, it’s you who she loves:
It didn’t mean a thing.
You must be going through absolute hell.
I know how you feel.
Your experience with mine runs in parallel,
While my worldly-wisdom impels me to say,
I’m sure you will find things will work out okay.

Geoffrey Martin

A TRUE MOTHER

A true mother is always here for you
No matter what happens she will see you through
Unselfish and caring to the very end
She will always do her utmost for her children to defend
Whatever happens in life she will try to do her best
For what is right, though she is often put to the test
When her family is grown up she still worries for them
Even when they are, in her eyes, fully grown men.

They say you only get one mother, that is very true
That is why I’m grateful that I had you
Your life was so hard, we’ve shed many tears
For I remember many things that happened over the years
How your ring was in hock more times than we can recall
Also how hard you worked to keep us all
Now that Mother’s Day is here yet again
All my memories of the distant past still remain.

Enid Skelton

MOUNTAIN GORILLA

Where were you when I was ill?
I hugged you long and I called you Bill.
Through the night you gave me rest.
Comforting me on your silky chest.
I owe you lots, if not more.
You held my heart,
On your tender paws.
Who are you?
My long-lost love?
No - my stuffed toy gorilla,
Giving unconditional love.

Jean Beames

A CARGO OF MEMORIES

Have you been to faraway places,
Do you know of a Paradise Isle?
Have you travelled to view the Grand Canyon
Or watch icy glaciers slide?

Have you sailed past the Rock of Gibraltar?
Or been to the Caspian Sea?
Have you toured all the way to Tobago
Or seen the wild life at Tuli?

Have you felt the dry heat of the desert?
Or sensed the romance of the Nile?
Have you trekked in the Blue Ridge Mountains
On the Appalachian Trail?

Did your journey unfold like the pages
Of a bright coloured magazine?
Were scents and sensations unlocked in a trice,
By connection, or just by a dream?

Was bewilderment your true companion
Or did you feel daring and free?
Does your mind roam in flights of fancy
With a cargo of memory?

Kay Ennals

Dedicated to my husband, Maurice Ennals - father of local radio - my parents, my children Patrick, David and Rosalyn and grandchildren.

MY COUNTRY

Staying green to protect the planet.

This green and pleasant land
Cradled in sand, foam-frilled by greening sea,
Whilst on cragged shore, wise parliamentary law,
The core of life in this free land
Makes history with monarchy
To shape prosperity.
Here, whispering leaves form greening bowers,
And furrowed fields, rainbowed with flowers
Hide nest of freckled lark
As he, rising high, musics the sky.
They say that heaven is in the sky.
I wonder why, when this fair spot,
So close at hand,
Is surely angel land.

Dorothy Walters

THE JOURNEY

The journey started some years ago,
Paths have been trodden and seas crossed,
Surroundings changed or rearranged,
Emotions experienced and left their marks,
Goals met, altered or adapted,
Decisions at crossroads made,
Mistakes overcome and priorities changed.

Just going with the flow of traffic,
Sometimes taking side tracks and pathways,
Sometimes with no real destination in mind,
Maps and guidebooks, but only of what could be,
Not what will be or how much further to go.

Breakdowns along the way,
Hold ups or just running out of fuel,
This journey can take it out of you at times,
Rests along the way are needed,
Time for check-ups and MOTs of body and mind,
Some U-turns allowed, but never going back,
Going on with whatever speed limit at the time,
The journey will take as long as it will take.

Chris Callow

Chris Callow said: “Having lived a varied life of travelling and starting up ventures my mind becomes full of whys and what ifs. It was early 2000 during one of these new ventures that I lost close friends and family through incidents and illness when I felt the urge to write to express my thoughts writing my book The Journey. This was partly to clarify the thoughts to myself and also to share them with others with similar experiences, the ups, downs and choices in life.”

END OF DAY

Like silver thread on water lies the moon’s reflection from the sky
And far above like tiny lights shine twinkling stars, so clear, so bright.
As all around in darkness lay the world at peace, at end of day.
So tranquil now that day is done, a time to rest now night has come.

The bustle of the early hours are lost, as space above me towers.
Great vastness of the universe surrounds me now,
on planet earth.
On riverbank I stroll content, in knowledge of my day I spent
With those I love: my kin, my friends, a lovely thought as my day ends.

Gloria Courts

Judy Edwards

Judy Edwards said: “I have been writing poetry since my teens. In 2007 United Press published two of my poems. My poetic aim is to capture all the senses and paint a word picture. My love of creation, Christian faith and desire to share my experiences provide my subject matter. Pete, my partner and I enjoy holidaying abroad and National Trusting, photography and painting. I hope to publish my illustrated anthology sharing more creative moments.”

DAWNING OF A NEW DAY

I lie awake in the early morn,
Watching the break of dawn.
Hearing the birds singing their song,
The chattering and chirping
That lasts all day long.

Slowly as the sun begins to rise,
An orange hue fills the skies.
Like a beacon shining bright,
Leading us to another day.

The creation of another day,
Wondrous and new.
So many things we have to do.
The creature start to crawl about,
Flowers bowing their heads.
Yes it easily can be said,
Another glorious day ahead.

