Read Poetry from Angel's Breath
BY DEFINITION
Never call me poet
It is a name reserved for those
Whose eyes are swollen
From sleepless nights spent
Manipulating dactyls
Whose fingers bleed from
Too many consultations
With Roget’s thesaurus
And the Greek classics
And literary Russian revolutionaries
Rather say that I was
Moved sometimes to peace
Often to discord
By the sound and feel and scent
Of the world around me
Rakiyah Beswick
Rakiyah Beswick said:“I left Guyana in 1959 to study in England. Instead, I married an English architectural student and had three children. Transplantation from South America to England, followed by two years in Pakistan, provided contrasts which focussed my perception of the world. Since winning the H E Bates short story prize at the first Northampton Festival in 1975, I’ve written many poems and two have been broadcast on Radio 4. I love the beauty of words which stimulate the mind and enhance life for me and my family. This translates into my philosophy of gardening, featured on television’s Gardeners’ World in 1994, a series of talks and an exhibition.”
A VISION OF HEAVEN
A symphony of choral angels in festal chorus gathering
Around the Throne of grace divine, they sing in descants, heights, sublime,
The Holy one of Israel, He sits upon His Throne of sapphire,
Regal, raised in glory, o’ worship Him, enthroned alone,
The angels bow, before His presence, the Father of all lights,
In awe and wonder, they bow down, to worship and adore Him,
The King of kings, the Lord of lords, the Lamb upon the Throne,
The Father, Son and Holy Ghost, they praise Him King, o’ Lord of Hosts
The crystal sea, it beckons me, upon the shores-serenity,
The crystal river, love flows down, on high, the Throne of grace,
As I behold the Holy One, and gaze upon His face,
The four and twenty elders, bow down before His Throne,
There, casting down their golden crowns, to worship Him alone,
The cherubim, the seraphim, archangels gather round,
Enraptured, bliss, resounds in heaven, illustrious, regal sound.
Angela McLaughlin-Bolton, York, North Yorkshire
Born in York, Angela McLaughlin-Bolton has interests including singing, cooking, reading and travel.“I have always enjoyed writing since I was a child but I seriously started to write in 1992 after losing a job and my grandfather’s passing,” she explained. “My work is influenced by Jesus Christ and his love for all people and I would describe my style as spiritual with a message of love and healing.” Born in 1962, Angela is a singer and housewife. She lives with her husband Martyn and their cat, Baby.“I have had other poems published and you can contact me at 5 Ash Street, Poppleton Road, York, Yorkshire, YO26 4UR.”
ONE MOONLIT NIGHT
When evening veils her tired eyes
And stars shine across the skies.
The wind blows gently through the darkened night,
And disturbed birds, take to flight.
The trees shine in moonlight beams
And water, from flowing streams.
Fish swim swiftly by,
Fox in his lair, with wary eye.
My footsteps tread softly
Through the mossy grove,
As I rush to meet my love.
Iris Tennent
GOING HOME
Frosty white bricks -
Cream of the houses.
May blossom in April,
like streamers.
Soft waxy rhododendrons.
Banana coloured daffodils,
with orange centres smile.
The evening’s coolness settles pollution.
And the temperature and light protect me.
My ears are closed to cars that pass by.
I’m in a little dreamy bubble.
Pass the chippy on the way.
Hot fat chips,
please, and make it double.
Rachel Van Den Bergen
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AFTERNOON TEA WITH PYTHAGORAS
Tuesday afternoon in the Ritz
Having afternoon tea with Pythagoras.
He said, between mouthfuls of strawberry tart,
Love is simply mathematic.
As I watched the pastry crumbs
Ooze from his plump and irregular lips,
Like crumbly, hungrily numbers,
I realised his hypothesis was true.
A squared plus B squared
Does equal C squared,
And love is most irrefutably
Mathematics.
Melanie Rees
Born in Salford, Melanie Rees has interests including yoga, reading, performing and writing poetry. “I started writing when I was 11 and my work is influenced by spirituality and my family. I would describe my style as quirky.” Aged 35, Melanie is a teacher with an ambition to receive an Oscar for a screenplay. ”I have written over 50 poems and two of my own screenplays,” added Melanie.
A SHILLING FOR A CLOVER
Once in the garden as a child, my father said to me,
Find a four leaf clover and so lucky you will be.
He promised me a shilling to pay me for my find
It had to be a four leaf, not any other kind.
