Within each human soul bubbles a seething cauldron of emotional energy.

Many of us let that cauldron stew on interminably but sometimes we vent those emotions with words or actions which can be violent, passionate and even sublime.

But for a poet, that emotional outpouring is a totally different experience. A poet specialises in interpreting then communicating emotions. He or she is able to put down on paper feelings which can sometimes be bright and uplifting and at other times dark and disturbing. And by expressing these feelings in the written word the poet can communicate them to the rest of the world in a way which is totally individual to that poet alone.

It is a delight for us to give a wide-ranging group of poets from all walks of life the opportunity to channel their emotional output into the great cauldron of surging, colourful, feelings which we have put together in this volume - Mixed Emotions.

It clearly illustrates the way in which people deal with their emotions and how they endeavour to record them permanently for the entertainment and enlightenment of their readers.

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

Friendship means so many things,
And comes in many ways,
Helping one another,
In the present and the future.

For the elderly and infirm,
Come the carers and the nurses,
And the guide dogs for their master,
In their darkest hour of need.

For those who have lost loved ones,
And some who have no friends,
And life becomes despondent,
In their darkest hour of need.

Some where the flame of love will shine,
For each and every one,
With the angels of Samaritans,
And the love of one another.

Jim Carlin, Barnstaple, Devon

COUNTRY LANE

Stroll down any country lane,
Well yes, they’ve left a few,
Pause, then wander on again,
Enjoy the pleasant view.

Rustling trees and hedges deep,
Poppies, bramble and wild rose,
A field of patient, grazing sheep,
Who look no further than their nose.

A wild dove calls in dappled shade,
The sun-dusted air is still,
Deep woods and tiny secret glades
Crown a distant, hazy hill.

The gentle quiet envelopes all,
The world seems miles away,
But distant, faint, the traffic calls,
Ahead, the motorway.

Amy Oldham, Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire

ANTS

Ants in pants.
Ants everywhere in a head-scratching frenzy.
Drunken on sweet sugar in euphoric ecstacy.
Antennae going dandy.
Ants marching all over the place going crazy.
Look, there’s one with hiccups on a throne daisy.
All tipsy, floppy and giddy with a goblet full and happy.

Keith William Newing, Rotherham, South Yorkshire

Dedicated to my sisters, Deborah Ann Newing and Alison Mary Watson and siblings and Patricia Beresford,my mother, and my father.

NEVER NEVER

Caption Hook sails the seas
Through blighted vestige pleas
To board and travel with current trends
The undertow to make new friends
Dock and pillage
Stock then spillage
Own a purchase in shallow depths
Amongst sharks of feasting reps

On the never never
Land things are free
Whim and crave will
Hand you a decree

Swept through aisles of packaged reform
Avoid the contact of the human storm
Join the tributary body flow
Minds engaged in another show
A tawdry tale of the arid fool
Swimming toward adverts in his eyes
Ceaseless choice following the school
Hypnotic culture through filtered lies

Marc Davies, Milford Haven, Wales

NOT FOR THE WANT OF TRYING

Pinkie extended for a skinny roll your own.
Words manufactured days before
and spoken to a mirror

The sleeves below the knuckles
before fashion gave its permission
for that to happen

made the ingrain of the stain appear
nearer the ground than was decent
when you sat down

But still, remains of food are never pretty
be they on the cuff of a lad or a lord.
You had as good a chance as any.

I saw that the back seam on the flares
was a hand-sewn cobbled, ruckled
sloppy sort of job,

but I suppose time was your enemy
and it need never have been seen.
Plenty more fish in the sea.

That’s what I say.

Mags Jewsbury, Doncaster, South Yorkshire

LORD EARL NITHSDALE OF SCOTLAND

Iustitia aequitas - Justice,
Veritas fides f verum at - truth,
Restituo Reddo - give back, return.
Only one hundred and eighty three of us
On this earth with the name of Nithsdale.
The lineage of the Nithsdale’s clan lands
Rightly belongs to us.
Upper and Lower Nithsdale and the river
Nith in Scotland are in false ownership,
Return these lands to their rightful lineage.
Lord Earl Nithsdale was imprisoned in the
Tower of London during the Jacobite uprising.
He escaped, one of the few to escape
The dreaded tower,
With the courage of Lady Nithsdale and friends/allies.
They travelled to Rome, Italy where he died thirty four years later.
We are direct descendants of this bloodline,
Give back the land you falsely hold,
Or the presence of Lord Nithsdale will
Come amongst you,
He is coming to reclaim that which is his by birth.
Justice for Lord Nithsdale and his people.

Lynda Fortune Nithsdale, Manchester

Lynda Nithsdale said: “This poem was written in recognition of our lineage/heritage. There were 28 items of land stolen from Lord Nithsdale. His ‘crime’ was loyalty to King James. It was unjust, cruel treatment of our Royal Scottish ancestry. I fight for him to try to regain our lands in Scotland and Yorkshire. But I am only one person. If events never happened we would still retain our birth right. I have always been restless and never feel at home. I seek the right soulmate. Maybe Gabriel Andrew Nithsdale, dark copper hair, bright blue eyes, two and a half years old, would have been the future Lord Nithsdale.”

