Read Poetry from Uplifting Moments...
THE RIVER DEE
In the quiet I stand
Alone for once, I have no thoughts of home.
Oh, lovely peaceful Heswall, across the sands,
Again I see a thrilling fascinating scene,
The creepy crawly River Dee.
A wilderness of sand and across the bay,
The patchwork beauty of Rhyl,
Very slowly the river creeps in
Unlike a city, rivers din and dotted
Here and there are tiny sailing boats,
Turn slowly and begin a gentle float,
Swifter now the river’s flowing,
No wind yet now is fiercely blowing.
A transformation of the desert,
Like sands, year in, year out,
The story of the pebbles in my hand.
All time stands still for a little while,
Then all around me now
My childhood haunts,
For once I have no thoughts of home,
Duck’s, geese, and seagulls call in
To dip and dive, and fly away again.
Then, as in the twinkling of an eye,
Once more the sands are patched and dry,
As I turn to say a fond farewell to the beautiful River Dee.
Peter Parsons
"I would like to thank my mother Adele, and my wife Irene, for
helping me and encouraging me, when I nearly gave up."
Born in Edmonton, London, Peter Parsons has interests including poetry and music. “I started writing in 2005 after my mother died and having lost all of my family,” he said. “My mother and wife influence my work.” Peter, 74, would like to be Mervin King of the Bank of England for a day, and he would have liked to have met Charlie Chaplin or Robin Hood. “I’d like to be remembered in lights, as a poet and entertainer,” he said.
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MY MOTHER’S LOVE
My mother’s love
was a cool summer breeze on a hot summer’s day
My mother’s love
was the shawl that wrapped around my shoulders
on the long walk home on a cold winter’s night
My mother’s love
was the depth of the ocean
and the vastness of a universe undiscovered
My mother’s love
was endless, unfathomable and free
My mother’s love
was an open door
an open mind
and an open heart
Sophia Alaynah Syed
"Dedicated to my father and in loving memory of my mother, through their love I discovered the beauty of life."
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THE LITTLE LOST DOG
With curly white fur and a fast wagging tail
The little lost dog crept to market
The people were kind and tried hard to find
Where he lived, but he could only bark it
The vegetable goods and assortment of woods
Made the poor little dog’s eyes glaze over
They asked him his name as it started to rain
But they left him before he barked, Rover
The small dog was alone with the smell of fried fish
They gave him some; he couldn’t eat it
He moped around for a while but he made no one smile
And they eventually told him to beat it
But back on the lawn was a kennel so small
That only poor Rover could own
An angel was sent to see the dog went
To that place in the sky he calls home
The dog didn’t eat jam or slices of ham
The angels were lost and confounded
His master gave him a call from over the wall
And home the little dog bounded!
Charlotte Harris
Charlotte Harris said: “My first poem was published in 2004. Since then I have written over 50 poems published in nearly 40 anthologies. I have published two of my own books, called Passing Angels and Cherubim and Seraphim, available through United Press Ltd. I enjoy writing poems about all sorts of things that inspire me.”
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MEETING A VIP
For the trip to the airport it was nearly time,
To meet that important person so fine,
Mother said, Children, go change your clothes,
We are going quite soon so be on your toes.
The children very soon both reappeared,
Saying, We’re ready, round the corner they peered.
The boy was dressed in a suit, tie and finds,
His sister too, all dressed up to the nines.
Looking at their mother, the boy, he did say,
You could make more effort to dress up, so you may
Greet this great person when he arrives,
And show the respect he will see with his eyes.
At the airport, the plane, it soon touched down,
Then waiting at arrivals, great excitement was found.
They jumped with great joy when that person appeared,
Straight into his arms shouting, Daddy, you’re here!
June Kiernan
"Dedicated to two of my lovely grandchildren, Jasmine and Josh, who inspired this poem."
June Kiernan said: “Since I started two years ago I have written over a hundred poems. I wrote my first poem to comfort my sister when her best friend of 50 years died of cancer. I get inspiration from my grandchildren, my faith, childhood memories, and modern living with all its ups and downs. Ten of my poems were published in our local newspaper and I was happy when a booklet with 26 of my poems raised £60 for a children’s charity. I am married to Albert, enjoy country walks, caravanning and holidays in Portugal. We have three grown-up children and six lovely grandchildren.”
