When a poet picks up a pen to compose a new work this task can be compared to a bird taking flight. The poet spreads his or her wings and sets off on a new journey - always into unchartered territory. Because each poem is so new, fresh and individual,it really is a flight into the unknown. The poet puts words together in a totally unique and individual way to express thoughts and feelings. This need to express is deep with all of us. Each one of us is a poet but as the old saying goes, many of us don’t know it. A talent for poetry can be in all of us but the skill of expressing ourselves is something that each of us can develop.

I firmly believe that a beginner can produce a brilliant piece of work - just through natural ability. But more often that not this is the exception rather than the rule. Great poetry usually comes from long contemplation and from the pen of poets who are very experienced at writing.

Within these pages you will find a very wide variety of work. Each poet has gone on his or her Flight of Fancy and arrived at a poetic destination by putting their words onto paper. We are delighted to bring the results to you in book form.

Lynda Brennan, Editor

ENGLAND NOW

Even God tires
Of this tedious land
And secretly aspires
To sun and sand.
In this place Of complacency
There’s HIS vacancy.
The advert ran,
Must be an Englishman.
(“Canny thing,
They’ll put up with
Anything.”)

Walter A Beckley, Slough, Berkshire

Dedicated to dearest Shepard Tambandini, may he grow up to be a seeker of wisdom and truth.

Walter A Beckley said:" “I have been writing poetry and prose since childhood and I am a keen observer of humanity. I have won a prize for best technical paper, had two poems broadcast and others published. My expertise as a diecasting specialist enabled me to live in many countries. Whilst in South Africa I was one of ten poets invited to read their works under the auspices of US Information Services. A book of lighter prose and poetry will be published in 2007.”” "

THE MIDGE

The curse of Scotland bares its fangs to bite
as nation stands in awe of plague so cruel,
to rid the country of this murderous blight
would be to find a prize that is the grail.

David Connelly, Edinburgh, Scotland

MURDER IN THE LUNCH BOX

As I carefully lifted
Them out of the small blue box,
Ready to put them
Into the fridge;

Aaaahhh, they’re bleeding,
Said the boss, your sandwiches
Have been murdered!
RED, BLOOD, MURDER?

I put them away
To keep them cool.
Smile at my boss
And say, BEETROOT.

Gillian Ewing, Magherafelt, Northern Ireland

REAP WHAT YOU SOW

Life isn’t always as simple as ABC
Hairpin bends to encounter with requisite philosophy
Childhood days appear simple and pure It’s not all materialistic haute couture

Tales of our history with an element of mystery
A carefully weaved mesh of protection
An encrusted golden cape of refinery
Lies, or loving affection?

Expand your horizons, excerpt, execute, explore
Motivation a certain flair?
Discovery for the taking, for those who dare

Healthy aspirations, pessimists say chasing dreams
Trust your instincts, it’s easier than it seems
Optimistic hopes, a dazzling array
There for the taking, perpetual or ebbing away?
Master or servant? You write the play

Abbey Pennington, Wrexham, Wales

Abbey Pennington said:" In my spare time I listen to rock music, play the violin, piano and mandolin. I frequently go to concerts and enjoy performing. My wildest dream is to become extremely rich and explore the world and beyond. I have three siblings Armani, Layla and Lena-Zaharah. I wrote this poem out of frustration of the world’s setbacks.” "

TO DAD

Heaven may hold you
But so does my heart
So sad to lose you
So sad to part
We knew each other
Like hand in glove
No need for words
Just silent love
I’ll miss you dad
But memories won’t fade
You were top of the league
When dads were made

Lynn Cross, Conwy, Wales

TRUST IN YOU I DON’T THINK SO

Here I sit alone, thinking what I should have known
He would say “Stop the talking or I will kick you down”
Bang, wallop and bruised
I fall down and touch the ground
I won’t make a sound in the darkness all around

Children hurt and little ones crying, many secrets to be told
The silence of a winter’s night, remembering a blue moonlight

I close my window to the night
And hear the lonesome sound of the sky as it cries

Starting over again, where do I begin?
What will the neighbours think?
Today our dirty washing lies in the newspaper
Tomorrow fish and chips paper!