I searched between the buttercups and round the daisies too
I searched until my fingertips were wet and turning blue
The sun was fading in the sky and dusk was almost nigh
I did not find the clover so I began to cry
My father’s shadow stood right there and then he took my hand
He smiled at me so lovingly, just listen and understand
You searched and looked and did your best so do not be depleted
All that matters in your life is that you have competed
There is no failure for anyone who simply shows they’re willing
It’s cold my child, now come inside and here’s your well-earned shilling
Sylvia Singleton
HAPPINESS HAS WON
In the middle of an ocean
Lies a land that no-one knows
Lives a wide selection of nature
And weird plants that grow
Alongside the palm fringed beaches
That touch the coral sea
And no-one knows about this place
Except for you and me
Sea lions bask among the rocks
And lizards dart around
Eagles screech overhead
What a paradise we’ve found
A mountain scrapes the heavens
Among this peaceful land
Otters swim in the blue lagoon
And frolic on the sand
War ceases to exist here
Nature is as one
This is a place of solitude
Where happiness has won
Chloe Halstead
Born in St Annes, Chloe Halstead has interests including drawing, reading and writing. “I started writing when I was eight. I have always had an active imagination and love adventure,” she explained. “I would describe my style as nostalgic and comic and I would like to be remembered as an innovative and adventurous writer.” Aged 15, Chloe is a student with ambitions to become a well known author and to have a part in the series of Doctor Who.
BAKING DAY
The troops were hungry in the war
Always knocking on our door
Of mother’s baking they had heard
We don’t know who has spread the word.
Bren gun carriers, then a tank.
It’s like an army taxi rank.
Ted Case would come and Bertie Batten
The more they come the more they’ll fatten.
Another knock on our back door
Custard dripping on the floor.
Mother’s so busy I dare not cry
When will I get my apple pie?
Robert Hill
MY FAVOURITE TEAM
Sunderland with its football team,
On match days followers are supreme.
They saunter to the Stadium of Light,
With pride and joy, to the fans delight.
Ardent fans appear on the scene,
Some sing praises of manager Roy Keane.
The locals chant, the passion great,
A call from the crowd, don’t hesitate.
The pressure on the team to do well,
As supporters in frenzy give out a yell.
A brilliant pass, a roar from the crowd,
Make the team feel ever so proud.
To demonstrate speed with the ball,
With thrills and spills, sometimes a fall.
Being elusive with courage and skill,
The team responds with a will.
With injuries and problems they still progress.
The team each week wish for success.
Children with their mams and dads
Begin the roar Haway the Lads.
Doreen Barella
ODE TO ESP MILL
Someone said Who’s there? As I knocked upon the door
It’s only me I cried
Won’t you let me in once more?
And there was music in my dream
As I walked those fields of green
Way over the bonnie spot
To the old wood so serene
And then down to the waterfall
Beside the old mill by the stream
Someone said, who’s there? As I knocked upon the door
It’s only me I cried
Won’t you let me in once more?
Old mill beside babbling brook you lie
Your beauty is such that I can’t touch
Upon your reason why
But I hope and pray I wake another day
To find that’s where ye shall lie
Someone said who’s there? As I knocked upon the door
It’s only me I cried
Won’t you let me in once more?
Brian Walter Smith
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ROMANTIC DESTINATION
I felt the hand of fate,
When boarding the 108,
Lovely eyes, enchanting smile,
Invited me to stay awhile.
I lowered my eyes, did not stare,
Her tender hands took my fare,
As I rode enjoying the view,
Engine made my heart throb for you.
Through the village, then the town,
Nature coloured in russet brown.
Down the valley, up the hill,
Careful driving, what a thrill.
When we reached the terminus,
She softly said, Please leave the bus,
Cheer up, don’t look sad,
I’m driving on to see our lad.
Thomas Conlon
NEW BEGINNING
New year, new beginning, new life, oh what joy,
New blessings, new friends, all these things our Lord brings.
New seasons, new relationships.
But remember this, that Christ our Lord and saviour did all this.
How often do we share that richest gift on earth?
The one and only God and King, who at the beginning made all these things.
Thank you Lord, for your love.
No matter what we do in life.
We know, we have your unfailing love. Amen.
Vera Dunne
DIARIES
What is a day?
A diary’s smiles,
A few tears
A few lies.
Work as best you can,
To keep your job,
To keep your man.
What is a week?
Seven days of strife,
Of Poverty, of sex - of life.
What is a month?
Too long or not enough, for some.
But the months, weeks and days all gather to form a year,
For,
Fear it, fear it not,
Years are really
All we’ve got.
Hilary Butler
OUR GREEN AND PLEASANT LAND
We worked to keep our green and pleasant land
And with our hands did toil from morn till dusk.