EVELYN

My Lynn you were a lovely girl so young and so naive,
We used to kiss and cuddle and I didn’t want to leave,
Your lovely smile your hearty laugh endured you to one
And all,
Your wavy hair your hazel eyes always did enthrall,
Me as I knocked upon your door when I made my
Nightly stop,
To take you to the saturday dance known as the saturday
Hop,
We didn’t need much money but we always had a laugh,
We never cared if we were skint as I called you my
Other half,
As a mum you were terrific and always did your best,
For all those that you knew and loved,
And you’ve earned your long, long rest.

Percy Osborne, Croydon, Surrey

Dedicated to my late wife Evelyn, my better half for 50 years.

Born in Sydenham, Percy Osborne has interests including writing, drawing, painting and gardening. “I started writing poetry in 1998 after the death of my wife,” he explained. “I have had a fascination for writing ever since I was a child and it helps me to provide answers to questions about my own personal life. I would like to be remembered as a painter and poet.” Aged 78, Percy is retired and has five children. “I have written a book and am working on another and I have also written many poems, a few of which have been published,” added Percy.

LIFE PASSING BY

As I’m in the pub hearing all their views,
The radios on it’s the eight o clock news,
Crime watch is on and another man dead,
This is what the radio said,
There’s money if you’ve seen the man,
They said you must do what you really can.

The sound of silence, it’s all gone quiet,
Coz the radio said there is a riot,
It’s the terrorists again, there always the same,
Coz there the ones who’s to blame,
They kill innocent people, who have done no wrong,
The children and family’s cry so long,
The terror and fear that’s in their eyes,
They leave their graves with their last goodbyes.

You can’t even walk in dark places,
Coz of all those nasty cases,
There’s rape, murder and even abuse,

Who in the hell, let them loose,
I wish I could catch ’em, the terrorists one day,
I’d put a gun to their head and blow them away.

Clare Williams, Oxted, Surrey

Born in Epsom, Clare Williams has interests including singing, and writing lyrics and poetry. “I began penning verses at the age of 13 when I started going through changes in my life and my work is influenced by my emotions and my life, especially the influence of growing up in a pub. I would describe my style as coming from the heart and I would like to be remembered as a very real person.” Aged 34, Clare is a telecommunications manager with ambitions to help the planet and spread love and peace in the world. She has two children and has written lyrics for songs as well as over 100 poems.

THE CREATION

It’s all imagination
The wonder of creation
Repeating the regeneration
Static continuation
Attraction and rotation
No ties, no fixation
Beautiful colouration
Mysterious foundation
Self organisation
Coded abbreviation
A simple complication
No measure, no location
Our identification
Real animation
Joy of calculation
Disturbed equation
Puzzling destination
Threatening vibration
Flying motivation
Killing exploration
It’s all imagination

Muhammad Siddiq, Bradford, West Yorkshire

Born in Pakistan, Muhammad Siddiq has interests including current affairs, walking, travel and exercise. “My sensitive nature made me start writing when I was a teenager,” he pointed out. “My work is influenced by disappointments in life and I would describe my style as an attempt to express a suppressed life. I would like to be remembered as a nice person.” Aged 49, Muhammad works as an electrician and has ambitions to write a book and be an inventor. He is divorced and has four children. “My biggest fantasy is to maintain my relationship with the creator and the creation in today’s busy, materialistic life,” he added.

HEAVENLY MOMENTS

One morning, I woke with an angel in my bed.
Auburn haired, fair faced. Sleeping softly.

God gave him a prod, showed me his eyes.
Imprints from the sky, shining, smiling.

Such a patient angel. Gave me fairy cakes,
discussed Byron and Blake. Staring gently,
stroking my face. Closed my eyes, very dazed.

Didn’t say, “Angel, stay with me.” Angels
need to be free. And mortals get into trouble
if they mix with such creatures ...

So I just smiled when he flapped his wings
and said goodbye.

Rachael Marsh, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Tyne and Wear

Born in Hexham, Rachael Marsh has interests including reading, writing, Buddhism and travelling. “I started writing poetry when I was 24 because I wanted to express myself,” explained Rachael. “My work is influenced by interesting people and countries and I would describe my style as eclectic.” Aged 39, Rachael works as a civil servant and has an ambition to be a full-time writer. “I have written articles on health and my biggest fantasy is to get a novel published each year. My worst nightmare is to never get anything else published,” she said. “The person I would most like to meet is the author J K Rowling because she has a fantastic imagination.”

AN ANGEL PRAYER

May you be our compass,
Our instrument,
In showing us the magic of light,
May its many colours unfold and enrich us.

May the love of our planet transform and guide us,
Into the new age of enlightenment.