Liz Reville, Brecon, Wales

THE NATURE OF HAPPINESS

Sunny red,
Golden hue,
Open skies,
Baby blue.

Simply me,
And always you,
Green hills,
Honey dew.

Winding trails,
Waters cool,
Willowy veils,
Mountain view.

Hazy warm,
Sun struck lawn,
Lazy days,
Ignorant ways.

Gemma McHenry, Garstang, Lancashire

WHEN THERE IS STILLNESS

When there is stillness
A quiet like no wind blows
Then the brine washes the sands
There others will lie
Filling shells with sands
Sodden with brine
Till tide
When souls are carried
Dry beyond malignant salts

Iziegbe Idemudia, Openshaw, Greater Manchester

MICE TRAVELLING

Check the coast is clear,
Then take a little peek.
Stay out of sight.
Like playing hide-and-seek.

Scurry, scurry round,
Then scamper very fast,
Going up the chair,
So you can get past.

Then hurry to the table,
And stay out of the light.
Crawl behind the settee,
So you are out of sight.

Slither to the stool,
Seeming to crawl on your knees.
Pounce to the mousetrap,
Then catch the cheese.

Meah Brooks-Lee, West Kirby, Cheshire

SUMMER

Take a deep breath,
Feel the light of it in your mind.
Summer sliding across your skin.
See it poised on a petal,
Lying on a leaf,
A scent fluttering.
Take it as silk into your sleep.
It will whisper its secrets
Along your dreams.

Val Robinson, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Tyne and Wear

THE EDGE OF ETERNITY

Marching steadfastly
Through the mists of time
Rank upon rank of the fallen
Shadow shrouded and weary
Hungry for peace
Thirsty for our prayers
From verdant valleys and heather clad hills they came
Exchanging beauty
For blood soaked earth
On the edge of eternity
Forget them not
They gave us the future

Christine Rayner, Hexham, Northumberland

A PUFF FOR THE TRAIN SPOTTER

Anoraked at the end of the platform
I watch the steam loco go by
While I tackle a vague plastic sandwich
And a cost-ineffective pork pie

And I pity the chattering classes
Who deride me for wasting my time
When I’m lost among mystical gasses
And sweet love songs that clank down the line

John Killeen, Ingleton, North Yorkshire

YOU’RE ALL I NEED

You’re all I need, your presence is a must,
Through troubled waters, a safeguard whom I trust,
Whatever is to happen, for the help I will need,
My faith is in you Lord, with your grace to succeed.

Make me humble Lord more, helping poor and disabled,
Create servant to obey, not anger when he’s labelled,
Please forgive of my failings, restore my good health,
To be cured is good tidings, more value than is wealth.

Cleanse my spirit Lord within, remove sin from my heart,
Rekindle the inner flame, whilst purifying each part,
Bless this body with your presence, gifting me of your grace,
May yours be the glory, in my body take your place.

Praise you Lord Jesus, for the salvation you gave,
Through the pain and suffering, whilst in agony you forgave,
Crucified on the cross, so our futures may be bright,
With faith darkness leaves, in Gods glory be the light.

Nigel Constable, Leeds, West Yorkshire

Born in York, Nigel Constable has interests including music and working in the local community. "I started writing poetry in the early 1990’s and my work is influenced by my faith, my epilepsy and my suffering. I would describe my style as emotional," he remarked "I would like to be remembered as someone who was a cheerful, caring person who had a lot of determination. I have an ambition to serve those with need when I am allowed and my biggest fantasy is to be a normal, accepted person. My worst nightmare is to be a social cabbage who’s life just passes him by."