Ploughing and harvesting the fields of England,
As our country was at war.
We found it hard at first, but we never gave in
We did the best we could
To keep our green and pleasant land.
The land of my birth.
We thanked God for his help during this dark time.
For the sun that shined to bring the harvest to ripe.
We were all so proud on harvest thanksgiving day,
We knew we had done our best for our king and country
And our green and pleasant land.
Barbara Hitchcock
CUCKOO BRIDGE
The veins on the lake are strafed by the breeze
As innumerate waves sally forth evenly.
Each piles up on the shore, in their race to the end
Both framing the sky and the beach that they tend.
High above are the planes from eponymous heath,
Far removed from the buttercups dancing beneath
And the breeze that enlivens both of these things,
Is the same one caressing the butterfly’s wings.
The cormorant swallows her catch with disdain,
She ignores the distraction of the laden freight train,
Its noise on the breeze passes off without note
As she’s already preoccupied, preening her coat.
The fishermen sit as their lines bob and play
In time with laser class masts as they sway.
Such rhythms endure despite all the unease,
Because we’ve tomorrow’s fresh hope, and the breeze.
Our views character changes with the light losing force
But the rabbit continues to eat without pause.
The cuckoo calls boldly, as by the breeze tossed
Knowing that things of great value, still carry great cost.
Asa Humphreys
HOMEWARD BOUND
Travelling along life’s highways, reaching for the sun.
Many thoughts of home are with me and through my mind they run.
I’ve seen the regal Taj Mahal, the Pyramids, and Niagara Falls,
The Rockies took my breath away, but my homeland forever calls.
I’ve sailed many seas, and mountains I’ve climbed as I’ve looked for much adventure.
I’ve water skiied and pony trekked, and on many paths I’ve ventured.
But no matter where I’ve been, wherever I have roamed,
The only place I want to be is with my family way back home.
My travels have taken me far and wide, across many foreign lands.
Some were unexpected and were never in my plans!
Now my journey is homeward bound, for no matter where you roam,
With your family’s love and affection, there’s really no place quite like home!
Jan Imeson, Allington, Lincolnshire
INSPIRATION
Inspiring my heart,
Never to feel alone.
Stories and memories of people to love.
Inspiring my soul,
Real love to give out
And love will return,
Take time to feel it.
Inspiring my mind,
Over the hills in my life,
Never to give in, my
Strength will prevail.
Sharon Kemp
Born in Hull, Sharon Kemp has interests including reading, belly-dancing and poetry. “I have always liked certain styles of poetry and I didn’t start writing for a particular reason,” she explained. “I would describe my style as from-the-heart and I would like to be remembered as someone who cared for others.” Aged 46, Sharon is a radio controller with an ambition to live life and be free spirited. “The people I would most like to meet are Led Zeppelin because I think they are brilliant,” added Sharon.
SLEEP
Oft I ponder that there would be no better place
for my weary brow to rest
than upon your chest.
And I would lay there with good grace.
Your breathing, gently rocking my head
with each inhalation,
then exhalation.
You would keep me so warm in bed.
Envisaging myself wrapped in your arms,
slumber soon overcomes me
and so I dream sweet dreams of thee,
soothing me like the music of psalms.
Until morning this bedtime fantasy,
allows me to linger in ecstasy.
Paula Harvey
CARAMEL-COATED POPCORN
On my right, the river.
To the left, Route 22
Guides the occasional car to Stockton and Lambertville.
Over me, the trees curve,
A shifting, whispering roof.
The river is shallow, almost motionless,
Hardly a ripple
On its blue-green and silver expanse.
So lazy, silver and white,
The wide, slow Delaware.
Almost a lake, just a slight ripple here and there.
Would you like some caramel coated popcorn?
Startles me.
But the river, the river,
So bright,
So wide,
So slow.
Robin Thomas
I MISS YOU
I miss your eyes smiling to me
changing colours depending on time of the day
your skin against mine
your rough cheeks in the morning
I miss the smell you had brought
every time you came back from the beach
sand on your feet
shells in your pockets
I miss you
please visit me at last in my dreams
Monika Fukala
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VERBAL WARNING
I was warned by our legal eagle,
To cover all points comprehensively.
As up to a point, I have a choice,
A ploy, I employ, that may well annoy,
Is to craftily drop my voice,
For words of great sensitivity,
Then engage in a verbal sprint,
So they don’t catch the words that I say.
My twisted psychology may sound a bit bent,
But the effect it has is equivalent
In a way, to the way,
That they won’t read the very small print.