Tina J Sylvester

WHEN THE WILLOW WALKS, SHE TALKS

Every now and then, the willow splinters
and falls, and then she grows back up again.
She’s by the river and she’s by the stream,
she’s in the all and every dream.
She’s the medicine for many a sore head,
or a rooting compound instead,
she can even come back from the dead.
Someone said they once saw her walk,
and even whisper and then talk
to the river, the downs, the chalks
and the walks
And hears the moans and the groans
from the circles and the stones.
First there’s a glimmer and a little light,
then full sunrise, an awesome sight.
Bright is the day, white is the light,
red is the sunset and dark is the night,
except for the silver reflective moonlight.
The sound of a fox, a howl in the night
and a sight in the heavens of sparkling starlight.

Stephen Lynch

Born in Felixstowe, Stephen Lynch has interests including writing. “I started penning verses 20 years ago, inspired by the Wiltshire countryside and its beauty,” he commented. “My work is influenced mostly by theology and mysticism.” Aged 53, Stephen works as a driver and has an ambition to be recognised as a poet and writer. He is divorced, with children Faye and Paul. “I have written short stories and many poems and the people I would most like to meet are the Royal Family,” added Stephen.

RUBY

Ruby fumbled to open the wardrobe door
Cursing her arthritic fingers once more
Her pale blue eyes moistened
At the vision in store
Glitz and glamour plus sparkle galore
She wiped away tears
With the back of her hand
Remembering soft music and dancing
Laughter and a band
No longer, alas, the belle of the ball
With handsome pursuers by the score
She sat on her bed
Feeling lonely and blue
Her life was now memories
Nothing exciting or new
Her thoughts were interrupted
By Jimmy the cat
Who jumped up contentedly on her lap
His eyes said ‘I love you’
She felt him purr
And life became worth living
For him and for her

Joan Kernick

TEENAGERS

As spotty as a currant bun
As cocky as criminals on the run
The next best thing to sliced bread
As lazy as a comfy bed.
As cheeky as a load of chimps
As naughty as a million imps
As bold as brass, as good as gold
A story waiting to be told.
As sulky as the day is long
Always right and never wrong
As enigmatic as the Mona Lisa
And out of the ordinary
Just like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Lorraine Wood

A POEM TO WRITE

I search for ideas for a poem to write
But why do they always come in the night?
When I’m feeling tired and needing to sleep
Into my mind they always creep
Different subjects on this and that
From trees to people and even a cat
Where to begin - it’s not easy to start
Do I think with my head or think with my heart?
I put pen to paper and off I go
Many hours later not much to show
At last I’ve finished but it’s not looking good
Shall I start again? I think I should
Writing a poem is really trying
The brain’s gone dead and I’m just left sighing
Time to switch off, put the pens away
Curl up with a book and call it a day
I know my poems won’t be the best
So I’ll leave that to Wordsworth and all the rest

Yvonne Williams

MISSING YOU

Like the dregs of lukewarm tea
Sloshing about the tiny teacup of their dreary lives,
Their needs spill over into the saucer of our existence.

The grey blanket of caring for ageing parents
Slowly wafts down and lies easily once again
On our capable shoulders.

The thin white mist of responsibility
Is absorbed into our lungs,
Leaving a slight deposit,
Making breathing that little more difficult.

It’s the quiet desperation of learned helplessness I hate,
The selfish childlike grasping for attention
Grabbing at our coat tails,
Washing our energy down the drain of dependency.

Sometimes in the dark recesses of my soul
I ponder witches’ potions,
A spell to resolve the roundabout
That pushes and pulls my partner away.

Away from me, off into the functional world
Of duty, obligation,
Caring for others and not for me.

Elanora Ferry

Dedicated to Rob, my life partner for whom the poem was written during a difficult period in our lives.

Elanora Ferry said: “I live with my partner Rob and we have one son called Ashley who lives in London. I work as an independent creative arts practitioner, specialising in personal storytelling using drama and creative writing techniques. To date I have had two writing residencies and I have facilitated creative writing workshops for carers and worked with healthcare professionals in a hospice on using creative writing as reflective practice.”

MOVING SHOWERS

Dancing, dodging, swirling around,
Large white dots amass the view,
Yellow crocuses bunched and huddling,
Radiate warmth to the whiteness hue,
Then flakes diminish as showers finish.
Clouds lift as sky turns blue.
The cycle repeats all over again,
Raising more emotion than just mere rain,
Sun beams down as pigeons peck,
First daffodils stand tall,
Palm leaves shudder like nature’s rudder
As spring makes her gentle call.

Carol Franks

LILAC

Lilac in bloom
Fragrant white and blue
Disperses winter gloom
Reminds me of you

Sun shining through the leaves
Your eyes sparkling green
The world of make believe
Our love that had been

Warm days gone by
When under the blossom of lilac tree
We made love, laughed and cried
And you said you loved me

That lilac now stands alone
Each year it blossoms again
But our love had long gone
Lilac blossoms in vain

Lela Novak

© Terry Thornton - 2006-2008 United Press Ltd