ICI

Concrete jungle
Toxic fumes
ICI
Darkness looms

Murky river
Lost reflection
Sodden banks
Flowing pollution

Withering earth
Cooling towers
ICI
No more flowers

Vannesa Zandani, Hartlepool, Cleveland

THE REASON WHY

I have always lived in the countryside
With my friends, cows and sheep
They have suddenly gone
The reason why
To slaughter, not to eat
But to fill a hole, for the ECC
God the reason why should they die
Animal Rights so much to the front
Are not to be seen The reason why
The cull still continues, my friends
Die, where are the media.
Are they blind? Or are they told not to say why
Mr Blair
The reason why
Oh please, the reason why
Should they die

Ian Litchfield, Northampton, Northamptonshire

Ian Litchfield said:"I started writing poetry in 2002 as I felt I needed to reflect the thoughts I was feeling. I have written many poems which I will be publishing soon. I have written a book Another World, this is about my 30 year recovery from a head injury I received in a traffic accident in 1972. Another World is available from www.alhenapress .com at £5.90 and I am donating 20% to Headway, a charity for head injury victims."

THIS ROSE

This rose of mine is a vibrant colour
Its petals are gentle, intertwined together.
This sweet, soft scented smell is adorable to me
Its bud around are waiting to appear.
Like an actor’s first appearance on a stage.

The leaves look sharper than the rose itself
The thorn on the stem that holds this
Rose together is sharp, sharp as a knife.
What a contrast, soft, yet sharp and protected.
A bit like us that rose, soft yet sharp.
Or hard and protected and we are like that rose,
I think we are.

Diana Warwick, Northampton, Northamptonshire

SLEEP

Sleep,
The invincible conqueror,
Steals into the room.
Wooing the unconscious mind.
Weaving it’s web of tranquillity.
Until zoom,
All thoughts,
All feelings,
All passions,
Spent,
Black night takes over,
Heaven sent.

Janet Jury, Birmingham, West Midlands

MY SUPERCOMPUTER

My supercomputer
informs me
My supercomputer
updates
Information from
the superhighway

Oh super tutor
you browser, you
you, my replacement IQ

Hours lost
Where or what I’d be

No job without
No fun

Bring me
pop-ups with pin-ups
banners with stitch-ups
let’s shop till we drop

Blogs for poets

Dead poets society
if you’d ask me

Annette Meijer, Worcester, Worcestershire

OLD TIMERS

How I regret now getting old
That time, time has gone so fast
Our old school friends have passed on
So few are left we’re nearly last

My old man of sixty, six decades
Was twelfth of unlucky thirteen one
Only two, now left the tale to tell
How on yokes they carried water from a well

Mother reared them on ten bob a week
Kept them clean, well fed and happy
Went through the war, rationed for years
Till after 1948 and NHS

But not for them, they all grown up
Some born in 1890 year
Now I wished that could go back to
Old shilling and pence when a pound meant a pound

Alathea Sarah Edwards, Stone, Staffordshire

A DIETER’S LAMENT

I’d like to be thin, with a neat nipped-in waist
And a firm little bum, all fat quite erased
My neck would be slender, a bit like a swan
I could wear a tight tee-shirt if my bosom was gone

My legs would be shapely, right down to my feet
And I wouldn’t feel nearly so bad in the heat
I really should swim more, and move a bit faster
And stop putting two pounds of cheese on my pasta

I’ll stop eating chocolates, and cookies and chips
And hope all the fat will just melt from my hips
Tomorrow, I will start a whole new regime
But right now I’m eating this cake, with fresh cream

Ann Clarson, Pelsall, West Midlands

MUSIC

Music in its entirety, has existed through the centuries
Composers whose lives are now spent will
live on eternally, through the music they composed
Its future as the modern world unfolds
into the unknown, will remain evergreen
Music, played by many instruments, gives
endless sounds and rhythms
Bringing enjoyment to people from every
corner of the world
Human emotions can be stirred by music
Reminding us of memories from our past
Music can soothe the growing baby
in its mother’s womb
Then as life develops, music will remain a part
of the many stages of life
Ending only, when that life is spent
Music is not only a human pleasure
Many animals respond to the rhythms and sound
of music Music,
it will always be a joyous part of life

Mary Baynham, Hereford, Herefordshire

NO VACANCY

I wanted someone in my life I opened up and there you were, Just as desperate to get inside But just as I realised my mistake

You slipped me a couple of love is blind pills And took up residence in my body You moved in your luggage And unpacked your baggage inside me