Geoffrey Martin
DREAMSONG
Strong winds caress my body, lifting wings higher,
I soar and wheel around, gazing below with
A raptor’s vision.
Miles of earth and sky, clouds, space,
I am just a small speck, insignificant compared with the world,
Wings are twin fringes, seeking currents of air.
This summer has made the earth green and lush.
Others crawl upon earth like ants,
Working together, conferring, fashioning tools that cut
Chisel and scarify.
Whiter than snow, is the chalk of Uffington’s land,
A mane flows, or is it George’s quarry?
A single eye watches as I spiral downward,
Examining their progress.
The beings are large, and unlike insects,
Their present labour is above the ground,
Weeping with gratitude they clasp each other,
Giving thanks to their skill.
And I continue my journey, circling upwards, until invisible
Calling and pleading with the holder of my soul.
Sharon Brown
A PRISONER’S FREEDOM
They have put me in a prison
And to my freedom hold the key.
But I still have the last laugh
For they really haven’t got me.
At night when I am in my bed
I am free inside my head.
IN my thoughts I travel far
Without the need of train or car.
I can travel almost anywhere
Free from worry, free from care.
I can fly to Spain or France
My mind can sing, my soul can dance.
For whatever may be my sin or crime
My innermost thoughts are only mine.
No warder, prison, cell or key
Can eradicate those thoughts by me.
No prison cell or iron bars
Can stop my travel to the stars.
Even locked in here I still am free
For inside my head I need no key.
Joan Gallen
SONG FOR KATE
I see you,
Perched upon my sofa,
A face suffused with warmth,
Filled with smiles.
I watched tonight,
In softer light,
Tried to capture on base paper,
The iridescent translucence of your skin.
So young, so unlived in.
Hair so unlike mine,
Dark mahogany with auburn glint
to match your eyes,
At times,
Dark and unfathomable,
Now,
Bright and mischievous,
With bubbling tears of laughter,
Just enough,
To bathe a fairy in.
Shirley Wood
THE MEDIA
Have you noticed how the media
Tells us things to cheer us up?
The sudden rise in price of fuel
And how England lost the cup
They don’t pull any punches
Let you have it straight from the heart
They’re going to build on green belt land
And that’ll be just the start
Well it doesn’t matter, does it?
If we’re all soon out of pocket
When there’s not enough land to grow our food
And prices shoot up like a rocket
In no uncertain terms, we’re told
To be thrifty,busy as bees
If we want to save this world of ours
And its animals, fish and trees
So recycle, recycle, the cry goes up
If we don’t, we’ll be on a sticky wicket
Then maybe, just for once, they’d say
Well done, now that’s the ticket.
Lucy Williams
WHAT IS LIFE WITHOUT HOPE?
Life has its ups and downs
But without hope, you can feel doomed
In achieving what is meant for you
Hope can make you feel magical
Waiting patiently, however long it takes
Knowing that what is hoped for
Will happen sooner or later
As long as you have faith and hope
In this world
Life can be eventful
Just you wait and see
It will be possible
To do what you want
If you only have hope
Bernadette Beckford
Dedicated to anyone who does not realise they have a guardian angel looking after them. I have my own guardian angel.
STOWY
Here we sit in a world of confusion,
Is this reality, or just an illusion?
News from afar comes at you, oi!
Please, don’t let that be the news of our boy.
British Army, he went in so young,
From a small child, he dreamt of firing a bullet from a gun.
No, not my son, but my brother, Stowy Boy, my parent’s son.
Operation-war number three, six months, no peace.
When, please will this cease?
Boy, so kind, placid, gentle, father, son and brother of mine,
This is the thought of every soldier’s mum; It’s not my boy this time?
Wind it up, go fast Iraqi tour operation,
Come back to your family, a whole and fine conversation.
Our prayers always flowing from sub-conscious minds,
Please, our Lord, protect him this time.
Natalie Stow
THE LIFE HEREAFTER
Where do we go in the life hereafter,
Where do we go from here?
To heaven or hell, can anyone tell,
Do we meet the ones we once held so dear?
Where do we go in the life hereafter,
Is it into a meadow or glade?
Do we play and have fun within our kingdom come
Until life on earth’s memories fade?
Where do we go in the life hereafter,
Where do we go from here?
To a castle so white, shining so bright
Into the fluffy clouds do we all disappear?
Where do we go in the life hereafter
Does it matter that no one knows?