May we be aware of its needs and have compassion.
In this we recognise it’s beauty,
Which unfolds as heavenly treasures,
Of spiritual fulfilment and joy.

Janey McClay, Baildon, West Yorkshire

Dedicated to family, friends, all lightworkers of the earth, and the angelic kingdom for inspiration.

Born in Horsforth, Leeds, Janey McClay has interests including walking, reading, travel and meditation. “I started writing poetry in my childhood but have resumed lately through the need to express myself,” she explained. “My work is influenced by the joy of life and nature and I would describe my style as inspirational. I would like to be remembered for my spiritual beliefs of unity and freedom.” Aged 52, Janey works as a nursery nurse and has ambitions to work in the alternative health field as a reiki master, writer, and lead meditation workshops.

UNTITLED

Crime, done by slime
Maybe because of grime
Is the places problem now.
Cruelty is the vogue
Where everyone is a rogue
“ What to do?” is the cry,
What point is there in asking, “Why?”
When they are dealing with the living dead,
Who hear voices in their head.
All their lives stretch before their eyes
Lives they spend telling lies.
They are all an empty space,
Not part of a human race.

H Watson, London

DYING TO LIVE

If all the world is equal,
Oh why do people starve?
With no medicines to make them well,
And no meat for them to carve,
They’ve tattered clothes upon their backs,
No shoes for blood stained feet,
They die of thirst, or skin just cracks,
No homes, no comfy seat,
Their bellies bloated, faces gaunt,
Covered in sickening flies,
Give them hope and a will to live,
Take the sadness from their eyes,
So I pray to God each night,
Before I go to bed,
To leave them with some dignity,
Don’t wait until they’re dead.

Shirley Jones-Dwyer, Wigan, Greater Manchester

SEWING CURTAINS

No table can be big enough to tame this struggling cloth.
Rebellious life beats wildly through its pattern,
Warp and weft.
I measure, snip and tack, dreaming of order
Cats filch the thread, pins prick and fall
The snaking cotton skirts the needle’s eye
But swerves, refusing entry

Then yard by yard the separating sheets
Settle beneath my fingers
Needle in, needle out, my breath slows and calms as
Ream after ream, seam after seam, I stitch in rhythm

Their future’s out now.
They satisfy. They beautify. Domesticated.
Hanged in my lair they shield me from the sun
From darkness and the intruding stares of strangers

They are my pride, but surely there’s some loss?
I’d like to think that some of their first wildness
Can still remind me of the raw elements
And the real people
Beyond the glass

Alice Wakefield, Chester, Cheshire

UNTITLED

I feel like a muddy puddle,
Dirty and dank,
Gets on peoples feet,
Causing inconvenience,
And cursing.

Children like to jump and splash in puddles,
But not the one that is me,
It is too cloudy and murky,
Like the shadows lurking in my mind.

I can pray that the sun will shine on my puddle,
And dry up the ground where I lay,
And the pavement and I will be clean,
And ready to start a new day.

Jane Goodier, Sale, Greater Manchester

GONE

Servered, clasped into repose,
Numb and blinking, shrunken heart
The dry lipped budded rose
Blood cold and crystaline in the summer swell
Fingertips, touched darkness
And the light of your eyes fell,
Once we glittered, we sparked,
We reflected as art, butterflies danced on skin
But in those moments time had sought us
Split our seam, cut the frayed heart string,
And yet here I am, now you’re gone
The distance ran, loves word mute to my ear
Beginning and end have embraced, my friend
And marooned us in those God sent years

Paul Grundy, Blackpool, Lancashire

Born in Liverpool, Paul Grundy has interests including art, design, reading and wisdom. “I only started writing poetry a couple of years ago but it goes hand in hand with my creative nature,” he explained. “My work is influenced by the negatives and positives in life as well as philosophy and the universe and I would describe my style as eclectic.” Aged 36, Paul is divorced with a son, Lucas. “Occasionally I work in art and design and my ambition is to make a living from poetry, painting and sculpture,” he said. “My biggest fantasy is to see people respecting themselves and others.”

DEPRESSION

Feelings that I don’t belong to family or friends
Depression will this uncertainty ever end
Gone is the spirit there used to be
No interest in what life has to offer me

The sunlight has become faded
Where hope and inspiration dwelt this area has now
Shaded
Dark clouds shroud my very being
Deflating all hopes of ever fleeing

Dreams have evaporated no goals in sight
Drugs no longer help my plight
What’s causing me to sink like this
Into limbo a black abyss

Such an effort to undertake the smallest task
I’m o-one really while I wear this mask
I’ve tried counselling and hypnotherapy
Followed advice that’s been given to me

Without taking the pills I disappear into a place only I Recognise
Where I struggle to climb out of a hole that has greased Sides
With medication I live in a catatonic state
Where I just sit and wait and wait

Denise Baines, Hyde, Cheshire

JEWEL HERITAGE

A startling child
I noticed on the bus;
Chinese head, set on its elegant stalk;
Chinese features, he had yet
Ginger hair, grey-green eyes,
Improbable freckles. This time,
Genes’ dice had thrown
Best of both worlds;
Genes’ genius mixed
A beauty cocktail so compelling,
I could not avert my gaze.