You began to tell me what I was thinking To speak my mind for me You had control of us both Your perfect vision of we are one

I rented my body to you and you over stayed your welcome But gradually the effects of your tablets wore off Your attempted overdose for me was failing I reclaimed my body from you

It was as easy as spitting you out You left with nowhere to go except away from me To find your next victim, to kidnap their identity As for me I’ll put my body into recovery and put up a sign saying no vacancy

Emma Jayne Swan, Birmingham, West Midlands

THINK OF LIVING

The light upon the window stained
The shadow casts its colour
Darkened only by the joy in contrast
The light of thinking of living
Bended are the hosts of prayers
Bended are the people’s prayers
The light of thinking of living
The lamb of God, draped, raped by man
Shown now in four purple arches
In thought he taught, thinking only of the living
Four arched purple murals. Four arched stories of death. Four beams of sunlight
Morning day eve and night. Light of my Lord of all I hear
I see the poet kneeling and the leaves imprinted in her soles
The four-legged creature looks on as
The living are leaving and dead are remembered.
The soles are re-kindled
Now they have left us, in thought in all they taught
Light of Truro cathedral
Let’s now think of living
Living with God

Porché Pink, Falmouth, Cornwall

Dedicated to Charles William Stubbs, late bishop of Truro.

Born in Cheltenham, Porché Pink has interests including swimming, writing, painting and singing. “I started writing poetry when I was six. I love using my imagination,” she explained. “My work is influenced by fairytales and bible stories and I write in a free style about the people and places I love. My ambition is to be Poet Laureate.” Porché, aged 47, would like to meet the Queen. “She has been the only true stability in my life and I admire her as a person, parent and ruler,” said Porché. “My biggest fantasy is to own my own pink Porsche and recite my poetry all over the world from it.”

I COULD HAVE BEEN

I could have been a seagull,
And by the way, so could you,
So let’s spare a thought for the seagull,
And the same for me and you.

As a seagull I’m often hungry,
So I often swoop and cry,
Or do you think that should not be, Should I just lay down and die?

I am in fact a human,
With needs not abnormally high,
Sufficient nutrients and shelter,
Just like the seagulls.

I need food to be able to live, not to die,
Fortunately my needs are provided,
So I do not squawk or cry,
But neither should my privacy be invaded.

For humans need protection too,
So let kindness and common sense prevail,
More bird sanctuaries need to be built,
To consider every point of view.

Joan Kernick, Newton Abbot, Devon

THE SQUIRREL

Deep in the wood, there’s a hole in the trunk
Of an oak that stands on its own
Inside, there’s a squirrel under some leaves
Curled up asleep, snug and warm
The cold wind through the dark wood blows
Bringing the rain and the winter snows
But the squirrel sleeps soundly in his winter home
While the icy wind howls and the bare branches moan
Until warm spring sunshine melts winter’s cold hand
And a carpet of green again coats the land
He’ll sleep, safely hidden from predator’s eyes
And awake when spring sunshine banishes grey winter skies

Pat Palmer, Helston, Cornwall

ROOTS AND WINGS

We adults give life to each boy and girl
Every one special like an oysters pearl.
Parents, guardians, carers alike
We should all aim to guide them right.

Our job is simplistic its roots like a tree,
First we must give them, and the way to be.
Along with nourishment devotion and time
Wrapped with true love the future will be fine.

The roots grow deeper so they won’t stumble ’n fall
With more love added they grow strong and tall,
The foundation gets deeper, into the ground
Continued growth they become independent and sound.

A child’s life in truth is short in years
Its vital we guide to eliminate the fears,
For if we do as adults, the job in hand
Our children with wings will fly but always land.

Every man, every woman, the way each sings
Must thank our ancestors, who gave us roots and wings.