Spend time on earth wisely, kindly and loving
Your time will come and that’s how it goes
Sharon Richardson
BENCH GAMES
Disregarded or unnoticed,
Shapeless, stinking pile of rags,
Formed itself as I passed quickly,
Slid a hand into its bags.
Clinking, clanking cobbled footsteps.
I alone noticed the horror,
Rusty knife and sweet white powder,
Bench of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Snaking slowly to your brain cells,
There goes gallant Mr Flash,
Just an early grey March evening,
But how your deeds did cut a dash.
I hurried on to warmth and safety,
I barely took a backward glance,
No invitation was forthcoming,
To join you in your deadly dance.
I could have walked your gloomy pathways,
I could have worshipped at your knee,
Though I chased rainbows, not white dragons,
It is but chance it’s you, not me.
Chris Clark
SPIRIT ON A MELLOW BREEZE
I drifted softly on a mellow breeze
Through my village I loved ...
Was born and raised.
I drifted onwards and came to the park
And saw Mum and Dad with sister Kate.
The locals were gathered around Badgers’ Inn
Exchanging tall stories
From times past to present.
The sports field, church and school,
Unchanged through the years
From my life on Earth.
I hear the echoes through the trees
Reminding me my time is near ...
And I must take my leave.
My faithful dog, Panda, lay asleep on my grave
Amidst the flowers freshly laid,
He awoke with a whimper - I shed my tears
And then I returned to my home below.
Jim Carlin
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OH ONCE AGAIN
Oh once again to be a child
With doting parents and siblings proud
Picking buttercups and daisies
As I danced with glee
Far too young to be aware
That my beautiful world held adversity
With no thoughts of tomorrow
Heartache, pain
No anguish, illness
Or the bloodiness of war again
For we are all God’s children
And each and every death brings pain
No notion about violence on the streets
Of hatred, stabbings, murder or grief
Oh once again to be a child
For only love not hate
Will set adults free
To live in our beautiful world harmoniously
Joan Kernick
TOUCH OF MAGIC
In the dark of night, until first light,
The fairies come to play.
Twilight, dimpsy they appear.
We don’t see them by day.
They play lilting tunes on a magical flute
And dance the whole night long.
They sing with voices soft and sweet,
An enchanting, mystical song.
Any human kind may be bewitched
To hear this haunting sound.
Any maid or man who hears the song
May think paradise be found.
Be sure you’re blessed if you witness this
For the gift is not granted to all
And never a soul must you tell of the scene
Or never again will they call.
Betty Burrage
AT THE PINAKOCHEK ART GALLERY - MUNICH
Echoing footsteps fill vast halls,
Attendants nod at genius on creamy walls.
Sighs a lady, My friends, I feel faint,
Nothing but yards of ancient paint.
Would like a cuppa. Monet, Van Gogh
Even Cezanne, too much, taken all I can.
Steamy hot chocolate, Bavarian cakes,
Dark with cherries, served up by the man who bakes.
Hearing English accents, happy travellers tales,
He leans forward and asks, Are you ladies from Wales?
No, no, no! A unison chant reply.
Always can tell ladies from there, never fails.
No, no, no! Three voices, a chorused cry.
Their empty silence meets his disbelief.
Then confiding, tortured with grief,
Eyes saddened and dim, lips edged thin,
My ex-wife was from Wales.
Three ladies gazed upward, sympathised with him.
Kay Pollard
“Dedicated to my lovely daughter Serena and her good friend Laurie, who introduced me to the beautiful city of Munich.”
Born in Jersey, Kay Pollard has interests including world travel, photography and old movies. “I started writing a couple of years ago when I joined a local class. It helps to keep me mentally active,” she explained. “My work is influenced by everyday instances and I would describe my style as quirky. I would like to be remembered for my ability to see the humour in the blackest of moments.” Kay is retired and has an ambition to live as long as she can.
TIME
What is time?
Something that passes so quickly
When you think you have all day
The minutes seem to fly
And then the hours have passed away
Soon you realise the days have gone
And days are soon a week
Very soon we are wishing a Happy New Year
There seems hardly time to speak
This thing called Time rules us all
Every child, woman or man
We should count it as very precious
And use it as best we can
We should do what we wish to do today
And not leave it until tomorrow
Time will wait for no one
Do not think back with sorrow
Treat Time as very precious
Before the hours have ticked, today
Then you won’t look back with sadness
Because the years have flown away
Violetta Jean Ferguson
THE TANGOISH FOXTROT
I went to church the other day
I tangoed and you did the foxtrot.
Teach me the foxtrot, Papa,
The twist and turns
The meaning of the dance.
