Read Poetry from Freedom's Kiss
THE QUEST
The sun’s rays now depart this golden day,
Night’s melodies, with cadence sweet, draws nigh.
The stars pour soft their light into the sky,
Whilst evening clouds drift slowly, slowly by.
Ah, dusk. A time of quiet, calm repose.
The nocturne plays her melody of sound,
With message, perfect love and so profound.
(In hardened hearts it never will abound.)
The purple shadows flood across the field,
The robin now sinks deep into her nest.
Whilst here? I seek once more, my life long quest,
I know he’s there, my unseen, faithful guest.
Derek Lane, Peterborough, Cambridgeshire
AW AH KNOW
Aw ah know aboot
Whit lies behind death’s door
Is that ah don’t know
Ah dinna ken -
That’s aw ah know
An aw ah know is that
Naebody else knows -
They dinna ken -
That’s aw ah know
Prophets and priests
Mullahs, Rabbis, preachers
An their like
They aw say they know
They aw think they know
But ah know, they don’t know
They dinna ken -
That’s aw ah know
Rab Mooney, Stirling
ACROSS THE NIGHT SKY
Across the night sky
Stars wink on and off
Like fleeting thoughts in a dark brain
Carrying messages of light
Across an airless void
Far above the moon beams
Its billion year-old promise to a tired earth
Caresses its surface with the ebb and tuck of tides
Moves lava through the inner reaches of its molten core
Across the night sky
Wink the lights of tiny planes, carrying parcels
Messages of goodwill, across a swirling globe
Frankfurt Rome Winnepeg Tomsk Bogota
Lima Stanley Harare Sydney Rotorua
Crackling messages in a thousand tongues
Across the wastes of space
And I, watching your closed face across the room
Wish that I could send a beam of light
Find the right words, send a coded message
To reach out, across the void
Pat Mackenzie, Glasgow, Scotland
THE SLAVE’S STORY
Alone he sits worn out and frail
Stop a moment and listen to his tale
Taken from his land torn from his kin
Who is guilty of this great sin?
In the land of the so called free
In the slave market sold was he
No freedom no rights for him
Only a chattel to his master’s whims
In the fields he toiled for years
No rest for him just toil and tears
Sold on by his master for little gain
Must he a slave in bondage remain
In this foreign land he lies
No one to mourn his demise
May his spirit to his birth land go
And may his gods grant this be so
John McKay, Edinburgh, Scotland
MY DARLING CAT
My cat passed away,
Her name was Sapphire,
I had her from three days old,
And she had a heart of gold.
I bottle fed her,
Every four hours,
Just like a mum,
Nurturing her young.
Then when Sapphire wanted a poo,
I took her into her sandtray loo.
I miss her so much,
I can hardly say,
Without the tears,
Falling down my face.
Oh, Sapphire. You were my best friend,
Who I will always treasure,
‘Til my very end.
Lin Star, Paignton, Devon
Born in London, Lin Star has interests including writing poetry, crosswords and stamp collecting. “I have written all my life to express life in words of love and fun. My work is influenced by real life and I would describe my style as a mixture of true life and situations of love and laughter. I would like to be remembered for my sense of humour, which I share with people through my poems.” Aged 56, Linda is married to Richard and she has written over 60 poems. “The person I would most like to meet is the comedian Lee Evans because I love the laughter he brings to peoples’ lives.”
JOEY THE CLOWN
Wearing patched baggy trousers, floppy shoes tied with string,
Joey tumbles and stumbles round the green circus ring.
With his blackened big eyes, white face, painted lips,
A red ball for a nose and two ears like grips.
He’s a spotty blue tie that lights up and spins,
Flips a back somersault, then gets up and grins.
Hear the music and drums, smell the sawdusty air,
See his comical tricks as he makes the crowd cheer.
When a daffodil grows out of Joey’s squashed hat,
A little boy cries, Mum I want to do that.
But Joey’s heart’s sorely troubled as he asks,
What’s to be for a clown growing old,
Who is weak in his knee?
What do old clowns do when age gets them down?
Why they jump up and tumble and grin like a clown?
Maureen Plenderleith, Alveston, South Gloucestershire
Born in Surrey, the mother of four daughters, and previously living in Sunderland and Spain, the now retired Maureen PlenderIeith has been a keen writer for several years, sharing with others the simplicity of nature, places and people. Maureen and her husband Michael especially love travelling both close to home and abroad. Their favourite holiday spot is the Greek Islands. Many of her poems have been read on their local radio. "Copies of one of my books, Backpacking Grannies (258 pages) are
available at £9.99 post free from: Maureen Plenderleith, The Old Chapel, The Down, Alveston, Gloucestershire, BS35 3PH.”
BLUE BABE
She removed her
Cool blue shades
And adjusted the
Strap on her
Blueberry satin bikini.
She picked up
The postcard and
Tried to write
Meaningful words from
Her broken heart.
That read Having
A crisis, gone
Abroad to a
Tropical paradise
Hope you are
Well, back soon.