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VOLCANO
Tranquillity reigns, pine-fresh mountain air
Seasons’ structure obeys nature’s law
Wildlife’s cycle; evolves all around
Tiptoeing doe dance with butterfly
Snow tipped peak compliment sunsets glow
Spruce, gently rocks inhabitants to sleep;
serenity
Silently sleeping; a century; now awake
Deep in its bowels magma toils
Rumbles shake the sleepy ground
Feeling the warning, birds vacate; animals scarper
Mighty roars bellow; unrepentant anger about to unleash;
fear
Cracks appear in the forest bed
Rock tumbles from high, crashing far below
Black sulphur clouds shoot up then suffocate the air
Fiery lava; molten sun; erupts, attacks, invades
Marches down mountain side, all in its path defeated
Advancing steady; the devils water, glows with pride;
destruction
Trees smoke; combust then incinerate
Waters bubble; boil; hiss; while being reduced to steam
Eerie silence follows leaving polluted land; darkened sky
Smouldering embers; charred remains; for many years;
Contaminated
Content, the volcano sleeps again
Darren Medland
"Dedicated to my children Sarah, Rachel, Rebecca, Matthew and Callum. I love you all eternally. Hugs and kisses to you all."
Born in Barnstaple, Darren Medland has interests including watching films, West End musicals and walking. “I started writing in order to express my emotions. Life experiences influence my work,” he said. Darren, 42, would like to be the writer of a top book, and to travel the world with his loved one at his side. “I try to do my best in everything,” he said.
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WHAT YOU ARE
You are my shade; blocking me from all the dangers in the world.
You are my shadow; my constant and closest companion.
You are you; giving me your best and endless happiness.
You are my skeleton; without you, I cannot move.
You are a heart; loving me more and more every day.
You are the wind; even when I don’t see you, I feel you all around me.
You are my first dance; innocent, exciting and wonderful.
You are far away; reaching you was my first task, and through that I was able to create and accomplish more for myself.
You are a different kind of love; emotional not physical.
You are the sweetest thing; with you I’ll suffer from diabetes.
You are not the ground; you are the sky because I always seem to float when you’re around.
You are not human; you’re an angel sent to guide me.
You are the sun; making the best in me shine.
You are the moon; with you I’ll always glow.
You are a tractor; you broke down all my walls.
You are a dentist; with you I’ll always smile.
You are my counsellor; teaching me all the things about life and showing me the right pathways.
You say you love me, but whatever the limit, I love you more.
Nikkita Duke
"Dedicated to my dear friend, Majed."
Born in Calabar, Nikkita Duke has interests including singing, piano and drawing, and has been writing since she was 11. “My family and friends influence my work,” she said. “I write as a means of expressing myself.” Nikkita, a student, would like to be a writer and lawyer, and has written over 30 poems, as well as short stories. “I’d like to be remembered as someone who added something positive to the world,” she said.
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CRICKET
Why do we love the game of cricket?
A sunny day, a sticky wicket?
For in this game of timing and skill,
A joy to watch and sure to thrill.
The sound of willow hitting stitch,
A ball of leather making six,
A cloudy day it’s sure to swing,
A thick top edge to fly through slip.
No end of round or half-time break,
Just lunch or tea, a tasty snack.
For now we wear pyjamas too,
And twenty over crickets new.
For many years that time has passed,
So many batsmen showed their class,
From MCG to village green,
Some truly magic moments seen.
I wonder what the future brings,
To break the records that there’ve been,
And who is next to have their day?
We’re sure to know by close of play.
Colin Godfrey
Born in Bethnal Green, Colin Godfrey, 44, has interests including gardening, walking and sport. “I used to write lyrics for a band 20 years ago, and a couple of years ago I changed to poetry,” he said. “The outdoors and everyday life influence my work.” Colin’s ambition is to be a professional garden designer, football writer and poet. He is married to Jacqueline and has a son, Tom. “In my dreams, I’d like to meet the Queen, to show her a garden I designed at Chelsea,” he said.