Andrew Matthews, Downham Market, Norfolk

Born in King’s Lynn, Andrew Matthews has interests including countryside bike rides, sports, drama, plays, writing poetry and eating out. “I only started writing poetry recently. I have a muddled mind and wanted to put my own words and feelings into verse,” he explained. “My work is influenced by my experiences, feelings, life and people and I would describe my style as true, honest, real and not necessarily politically correct. I would like to be remembered as a believer in how adults should live their lives. I am a giver and I am honest and I do not tolerate wrongdoers.” Aged 46, Andrew works as a salesman and has an ambition to travel the world to broaden what he feels is his insular existence. He has children Faye and Rachel.

MIKE

My dear friend Mike, I will always keep in mind
For he was very, very, very kind.
Mike was a funny man, he was a Scrabble fan.
Him, I will always remember, and when we studied together
Once cold wintry December
He was an inspiration to all
And was always at our Kingdom hall.
Mike was a gentleman refined, to people he was inclined.
He was a spiritual elder, an example and a leader.
He would, at a get-together, dance
And a guest list he would enhance.
Mike loved God very much, my heart he did touch.
He wore smart, stylish attire, a pristine appearance he’d acquire.
My friend was one of the best, not like the rest.
Mike, I’d known him half of my life, I’d known him and his wife.
He was full of love, now he’s in God’s memory above.
My dear friend Mike, my dearest chum I’ll try my best in your absence not to be glum.

Christine Shambrook, Peterborough, Cambridgeshire

Dedicated to Phylis Forde, Mike’s widow because behind every good man is a good woman. With deepest sympathy and love.

Christine Shambrook said: “I have been writing verse for ten years since I was 24. I started writing so I could give my poem about love to two of my friends as a wedding gift. I personally illustrated the poem. I have been strongly influenced by my Bible-based beliefs as a Jehovah’s Witness, and my observations of life and nature. I have written 18 poems to date and eight of these have already been published. My creative hobbies are painting, drawing, photography and of course, writing poetry.”

GREY

Monochrome perceptions
That we once had
Distinct emotions
From happy to sad
Adventurous, uninhibited
Simplicity of thought
Wishing to emulate
What we have been taught
Precocious, pretentious
Pure of heart
Succinct deciphering
From the conceptual start
Unequivocal perimeters
Of both good and bad
Monochrome perceptions
That we once had

Stuart Bird, Gorleston-on-Sea, Norfolk

COME

Come, sit beside me a while
Come, help make me feel the warmth of your smile
Come let me hold your hand in mine
Come let us walk together on the sand
Come let the waves roar out your tears
Come let god dispel all your fears
Come see me by the sea
For oh how I long to see thee.

Alison Jane White, Bacton, Norfolk

GO AWAY

Why is everyone around me so angry they scream?
When to me it’s only a dream.
I feel so calm, inside my body, my head keeps racing round and round, its constantly wanting to hear the sound,
The sound of what does it want to hear,
the sound of fear of course my dear.

I feel at ease when he’s not about, it misses a beat, it makes me shout.
Get out, get out, go away, and leave me alone till another day.
Another day comes, another day goes, nobody ever really knows,
how it feels to live each day, wondering if he’ll go away.

Janice Shields, Basildon, Essex

THE CHAINS ARE ON

We are living in the abandoned land
A world that’s full of sad men

A world that thrives on lies and pain
A world that’s run by madmen

To cheat and lie and get ahead
Is what we’re taught to do
To learn to cut your brother’s throat
Before he butchers you

Truth and love and peace and joy
Are long forgotten dreams
While hope that fires the human heart
Is lost among the screams

Of dying faith and fading sight
The future’s shut its door
Our leaders show us might is right
The chains are on once more

Derek Wrightson, Streatham, Greater London

Born in Selsdon, Derek Wrightson has interests including science fiction, films, rock music and books. “I started writing poetry at school and my work is influenced by music from Hawkwind to The Doors,” he explained. Aged 57, Derek is retired. “My ambition is to make some sense of existence before I die but no luck so far. The person I would most like to meet is David Icke because he is either insane or light years ahead of us all. Either way it would be interesting to meet him. I have written essays, articles and short stories and my biggest fantasy is to save the universe, become enlightened and live forever.”