I want to do the dance
In unity with you
For the pleasure of our Lord.
I know I shall dance
In a tango sort of way
And I will understand
The rhythm of the dance.
For them,
I will not impede your feet and hands,
Yes the dance will be my own
But it will allow you in a better way
A free way,
To dance with your whole soul
The glorious foxtrot.
Teach me the foxtrot, Papa,
I shall dance it in a tango sort of way.
Francesca Tolond
WILLOW BRANCHES
By the library, by the canal,
Stand two willow trees,
Bendy branches looking down.
Like cautious sisters at the church
Of watery wine. In the winter,
There are some yellows to dilute
The greens and brown,
As if they were an old print pad
That broke their colours on the trees,
Wavelets almost thinking,
Skating on sunlit triangles to re-tell
The eye world the wind has shaped.
These are their sums,
Like undone strings in tie,
That ravel themselves nicely,
Factors that divide the hairs,
The willow is unfurled
On a new and silken world.
I cannot see the things I see,
At least the way it seems to me.
Simon Partridge
SOUTHWARK CATHEDRAL
Over the water from old London city
Built by the river centuries ago
Southwark cathedral, tracing medieval history
Flies a bright flag from its graceful square tower
From London Bridge, go down the dank steps
To the churchyard garden laid out below
To the sun-lit lawn and shady trees
Where workers, tourists and beggars find peace
Hemmed in by new buildings, accessed by alleys
Overhead trains on elevated rails rattle and rumble by all day
Inside are lofty gothic arches
Candles flicker in a hallowed space
Housing precious objects and effigies
Once martyrs were condemned here for heresy
Once Shakespeare drew crowds to his plays nearby
London Bridge paraded heads on spikes
Bear-baiting was rife, people were poor
And Bankside was a den of vice
Now, only the echo of footsteps and whisper of voices within
And the rising harmonies of the choir as evensong begins
Rachel Smith
DIFFERENT RACES
Us humans are all different,
We are all of a different race,
We have unique fingerprints,
All have a different face.
Black, white, Mexican people,
Chinese, Asian, Polish too,
But we are all human beings,
Just different, that’s true.
All have different ways
Of living our lives each day.
Some believe in nothing at all,
Some believe to pray.
We all come from the same place,
We all have feelings so deep,
We all need food and water,
We all need to sleep.
Different races fight one another,
They forget we are all the same,
Only have different coloured skins,
Only have different names.
Marie Lambert
HOOTS MON
One Sunday morning while you slept it off
I couldn’t stand your sickly cough
Out to the garden I did go
And being a nosey so and so
I thought I heard a noise, a hoot
Was that an owl in hot pursuit?
I hooted back and stood to wait
Would my new friend take the bait?
I really was quite surprised
When Owly once again replied
And so it became a daily hack
To hoot at owl, and he’d hoot back.
This went on for many a day
Until my neighbour came to stay,
Her house backed onto the end of mine
With lots of trees where they entwined.
She said her husband was quite absurd
Because he would call to an owl he heard
And so we found out that there was no owl
Just me and him, friends not fowl.
Guy Aldridge
RETURN JOURNEY
I travel by plane, train or car,
To see wonders near and far.
But wherever I may roam,
I am always glad to be coming home.
Flying back, I see below me,
A patchwork quilt that is my country.
Fields of light green, fields of dark green,
Wherever I’ve been I will not have seen.
A sight more rare,
Nor a country more fair.
Barbara Cleere
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SWEET CHERRIES
Sweet are the cherries,
That hang so delicately from their stem.
Round and robust,
Like your gaze, as it nurtures the wounds and tears of a reckless world.
Glitter dances on my skin,
In my breath I am received and graced by your love,
Less restrained, without chains, we are free.
I will not forget thee, my love,
Our blissful adventures through our youth.
Through it all we have each other as the reflection of gravity,
Yet I do not possess thee, that’s why we are already in the infinity of our affection.
Isabel Tepper
THE ROMANTIC RIVER IN LITERARY RICHMOND
The romantic river flows through literary Richmond
As the Thames in London sets the scene
And the bridge is built across the rippling water
Where the riverbanks run along the pathway
While visitors walk in meadow nursery lands
Clasped hands held in a memorable, modern epoch
A fashionable town on the theatre stage
Contemporary architecture adorns the cityscape
The vista of the park on the hill
And a royal palace stands resplendent
Heritage and history in centennial triumph
Turners painting in a pictorial view
Art is illustrated in museum galleries
Princes and patrons donate to the nation
A place in England’s capital garden
From stream to placid island ait
Courting couples stroll by the wayside
Where feelings flourish in the summer sun
And flowers fill the scent of the season
Love is the time in the heart of happiness
Elizabeth Tittensor
CHANGING SEASONS
These days, it’s layers,
Hot and cold, all in an hour.