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BUGS
We don’t have clouds of midges that used to be the law
Because we all have fridges which we didn’t have before.
There are still flying insects, lots of wasps and honey bees
With hives and intricate, beautiful nests in ancient apple trees.
We have a pond where nymphs abound and climb up all the reeds
It’s full of tadpoles, frogs, newts, water lilies and blanket weeds.
It causes lots of interest as a dew pond that’s been here for ages,
And many insects breed therein, we watch their various stages.
A handsome conservation team pays a regular visit,
Donning waders in the heat, conserving all the plants within it.
Goldfish flourish year on year, and there are many of them here.
Plus blanket weed munching, vegetarian fish, as it’s known to be their favourite dish.
Our beautiful pond is the centre of attraction,
But without the bugs there would be no action.
Barbara Hall
Barbara Hall said: “I have been writing for many years and am fired by real life, which is so colourful. My poems are mostly facts in rhyme and this is reflected in most stories and reports. The Alphabet of Cats is published and my work appears in many anthologies and diaries. I live in Reigate with my husband and have two daughters and four grandchildren. Although we are scattered around the country, we are a close-knit family. My hobbies include embroidery, gardening, writing, travel and science.”
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THE LIBRARY
The library in all its glory stood
Amid the community looking good.
A place to feed folks’ insatiable need
To find a real good book to read.
Different kinds of books to forage,
Giving choices, a source of knowledge.
Maybe a novel, biography,
Shelves of history, geography.
Thrillers, romance, fiction, non.
The list is endless, goes on and on.
Alas, technology overtaken.
Readers now google information.
Added to this; introduce the kindle.
Library visitors begin to dwindle.
Progress is killing, quite literally
An age-old institution - the library.
Bev Rogers
Bev Rogers said: “I’ve been writing poetry for many years, however, bringing up a family has been busy, time-consuming, but at the same time wonderful. Now I can devote more time to my passion. I am influenced by life as it happens whether sad or happy, on holiday or just in the garden and have written about many varied subjects. I enjoy writing for friends and family who have encouraged me to develop my own poetry website: WordWays (www.wordways.net). Give me a hit!”
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IMAGINE
Imagine a day at the seaside,
With the sun shining so bright,
The water just lapping gently,
Invitingly calm and blue.
The seagulls cry as the tide comes in,
Diving and dipping their wings,
Oh, what a beautiful peaceful sight,
I wish I could be there too.
The children playing in the sand,
With their colourful buckets and spades,
Building moats and castles,
Then knocking them down again,
Throwing their bouncy beach balls,
Seeing how far they can run,
Splashing, swimming, jumping,
Having real good fun.
As I sit here in my garden,
And think of the youngsters at play,
I tell myself, I’ll have an ice cream,
And that will make my day.
Mary Malyon
"Dedicated to my family and friends."
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THE SPIRIT OF DUNKIRK
They who were bold, and sailed upon the sea of fate;
To ferry brave men from carnage, to safe harbour of Ramsgate.
They did not seek for glory, nor from that duty shirk,
To rescue the nation’s army, from the beaches of Dunkirk.
Unto that small flotilla, the nation owes a debt,
For service that was rendered, and we must ne’er forget.
In the theatre of war, there’s no time for rehearsal,
When they played their part, ‘twas the start of reversal.
They answered the call, in a time of great need,
With heroic performance, and the will to succeed.
Max Kaisen
"Dedicated to the heroic seamen, and their flotilla of small ships,
they created the tide for reversal, through continuous rescuing trips."
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CITY BOY
I want it all; I want it now,
I want it bad; I don’t care how.
I want to put myself about,
I want to own the biggest snout.
I want to be a city boy,
I want to be a rich girl’s toy.
I want a flat in Bonusland,
I want to join that happy band.
I want a Porsche; I want it new,
I want it parked outside - in view.
I want to wear designer gear,
I want it labelled crystal clear.