If he had been
A flower, they would have
Cloned him; labelled him
This seasons most intriguing shade.
Full of joy in hybrid vigour,
He would have bloomed
On every girl’s lapel.

Shirley Percy, Bury, Greater Manchester

Shirley Percy said: “After 36 years of teaching, I retired from the Manchester Ethnic Minority Education Service in July 2004. Retirement has given me a glorious opportunity to write. Sometimes I open my eyes in the morning and a poem is there, almost whole. It seems like magic. My ambition is to become adept at sharing with readers the delight I have in writing. I am fascinated by the other life forms which share our planet, and take animal welfare very seriously. I feel that mankind has a lot to answer for. I live in Bury with a patient husband and various cats.”

COPYCAT

Flesh and blood,
Skin and bone,
A perfect match,
The Human Clone.
Now we’ve reached
The final zone,
And made a copy
Of our own.

Ruth Hayes, Southport, Merseyside

THE MANIFEST

What are you?
This apparition at the end of my bed
Are you a spirit? Are you a ghost?
Or something manifesting in my head?

Do you hear? Do you see? Do you feel?
There’s an overwhelming sense of something that’s real

What is your reason for being here?
Born out of anger, frustration and fear?
Shrouded in mist, surrounded by light
Piercing through the dark of the night
Question after question that cannot be answered
My mind is the thing that’s being contested

Can you hear when I shout?
Can you see when I flail?
Can you feel when I kick out?

With the calm of the morning
It’s my brain that is dawning
This vision that I see
Is again summoned by me

Paul Francis, Liverpool, Merseyside

WINTER WARMTH

Wrapped in winter warmth
The icy chill runs bitter through
Frost gripped deep the ice of ages
Away from the lights, far from life
Blanket of bleak sea of sleet
Raindrops drip drop on a sheet of white
While the wind wails reckless, calling.

A lonely snowman standing still
On barren land of lifeless chill
Glistening shivering amid a mast of mist
While the wind wails reckless, taunting

Trapped in winter warmth
Icy cold flame of frost
Fading freezing feelings fail
Curdled blood chilled and numb.
Harsh cold rock of sheer blue glass
Sparkles shines in stolen time
Spraying slithers of snowflakes fall
While the wind wails reckless, warning.

Martine Gafney, Kentish Town, Greater London

MY PURSE

My purse is empty Lord,
I believe your promise,
That you would fill every vessel when it is empty,
Lord your promises are sure,
So please listen to my prayer,
Fill my cup Lord, fill my cup,
Let me be filled with your holy word,
Show me all that you want me to do,
Please Lord, let me always be true,
Let me hear you whisper my name,
Then I would know that I am not the same,
Speak to me Lord, and whisper my name.

Thelma Daniels, Beckenham, Greater London

MY LIFE IN DAFFODILS

Mirrors, a reflection of myself,
Set in stone, through Medusa,
Silence, a rare concept these days,
Can only be as loud and bold,
As a desperate hold,
To an avalanche.

Think, as the heathen cheer away their desperate lives,
And as the old man stumbles,
On his nailed down chair,
And as ye olde faithful hits the blood,
Hits the blood, hits the blood.

I sit alone, yet stand with everyone,
Ah, yes, my life in daffodils.

Alex Lutes, Newington, Greater London

LONELINESS

Loneliness hurts, it gets into your soul,
Instead of feelings, there is this bottomless hole,
Day after day, the hurt goes on and on,
There is nothing left, all hope is gone.

Then one day, your aching heart starts to mend,
Though a casual meeting, you make a new friend,
Someone who is hurting as much as you,
They can empathise because they are lonely too.

Whether the same sex, or opposite, it matters not a lot,
You have a friendship to hold onto and that means a lot,
To be talking, to be walking to be sharing a meal,
A wonderful process that will make your heart heal.

Grab that happiness and friendship,
When it comes your way,
With a friend there beside you, you can face each new day.

Margaret Celand, Wraysbury, Greater London

Born in Brentwood, Margaret Celand has interests including church work, care work, charity fundraising, letter writing, gardening and knitting. “My work is influenced by situations and circumstances,” she explained. “I would describe my style as spontaneous and I would like to be remembered as someone who cared.” Aged 69, Margaret is retired and has an ambition to continue her active work in the Baptist Church, community and village life. She is married with three children and four stepchildren. “The person I would most like to meet is Ann Widdecombe because she stands by her views and acts upon them,” added Margaret.

FIRST COMES LOVE

First comes love
And then comes happiness
That only love can bring
The happiness brings the wealth
Of sharing and caring
That only love can bring
The sharing and caring bring
The trust and patience
That only love can bring
The trust and patience bring
The gifts that we bestow upon
One and other, through good times
And the bad times
The happy and the sad times
That only love can bring

Fred Chamberlain, Romney Marsh, Kent

Dedicated to my wife Sheila, who has been my rock and companion for forty-eight years of marriage.