LOVE

Love is sweet love is pure love and can turn your heart to jelly
That you can be sure love makes you feel so happy and joy
Like the sweetness of love when it is so sweet and pure
You will feel so happy forever more

Wrote by forget me not

Sandra Elizabeth Goddard, Kingston-upon-Thames, Surrey

TRUE LAMENT

Don’t dare to request that I give up my rave
Pretending you know not why I am enraged
Is this really the way for Great Brits to behave
Forgetting sometimes they’ve a country to save?

Multi-this, multi-that - just throw in the lot
And expect all to thrive in a non-melting pot
Dumbed-down speech, education, aspirations to what?
No one feels inclined towards stopping the rot.

Nation and Patriot - words favoured no more
Indigenous ties have long gone through the door
Be on the defensive - make apologies galore
Or face the full force of the newly-made law.

Shakespeare and Churchill would turn in their graves
To find new Britannia does not rule the waves
Though Britons, of course, have not become slaves
Their shores have been laid wide open to knaves.

Anna Burnett, London

TRENDSETTER

It’s not a victim of anything
It keeps away from the monotonous tide of being preyed upon
It gets noticed
Trendsetter, fly out of the anonymous sea
Jump out high and show us your tricks
Show off your colourful fins and gills
Although many of us may laugh and spit
Don’t quit Because it’s a compliment
We’re only doing it because you thought of it first
And we didn’t
Cause we’re dead
And you’re alive

Lisa Kathryn Bender, Hackney, Greater London

MUM

Your an extra special mum to me,
What more could mothers ever be.
Far beyond the princely sum,
She’s superseded everyone.
Such unself-seeking sacrifice,
So few could ever bear the price.
Her love so clear for all to see,
Your an extra special mum to me.

Fred Ablitt, Southend-on-Sea, Essex

Dedicated to my very dear mum, Maureen Ablitt, mother of six, grandmother of seventeen, and a friend to all. Thanks mum.

Born in Westcliff-on-Sea, Fred Ablitt has interests including writing, fishing, inventing and motorcycles. “I started writing poetry in 1999, it was a sudden inspiration. I had a dream that Jesus answered my questions in poetic form,” he explained. “My work is influenced by my children and I would describe my style as uncomplicated, simple and imaginative. I would like to be remembered for giving a positive contribution to the world and being an inspiration to future generations.” Aged 47, Fred works as a plumber and has an ambition to see all his hopes and dreams come true. He is married to Julie and they have children Michael, Simon, Jason, Scott, Anna-Marie and Elizabeth.

AND GOD CREATED COMPUTERS, OR DID HE?

When I was forty, I had achieved my dream.
A highly respected doctor, full of self-esteem.
A house, a lovely family. I felt pretty nifty,
Then things changed when I was about fifty.

My feeling of competence was clouted for a six
By the dawning of the age of informatics.
I found myself subjugated, mad, furious, raving
By computer men, young shavers who hadn’t started shaving.

I could never master Powerpoint or Excel
Or learn the meaning of RAM, ROM or pixel.
I can manage e-mail but can’t understand
Why I am a dodo if I don’t have broadband.

When I am flummoxed and I’m helped out by my daughter, aged nine,
My feelings towards her are far from benign.
As for the stripling from the computer shop, so condescending,
I would like to alter his grinning face beyond mending.

I have a question to ask the Almighty:
Was it He, or the other lot, who created IT?

Srinivasanallur Subbuswamy, Billericay, Essex

PUZZLED

Who locked the modem?
What does it mean?
It means I can’t send emails,
It causes me to bite my nails.

Did India lock my modem?
Or did it happen here?
It is a bit distressing,
It makes me feel quite queer.

I’ll have a drink of water
Or perhaps a glass of wine
Without my dear old friends online
I might go into a decline.

I’ll let you know when it’s resolved
A problem halved is a problem solved.
Soon I’m sure she’ll be unlocked
And my stability not rocked.