Animals, birds and humans bewildered,
The whole world confused,
As arctic winds provoke.
Weather patterns swirl around
And centuries of established life,
Ruthlessly ransacked by human raiders.
The circle of life rudely dislodged
And not for the first time,
Civilisation is perched on a slippery ledge,
And where is that precious ingredient,
Do you remember common sense?
Seasons and senses, singularly scuppered.
Margaret Ann Wheatley
THE LIGHTHOUSE
It must be wonderful to see a lighthouse shining
When you are at sea,
Because it looks very impressive and grand,
When you are on dry land.
It is truly a pleasing sight,
As it turns around its little light,
Keeping sailors safe in bad light and at night.
When the fog horn sounds,
We all hope nothing runs aground,
In this modern world, as things stand,
Satellite systems aren’t so grand
And just a little, old lighthouse standing there,
So everyone can share,
I don’t think it could be replaced,
What else could give you light in the right place?
David A Smith
TODAY’S PAPER
A cherry tree
With a labrador watering it
The golden liquid trickling down the bark
A Porsche Boxster with bloody seagulls shitting on it
Like a crazed ex ruining a wedding
A pond with a snake devouring the fish
A dislocated jaw sliding over an orange carp
A surfboard with a great white shark stalking beneath Sharp teeth poised to sink into its prey
A council office with pigeons nesting in the old roof
Cooing and pooing down its Roman-esque architecture
A wooden floor with mites tunnelling their highways within Weakening the aesthetics
A human with nature colliding
Christopher G Elliott
ODYSSEY
The river runs to the end of its time
Mid the sepals of matching unity
On flower-capped vines and dark green leaves.
And glimpses of light between the trees,
Give hope of chances
And glances of laughter
Irretrievably trapped in a time gone by
Or a possible future.
And round the corner, Uncle Joe’s Diner,
With its blaring sound
And its garish light,
Is the source of earthly nourishment
Until the croaking of frogs in the morning
Leads back to the river
And on to the sea,
To inseparable unity with the ocean.
Elizabeth Ward
LULLABY FOR A BABY SEAL
Rocked by the billows, ocean your bed
Foam-crested pillows cradle your head
Winter chilled starlight frostily gleams
Spangled sky, snow bright, lighting your dreams
Little white daughter, peacefully sleep
Here in the water, close watch we’ll keep
Wild winds with wintry moan soon will arise
Seal calf left all alone, no more lullabies
So sleep while you may, my flippers support you
At the end of the day, safe home I’ve brought you
Rest on the sand flecked with tide foam
Far from the land, soon you must roam
Learning to fish, keeping alive
Each baby seal, on its own, must survive
But when winter storms rage and wild is the water
My love will go with you, my little white daughter
Mavis Timms
GOODBYE TO THE SEA
Above the beach, the raucous gulls
Wheel and screech around the sky
A kindly pensioner with a bag of bread
Feeds them as they swoop on by.
Beneath them on the sea-washed sand
Lies the body of a herring gull all alone,
Motionless, one wing pointing skywards
Feathers ruffled, still windblown.
Waving a last farewell to the ocean,
No more to swoop above the sea,
No more to soar towards the heavens,
Unless, of course, its soul flies free.
Saturnine crows in mourning garb
Maintaining a noisy vigil,
Like pallbearers singing a doleful dirge
While the corpse lies quiet and still.
The incoming tide reclaims the gull,
Tossed from wave to wave,
Heading for its final resting place,
A turbulent, watery grave.
Colin Butler
ALL IN A SMILE
I passed a stranger in the street,
The stranger smiled at me.
In that smile my heart lifted with joy,
A feeling of hope and love.
All in a smile from a stranger.
I asked myself why would the warmth and light in a smile,
make such a difference to my day?
Then my heart realised that the stranger was not a stranger to my soul.
My mind named you a stranger,
But my heart knew you as a friend.
You passed me as a stranger.
Your soul touched my heart as a friend.
You made my day.
Most likely we may never meet again.
I don’t even know your name.
But oh how much you gave me,
All in a smile from a stranger, my friend,
All in a smile.
Pat Dryden
A CHILD’S MEMORIES
The enemy planes came over most nights
The low humming, er ummumm, er ummumm, er ummumm,
Of the approaching enemy bombers.