IMAGINATION

One winter night fed up and blue,
There wasn’t very much to do,
I wasn’t tired, but went to bed,
Not being tired, A book I read,
Of an axeman breaking in
To murder a woman, oh, what a sin,
Before he could, some help arrived,
“ What’s that noise?” down low I dived,
The mad axeman? I shook with fear,
“ Dear Lord, don’t let him get in here,”
Emerging after what seemed ages,
I closed the book, read no more pages,
I slept uneasy till the morning,
Then as daylight started dawning,
I went outside and looked around
And I spotted, on the ground
Some coke and coal, so it was that,
My “Mad Axeman” had been a cat.

Doris T Baldwin, Maldon, Essex

Born in London, Doris Baldwin has interests including writing and crosswords. “I started writing poetry in 1950, and my work is influenced by my experiences and nature,” she explained. “I would like to be remembered as a decent, caring person.” Aged 85, Doris is retired and has an ambition to see her collection of over 100 poems in print. She is the widow of Stanley and has one son, Frank. “My biggest fantasy is to win the lottery so I can help my son, family and favourite charities,” she added.

I WISH

As I sit here all alone,
I wish I had a mobile phone,
To text my friend,
It would be great
But what a mystery,
This call time rate.
Please help me
With my hands free kit,
And what I do
With this other spare bit.
I have a star button
And a hash button too,
But what are they for?
I haven’t got a clue.
So I’m giving up this mobile phone
To find a friend instead,
A human I can talk to
And not worry their batteries are dead.

Robert Garvie, Livingston, Scotland

Born in Glasgow, Robert Garvie has interests including playing the guitar and writing poetry. “I started penning verses a year ago. I enjoy it and I find it is a good and calming way of passing the time,” he explained. “My work is inspired by the world today and I would like to be remembered fondly.” Aged 37, Robert is a businessman with an ambition to be known for something which gives pleasure to the world. He is married to Jacqueline and they have two children. “My biggest fantasy is to be adored and cheered by a massive crowd and the person I would most like to meet is Bono of U2. He is such a caring person and the music he writes means so much to me.”

AT THE DRIVE IN

Rock ‘n’ roll dreams, ain’t never what they seem,
Along with fame comes pain, no one remains the same,
It’s a tortured life, filled with strife,
Songs filled with sadness, some kid with a knife.

With leather jackets and greased up hair,
The dreamers dream on through town and fair,
In cheap hotel rooms, they dream of fame,
Fast cars, women and money, all dream the same.

Girls crying and screaming, pull them down,
Late night parties and boozing, playing the clown,
Many die young then their legends are made,
Now that he’s gone, his music is played.

Some make a movie, it’s just a bit part,
A few minutes more or less, but who cares? It’s a start,
That’s where they are seen in all their glory,
Captured forever on the silver screen,
And as the cars pull into the drive in,

They see the dreams of dreamers that might have been.

T M Ballantyne, Croftfoot, Scotland

THIS LAND

Arid plains swelter by
Feverish with heat intense from a cobalt sky
This shimmering land stagnates in our world

Freedom. Open the pores
Spill out its guts, purge all sores
Let no further blemish erupt still furled

Rusty limbs, bending low
Like sticks striving against life’s cruel blow
Erase their pain with gracious gestures hurled

Into darkness, shatter light
With hope and joy among smiles so bright
Shine, let all return forever to their fold

Call the world’s might
Keep giving, don’t delay this worthy plight
Restore, make each throbbing pulse be bold

Acclaim this living mass
On equal terms for every lad and lass
Don’t weep again just bless this land

Janet Onfray, Penally Tenby, Wales

LET’S FLY TO ZANZIBAR

Step aboard my magic plane,
Let’s fly to Zanzibar,
Cruise along the coast of Spain,
Then shoot straight off to Mars.

Perhaps we will meet an alien,
A well dressed Martian boy,
He may request our company
Wouldn’t we act coy.

We might then exchange pleasantries,
With strained communication,
Earth could be our topic,
In our one-off visitation.

Hark, the purring of the engine,
Beckons us to climb aboard,
We thank our friend for having us,
He smiles, no need for words.

We scan the Caymen Islands,
The South of France excites,
Then warm waves of love,
Entice us home before the night.

Elizabeth Shirley, Kilwinning, Scotland

MENOPAUSAL MONSTER

Behold, the Menopausal Monster,
She who has metamorphosed into someone,
Other than she was before.

And who, pray, is this person?
No mere product, she, of a
Nine months’ pregnancy.
This transformation,
Rather, is the result of a lifetimes’s living.

And yet, not so.

I say “not so,” because these changes happened
When I was not looking; gradually,
Imperceptibly I began to see -

That the woman reflected in my mirror, was no longer me.