Blue Babe.
Julia Ashford, Bridgwater, Somerset
Return to the top of the page
LIKE A DOVE
Why oh why has all along my love has been so shy?
I feel so cheated, that I’ve been so sly
I thought I was being so creative for the future
And had my dream but so bounded by ignorance
And my past but now I hated.
This taught me you should always be a team
All the good, all the bad
It helps if you have trust but please
Don’t let it be lust.
We all have our wrongs
Mine was the past which I didn’t leave so fast
That played the same old songs
Stuck in a track, didn’t think it would last
So endless, is it time to hit the sack?
Love is so bliss
It’s your choice to not make a mess
I’ve learned my biggest mistake pushed away the one I love
So hold on to the ones you value
Don’t let them fly away like a dove.
Jamie Dewey, Bristol, Somerset
Born in Bristol, Jamie Dewey has interests including weight training, cycling, charity events and playing the saxophone. “My work is influenced by not realising what we have until it’s gone, and I would like to be remembered as a person who expresses that it’s never too late and a great dad to my son.” Aged 33, Jamie has an ambition to inspire his son’s dreams. “My biggest fantasy is to be a superhero and my worst nightmare is to not being able to face my fears."
REGRETS
Conversation, my thoughts, I wanted to share
His silence would wound me, and feeling despair
I’d grumble, be sharp with him, be quite unfair
My temper was useless for nothing was gained
It made no impression, his silence maintained
His manners were quiet and gentle, restrained
He loved me completely, whatever I said
Why did I complain, get it into my head
That talk didn’t matter? And now that he’s dead
I remember the words he spoke every day
I love you my darling, he’d look up and say
Never failing to do that. That was his way
Consistent and caring, and quiet and kind
But not chatty or talkative, why did I find?
That so hard to live with, but now in my mind
My darling, my lovely, I love you my dear
Now are the only words I wish I could hear
And wish I could say to him, but he’s not here
Diane Birley, Nelson St Deal, Kent
THE OLD MAN
Your great arms hold me steady,
Just like you held my father,
And his father,
So strong, so safe.
But now you are older, weaker,
No longer do you reach for the sky,
No longer do you hold me steady,
Your back is too bent, too weary.
Will you rise from the well of time?
No, the birds have flown from the nest of years afore.
Jamie Lee Stevenson, Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire
The tree in question is known by my family as ‘The Old Man.’
IT AFFECTS US ALL
Tidal waves,
Torrential rain
Even heat and drought
Ice-caps melt
And sea levels rise
I don’t think I’ve left anything out
Species dying
Time goes flying
As all the world does fade away
Global warming affects us all
So it’s simple what we should do
Turn off a plug
Or start to walk
To reduce our CO2
Olivia Barber, Market Drayton, Shropshire
A VILLAGE CALLED FINEDON
A village life can be fun
And the village of Finedon isn’t a bad one
Whether you’re young, or whether you’re old
There’s something for all or so I’ve been told
There’s a football club and gym for the sporty types
A cricket club and tennis club too
And for the younger members of the community, two parks
And for the more mature, a bowling green for you
There’s a community centre with many events
A historical society too
A plethora of antique establishments
And restaurants, we have a few
So living in Finedon, Northamptonshire can be worthwhile
If you want something different to do
Check out our website for more information
And come see for yourself if it’s true
Sally Harris, Wellingborough, Northants
Born in Wellingborough, Sally Harris has interests including writing poetry, yoga and walking. “I started writing when I was about five years-old. I suppose I just had the knack for it,” she commented. “My work is influenced by anything and everything and I would describe my style as freestyle because I tend to write how it comes out. I would like to be remembered as someone who gave their heart unconditionally, never expecting anything in return.” Aged 41, Sally is a housewife and is married to John.
MAC MALLARD DUCK CLAN
I am a duck
I am wild, but I am tame
Hotel Lochernhead staff
Gave me a name
My name is Donald
The Mac Mallard Duck kind
We are the friendliest clan
That you will ever find
I am the head and the leader
Of Mac Mallard Duck Clan
Winter, our hotel is closed
And for more food we must scan
I would like to say please
If bad winters you stay
We would like your leftovers
Do not send us away
The winter’s so hard
For Mac Mallard Duck Clan
So do throw us some food
For you know who I am
Alma Olivia Hynd, Leasingham, Lincolnshire
FINDING OUT
I want to see granny.
I knew that she was dead.
Now in the front parlour
Not resting in her bed.
They try to keep me out
And I cannot think why,
But I keep on asking
For I want to say goodbye.
Now I’m getting more upset
So at last they let me in,
With a promise not to cry
As though it were a sin.
For me it was so special
Though only six years old,
The sun shone in upon her face
She didn’t look so old.
Isn’t she lovely, the words spilled out,
I felt her warm caress.
All that she meant was with me still,
Just sent from a different address.
Anne McNair, Verwood, Dorset
Return to the top of the page.