The wail of the air raid warning siren,
Rising up the scale to hold the top notes,
Its danger shriek, bahn-shee, like, would send us
Scurrying down the cold, old stone stairway,
Into the dank cellar’s hopeful safety,
Into which the sea came up at spring tides.
My little sister, babe in arms, could be timed,
Began to cry a clear twenty minutes
Before the siren’s warning wail began.
Then the Dornier’s engines approaching hum,
Carrying their load of bombs in each hold,
Over the Channel, the sea, Isle of Wight,
The harbour, the marsh, with its wild ponies,
The villages, over us in our cellar.
Over the New Forest and to London,
To unload on folk and families abed.
Margaret Duguid
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MISERABLE
Being miserable is just a state of mind
You might as well be cheerful, that is what I find
When you are miserable and can’t see the end
Of all your troubles, just look around the bend.
Just around the corner, you will usually find
Some kind of thing that will give you peace of mind
Soon you will find that your troubles are not so bad
Then look a bit further, I’m sure you’ll feel glad.
Think to the future and what you must do
Get out of the doldrums and pull yourself through
Things may look quite black or all dull and grey
But then you must think of another day
And who knows but your luck is bound to change
And when you think of it, there is quite a range
You might get a windfall, or win a mighty sum
Then you would change your mind and not be so glum.
Happiness is round the corner and not very far
So cheer up and travel to find your lucky star
And when you find it, then you will smile
Then that will carry you that extra mile.
Ronald Tanner
CRY, FREEDOM - FOR ZIMBABWE
They went to work on the mind at first;
The blind that were leading the blind, at worst.
They said it was all for the one, you see,
One that’s for all in our liberty.
So we wrecked what we had in our anarchy -
We rubbled it all; no trouble at all,
For we tore and we wrenched and we slew -
But found the rebuilding impossibly hard,
Harder than anything else that we knew.
Our motives grew weaker, the outlook got bleaker.
Though they’d said it was all for the Motherland,
the Fatherland, for freedom, when
We know it’s not now, but we didn’t know then.
Sean T Jackson
COOL BREEZE
You came as kittens
And soon grew to be fat,
Domestic, lovable cats,
Supreme among the eminent, female.
Constant companions,
Tortoise-shell markings,
Mottled in ginger, white, brown and black.
Mitzy and Felicity,
With your antics you made us
Laugh and playing with the squirrels,
Always waiting outside the bungalow,
To clean and arrange and to groom oneself,
With evident vanity.
Sitting there in all your glory,
Waiting for us to come home,
You have both gone to play in the
Wild flower fields in the sky, where
We see you often when the wind blows.
Tricia Jones
Born in Chigwell, Tricia Jones has interests including writing and painting. “I started writing because I love rough nature and the countryside,” she remarked. “I tend to write about whatever comes into my mind and I would like to be remembered as someone who never hurt anyone.” Tricia is married to Dennis and they have children Melissa and Michael and a grandson, Finn. “I have written over 500 poems and my biggest fantasy would be for all illnesses to be curable,” added Tricia.
FLIGHTS OF FANCY
The Galapagos archipelago is where I long to be.
I’d sit with the iguanas and watch them eat their tea.
I’d fly off with the albatross to a land far away
To visit the great silver backs and join them in their play.
I’d go in search of orchids, the rarest type of course
Until taking flight again on the back of a winged horse.
Machu Picchu would beckon me to climb it’s ancient hill.
I would go at midnight when all around was still.
Lake Titicaca, where the Incas made their home,
On the wings of a condor to the Andes I would roam.
Tierra del Fuego, the name intrigues me so
Then on to Antarctica to see the penguins in the snow.
The seven seas would beckon me, searching till I find
Wonderful dreams to follow and treasure in my mind.
Jeanette Nicol
THE STRIKE
The mamba held his distance, then
Silently and unexpected,
Desperation slithered into view.
A flash of black:
The strike!
Delivered to the throat
By five young, yawning fangs
Which grasped and pulled, and
Instantly were gone,
Careering down Moi Avenue,
With nothing to their name except
A broken bottle, brandished for defence.
Edward N Ravenhall
THE SOMME, DON’T THINK
The officer shouted, over the top,
Pick up your heels, run till you drop.
Don’t think about your loving wife
Or the children who are the light of your life.
Forget the girl who kissed you goodbye,
Who vowed to be true as time went by.
Never mind that your life has been in vain,
That you’ll never see your home again.
Don’t think about the tears and the pain
Or lying dead in the falling rain.
Maureen Reynolds
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