Sonya Hynes, Derry, Northern Ireland

Sonya Hynes said: “I was born in London in 1957. I studied French at Manchester University and taught English at a school in Paris for a year. I am a civil servant and have been writing poetry for eight years. I like to draw on personal experience, when choosing themes for my poems. Of the 28 poems I have written, 12 have been published in various poetry anthologies. I enjoy writing, mainly short stories. Other interests include travel, theatre, music, walking and animals. I am single and live with my elderly mother and cats, Duchess and Patches.”

UNITY

Together as one,
We unite,
We collide,
Collaborating many,
Until we decide,
Upon a direction,
An open slide,
Over the edge,
And into the wide,
Abyss of universe,
Galaxy pride,
Together as one,
We ride.

Juliette Llewellyn, Cardiff, Wales

THE GRAND SLAM

The grand slam was magnificent,
It fills our heart with pride,
Out of all the other nations,
We were the better side,
Mike Ruddock the visionary,
Made it all come true,
He put together the right combination,
He knew what to do.

Twenty seven years of hurt is over,
In just two years we’ve come so far,
Mike instilled confidence and insight,
And made legends and superstars,
From wooden spoons to champions,
Has created massive belief,
Mike and the welsh did it,
And completed the impossible dream.

Christine Williams, Blaenrhondda, Wales

UNDER THE SUN

An elephants foot carved tree trunk.
Purple fog between the trees.
On stilts upward they climb.
Until towering above everyone.
Rustling its shawl of leaves.
Forest wearing its gown.

Tricia Jones, Swansea, Wales

Born in Essex, Tricia Jones has interests including painting, writing and poetry. “I started writing poetry 35 years ago because I found it so enjoyable,” she remarked. “My work is influenced by family life, nature and animals and I would like to be remembered as a person who was honest.” Aged 56, Trisha is disabled and has an ambition for more people to read her poetry. She is married to Dennis and they have two children, Michael and Melissa. “I have written short stories and many poems, most of which have been published. My biggest fantasy is that people from all walks of life get a chance to read my poems,” she added.

SONGS OF THE SEA

Hush-a-bye, lullaby song of the seas,
Blue green flecked foam,
Sailing high,
Sailing home.

Hush-a-bye, lullaby, song of the deep,
Out where the gulls fly,
Where fish leap.

Hush-a-bye, lullaby, song of the seas,
Come where mermaid’s play,
Come with glee.

Out, out, to farflung caves,
Come with me to a world of coral and pearl,
Below the waves.

Fly along, fly along,
This way, this way,
Far down, deep down,
Caverns on ocean’s floor,
Where winking whale sings,
And dolphins have flings,
From time forgotten, to evermore.

Davina Williams, Aberdare, Wales

Born in Yorkshire, Davina Williams has interests including art, theatre, music, dancing, reading, gardening and walking. “I started writing poetry when I was young and my style is entirely my own,” she explained. “I would like to be remembered as a writer who is fresh and original and causes people to re-think important issues.” Davina is a retired teacher with an ambition to have more of her work published. She is a widow with one son and one daughter and the person she would like to meet is the Marquis of Bath. “Although privileged he is generous in spirit as well as money,” said Davina.

IRAQ CRISES, JUST AFTER SADDAM

A big percent of people are innocent,
They are stuck going through much strains,
All they want is to remain,
No food or water supplies, they still try to get by,
Asking God why,
Guns, bombs, the sound of the city all around,
Dead bodies being found, of whom many have done,
No wrong, hoping it may not be long, they remain,
Strong throughout the struggle, hiding, running in fear,
Death to them seems very near, even the young ones,
Seem to have that clear, by now they have,
Lost everything dear,
Mothers broken by loss of sons and daughters,
While the armies continue their mass slaughters,
Causing so much turmoil, everything is at the boil,
People getting buried under soil, is it for oil,
To them it may bring wealth, to get it by destroying,
Peoples health, they keep everything a stealth,
All they want is wealth and power,
Soon will come the hour.

Raja Zahid Khan, Birmingham, West Midlands

BELIEVE

Believe you should, God is ever all around,
I know, by experience, angels abound,
By a purchase, quiet dear on day,
From America, yes genuine indeed, I will tell,
A stone within a cross, I’d never of course sell,
The then mayor of Bethlehem in 1963,
Allowed several stones taken, see,
From birthplace of Jesus, indeed yes,
During renovations, can’t you guess,
Stones back to America broken to bits,
Into a size within a cross, to fits,
I a believer, now have at last so glad, one of these,
Asking for an angel, if you please,
It’s more for medicals, when in tears,
For now I know, I have no fears,
So to you all out there heed what I really say,
Wherever one be, always pray,
See what I’ve written, now forget, sad.

D W McCarthy, Bridgnorth, Shropshire

POOLS

Your eyes are the pools on which
My destiny floats,
All my hopes and dreams in their
Little wooden boats.