Barbara Tozer, Caterham, Surrey

DANDELION

In the summertime when the sun beats down
In open fields, on dry cracked ground
Beneath the midday sun where everyone wilts but you,
Dandelion! Common dandy, flaunting your gold
Sporting unusual leaves. You love the heat
And you get about. Out in wild spaces where you like to roam
In cartwheel rut or on grassy bank
You reign in full sun and outshine everyone
With a sunburst of your own

Rachel Smith, Croydon, Surrey

EVEN I SHALL BE GLAD

The animosity of life and fast-approaching death
linked to the sweet fragrance of love made to last,
endear and prolong with everlasting life;
waiting, glimmering there in hope everlasting
(with no horrid thoughts or idols of man),
untarnished, glistening in gold and rubies of
Thy lover’s breath.
Come, sing songs of unison to my Spirit;
sing to me, listen to me.
Come, give me your love and
I can return it more and more.
No river will run dry in me.
No stream shall be without water in me.
Dew of the morning calls you.
Son of the day beckons you, day by day, to God.
Morning by morning, each and every new day
beholds the light of My gift to you.

Anne Hadley, Slough, Berkshire

MY PEACEFUL MOMENTS

Sweet smelling spruce,
Lupins so tall, lilies in bud pansies,
Viola, begonia marigolds too, all cradling
My beautiful watered lawn.
Peaceful singing of the birds,
Blackbirds, starlings, thrushes, sparrows,
Blue tits, housemartins and pigeons coo.
Bathing and feeding chicks, proud
Parents too, all waddling along:
Come on, give me another song!
Plenty of insects for you to eat,
This is when you stamp your feet,
Finding your worms Mr Blackbird,
Is so funny to see, so expertly done,
That worm was as big as my thumb.
You are all so spoilt but so much loved.

June F Nolan, Portsmouth, Hampshire

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

The camera takes our likeness
If a smile we squeeze
When they say please say cheese
Does it also capture our happiness?

What did I learn, from those faces so stern,
Of ancestors I never knew?
Why didn’t they smile for the dickeybird
Like I was told to do?

I asked my dad, why they look so sad
His reply left me in no doubt
Why they hadn’t smiled for the dickeybird,
They had nothing to smile about.

Geoffrey Martin, Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire

THE KISS

Her hand traces the outline of my face.
I smile into her shining dark eyes,
See the reflection there,
Refracted longing and mirrored passion.

I kiss her soft, brown hand, each finger in turn.
Her lips curl with tender promise
Of a kiss born moments before,
So soft and gentle.

The moment our lips meet,
Colliding, drawn like magnets,
Parting slowly, open my eyes
To gaze again into two beautiful, shining dark eyes.

Windows to her thoughts,
Her mind, her soul
And the love that resides there
Behind two shining dark eyes.

Chris Wagg, Southampton, Hampshire

Born in King’s Lynn, Chris Wagg has interests including reading, socialising, badminton and films. “I started writing poetry about 15 years ago as an outlet for my thoughts and mostly because I enjoy it so much,” he explained. “My work is influenced by people I have met as well as watching the news and my fascination with ruins and nature. I think I write a narrative that sometimes rhymes but rarely conforms to poetic stanzas etc.” Aged 35, Chris is an occupational therapist. “I love writing and travel and my ambition is to combine the two to make a living. I would like to be remembered as someone who people enjoyed being around.”

MY DEAR LORRAINE

I love you as my little girl
And I still have your first curl
With your winning looks and smiles
I’ve nursed you when ill and you’ve cried

Your growing up now, so big and tall
I hardly remember when you were small
The little hands that gripped so tight
All the love when you were a tiny mite

You help make cakes and things you could do
This is what mummy’s and children should do
I scold you I fear
But I love my daughter dear

Julie Canham, Hove, Sussex

Born in Shoreham, Julie Canham has interests including rug-making, singing, toy-making, ice-skating and dancing. “I would describe my style as sad, funny, hopeful and imaginary and I would like to be remembered as someone who was kind and offered comfort to other people,” she explained. Aged 68, Julie is a housewife. She is married to Ray and she has written short fiction and many poems. “My biggest fantasy was to walk down the aisle in a modern wedding dress and be blessed,” she said. “My worst nightmare is forgetting my words if I get up and sing.”

© Terry Thornton - 2006-2008 United Press Ltd