These pools, with their fragility
Too deep to measure,
Pray, keep my boats safe in the
Harshest of weather.

Hold back the storms, and bring
Not the swell,
Which leads tiny boats to smash
On the shores.

For their precious cargo of hopes
And dreams,
Are not only mine, they are
Also yours.

Cord Flint, Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire

MANY ROOMS ARE IN MY HEART

Many rooms are in my heart
Filled with passion just for you
Each one filled with fire and heat
Felt in all you do

Every time you come in
It’s a joy to see you there
Smiling, laughing, sitting in the chair

Height and depth of my love
Continues to grow
With your loving arms and warm embrace
Forever I will know

Special rooms are in my heart
Each one beats for you
Singing, laughing and smiling in all you do

Many rooms are in my heart
Bursting with one song
With a simple song of love
To the one where I belong

John Wilson, Hucknall, Nottinghamshire

NASTURTIUMS

At eight a.m.
Helios beamed over the roof and eye-balled a bead of water
Left behind by the moon. Cleverer than Midas he changed it to a diamond
That blazed like a searchlight across the garden.
There it hangs in a swag of the nasturtiums.

I had planted five of those around a wigwam of sticks
(Prunings from my plum tree).
I thought they would climb it nicely and pose there.
I didn’t imagine them swarming into the roses
Into the Garrya Elliptica, into the Jasmine, and not content with that,
All over the barn.

Their green and yellow lilypads threaten my houseleek
And smother the mossy corrugations of the tiles.
All their orange trumpets add hullabaloo
To the composition,
Which is unbelievably noisy.

Daphne Rance, Ashwell, Hertfordshire

BRAIN CHILD

A poem was born last week.
Its embryo was seeded in the mother’s brain a few months ago.
It suddenly popped out of her head without giving much warning.
It was twenty lines long.
Her pen had acted as the mid-wife
The ink was the life blood
It was clothed in words and metaphors.
It was written in free verse.
The emotion and feelings were strong.
It was the product of intellect and a lively imagination.
It cried noisily for recognition
But was ignored by practically everyone
Except its doting and loving creator.
It will be nurtured and protected from critics during its infancy.

Quintin Douglas, Kidlington, Oxfordshire

STANDING ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS

Poems from public schools, poems from grammar schools
Poems from other schools, charging a fee
Poems from Oxford, poems from Cambridge
Poems from the Open University

It was quite a feat with these to compete
The secondary modern school by design
With erudite features was never replete

He bluffed his way through all his days
Without a Greek or Latin phrase
He never composed a slick sestina
But he acquired a pert patina

With Winston Churchill he agreed
One of his lesser-known creations
It is a good thing for an uneducated man
To read books of quotations

This life might be a lottery
But wherever we may land
On the shoulders of giants
All of us can stand

Geoffrey Martin, Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire

SOMERSET SOLDIER - 1914-1918 WAR

It’s not this muddy trench I see
But a winding brook and a withy tree
In Somerset
The stench of battle is wafted away
By sweet apple-blossom and new-mown hay
In Somerset
Cast out the sound of guns and shells
Ring out for me, St Mary’s bells
In Somerset
Oh, for a draught of frothy ale
From that stone flagged cellar remembered well
In Somerset
Lord, cool my head and heated brain
Am I in Flanders or home again
In Somerset
It’s not this muddy trench I see
But a winding brook and a withy tree
In Somerset
Seventy years later
I think of them a I wander free
By that winding brook and withy tree
In Somerset

Eileen M Pittard, Huish Episcopi, Somerset

Eileen Pittard said: “I write about my uncles Sgt Reginald, Slade, Coldstream Guards and Pte Sidney Slade, Somerset LI, killed in the 1914/18 war. They were born at the Rose and Crown, Eli’s Inn, Huish Episcopi, Langport, Somerset, where our family still live, and have lived for over four generations. I heard so many wonderful stories from my mother about her brothers, I feel I know them. I still look out on the stream with the withy trees and hear St Mary’s bells and serve drinks from the stone-flagged cellar, and think of them as I wander free.”

UTOPIA - SONG 15, 00060

In an ideal world, we can be seen and heard
Like we should, we’ll do good, yeah we could

In an ideal world, we can seek and find everytime
Like we should, we’ll do good

After a fall from grace, after a fantasy, fantasy
Our ideal place is Utopia, Utopia

Wendy Day, Bristol, Avon

A TEAR FOR LIFE

I fear not the truth
I fear the pain it will bring
Love has no fear
There is only a battleground
Here the fear has to be fought
Won or lost it will begin
Fear carries our hopes and our dreams
I shall stand among the emotions of life
I will scream at the fear
I will conquer my fear
For fear is not a truth
Honesty is what I fear
A fear we all face
Some shall face this fear and be stronger
Some may fall to the ground and cry
Fear I shall not give time to
Honesty I welcome with open arms
Love I shall share with a full heart
Truth will make a stronger person
There is no fear in the world I live in

Nigel Puddy, Weston-Super-Mare, Somerset

Dedicated to all my family and friends who have shared and supported me throughout my life experiences.

Born in Weston-Super-Mare, Nigel Puddy has interests including painting, walking, swimming, writing, art deco and jazz. “I started writing poetry five years ago to realise a dream of having my work in print so that I could share it with others,” he explained. “My work is influenced by my family, friends and life experiences and I would describe my style as emotional. I would like to be remembered as someone who inspired future generations through my work as an author, artist and sculptor.” Aged 38, Nigel is a full-time art degree student. He has a son, Joshua.

LONELY AND UNWANTED

I sit on the field looking out through the misty air
No-one around to help me and my parents don’t care
Threw me out and said goodbye, and left me alone outside
I can’t tell whether I’m lost or unwanted and wanna know
My jumper and trousers are not keeping me warm, so I feel cold
Getting thin, getting hungry, hope someone could just love me
I’ve only one friend, she is a dove, a beautiful bird
I’m lonely and unwanted

Robyn Hill, Norwich, Norfolk

Robyn Hill said: “I’m 13 and I write what I imagine it’s like for people who are different in some way. I’m deaf and although I can talk I sometimes feel isolated. I actually live in a great home in Norfolk with my mum and older sister, Claudia, and two dogs. I love reading and writing stories and poems. I also love to watch DVDs with subtitles and I especially love Jackie Chan because he is funny and expressive. My dream is to be a professional writer so I’m really pleased to have a poem published.”

HAPPINESS

Happiness, an elusive thing that many never find
Perhaps it’s just a fantasy, and only in the mind
Slipping through the fingers, never quite within our range
Out of reach, beyond our grasp, will things ever change?

We wonder all about it when we lay awake at night
Some people look so happy,
For whom everything seems right
Or is it? Do they feel that there is something missing still
A place down deep inside them that they never seem to fill

Patricia Evans, Alderford, Norfolk

Dedicated to my family and friends, who encouraged me to express my feelings in verse.

Born in London, Patricia Evans has interests including reading, gardening, music, drawing and singing. “I started writing poetry to help me express my emotions after I suffered from depression in 1983,” she explained. “I would like to be remembered as a good and caring person who was a lover of all wildlife and supported the underdog.” Patricia is retired and has an ambition to make a difference to the way people think about others. She is married to Mick and they have a son and daughter.

HOLIDAY

Pack your bags,
And away you go,
Take a trip to Heathrow,
And you’ll know.
Board the plane,
And afford the smiles,
Flying into the sunset,
You know your style.
Sipping your coke,
You make a joke,
Everyone laughs but without much hope,
The holiday fever,
Spreads so much deeper.
A breath of fresh air,
Is what we all share,
Soon we’ll be there,
All in a flurry,
In a taxi we go, to steal the show.

Semena Chopra, Southampton, Hampshire

Dedicated to Karishma and Abhay, the little treasures in my life.

SWIMMING AT GRANTCHESTER

To swim in the magic river,
It should be before nineteen fourteen,
Here is the same sky,
The laughter and gentleness of water.

But ripples stir black mud and stench of trenches,
Where the dead lie dud and weeds wait lingering,
In long, green streaks of phosgene,
Fingering.

No more the leaping in
With bodies pure, released.
All that was before nineteen fourteen.

But something endures,
Was given,
That brings us peace,
Under this English heaven.

Robin Ivy, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire

2.6 MILE

The stroll took place around seven thirty pm,
Pathway narrows off coming to it's end,
Tarmac river escapes to the other side, push on or go back?
Step out with trepidation, speedway of death growling,
Clear head, open ear, to carry me.
Uneven ground takes over the direction,
Poppies swaying among tall strands of gathered grass.
Almost removed from my skin, as an alsation leaps and,
Barks, introduction or warning voice?
The undergrowth moves and cracks, sky light continues,
Overhead, securing me.
A passer by greets me and continues on, it is strange to be
Acknowledged in this way. A small group of adolescents,
Takes their turn also, I am encouraged from this
Monosyllabic stage of life that they would even bother.
I reach the tunnel of sounding motorway transport, it,
Echoes, I notice homes not seen before in swift passing.
Branches bathed in green, stretch out blocking, as though,
Reaching to connect. Pushed aside, I continue,
My head freeing up.

Laura Smith, Bulkington, Warwickshire

MOM

My mom has looked after me since I was a lad
Even fetched the doctor when I’ve been bad
She has had me since I was little
She has looked after me without no help at all
Won’t let me stand in case I fall
When I was born I couldn’t walk
The doctor told my mom
I wouldn’t be able to talk
My mom has looked after me
Come what may then dad came along
To help her on her way
I know sometimes give her hell
To bring a kid like me into the world
She’s done well
Some of us lads are really loud
But I’m a son to you both mom and dad
To be that it makes me proud

Clifford Woodfield, Birmingham, West Midlands

© Terry Thornton - 2006-2008 United Press Ltd