I want to go abroad and ski,
I want them all to look at me.
I want to be the first in line,
I want what you’ve got to be mine.
Arthur O’Keefe
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THE MOMENT HAS COME
All is ready, a pause to begin,
Let the bands come and the horses in splendour
Cheering and lifting the crowds in the Mall
As they share in the history making this day.
Colourful guests make their way to the place
The Abbey awaits transformed for now
With maples along the nave
And horn-beams cosseting the altar,
Tremors of excitement ripple through the host assembled.
The Queen takes her place
Procession down the aisle, a bride to her prince.
All status dissolves, solemn moment awaits
Simple loving connection.
What is to come we cannot know
We are with them in their promises,
The nation is theirs in their future together
All before is given place
God grant them both a guiding light
To play upon their path through marriage sealed this day.
Ann McNair
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RED-FACED ON THE GREEN
I am in a league at the indoor bowls stadium,
Pre-set overhead heating warms my cranium,
Normally constant, ever reliable,
Tonight, for me, it’s uncomfortable.
Some time later, sitting, taking a breather,
I see three people who shouldn’t be there,
With mallets, trying to hammer cricket
Stumps, also known as wickets,
Into the rink. Clearly I see the horror
On all the bowlers’ faces, sheer terror
Rapidly changing to rage at such desecration.
Purposeful, keen to prevent this transgression,
They surge forward threatening, menacing,
Bodies are tumbling. Police are advancing,
Shouting in the distance. A heavy hand lands
On my shoulder, an amused teammate demands,
Bill, are you going to take your turn or shall
We come back tomorrow? I, appalled,
Red with embarrassment, talk of the town,
I stand up. Will I ever live this down?
Bill Monington
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ALWAYS THE SAME
Comfy in her cosy corner
Ensconced in her high-backed armchair
Beside the tall, dark tiled fireplace
She always sat
Round crinkled face, grey wispy hair
Hands folded neatly across her lap
Blue floral cotton overall crisp and clean
Always the same
Seeming sad, still and silent as a statue
Dimly aware that she was different
Always included, yet apart from all
Separate in her shadow land
Glimpses of gladness captured briefly
In delighted smiles at every warm, welcome touch
And kiss on cheek in hello or goodbye
Special moments, precious and rare
Everything always in the same place
Never completely comprehending her difficulties
Oblivious, obvious, crystal clear now
Always the same
Margaret Hutchison
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SPRING SUN
In the night it rained
and now early morning
is filled with shadows.
Against a light so frail
the birds sing
while minutes unfold, to bring
fullness to every tree,
every blade of grass and bough,
to the blossom on the hawthorn
and the scented lilac bower.
All is waking, replete, from sleep
soft, let shadows delve
and brightness weave,
as sunlight touching ground
a gentle kiss does leave.
Janine Frary
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A TIRED SWIMMER
Being a fish is a fine way
to escape, looks gone anyhow,
that gold comb and matching mirror
dashed in a fit of rancour.
Nails broken, hands scratched
by fragments of shells
prised open by a flap of seagulls.
Waking up from the sand
with silt in her green eyes
she dusts herself off, her
grey fin, a shimmy of silver.
Let the again and again begin,
follow that squid, that long
tapered body to the sea.
Linda Yeaton
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'TIS A LONG WHILE GONE
‘Tis a long while gone, many tides an ebbing and flowing,
Fate took a hand with no way of me knowing,
Our paths set course to converge,
A meeting of minds, thoughts to merge.
‘Tis a long while gone, a year on from our tryst,
Good to be back with the one I have missed.
An old flame from my past, but a chance to rekindle
A friendship, free spirits to commingle.
‘Tis a long while gone,
‘Tis a long while to go.
John Holland
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LOVE
Mutual love colossally bestrides
Each fiddling exception. Mark the gift
Of wholeness of the spirit. Will you sift
The finer grains to sieve a clump? The tides
Move stones, cut earth, a line of sea-wrack leave:
Thus doth affection. So will you give your all,
Cast off your careful weeds, at Syren’s call
Address yourself into another weave?
Or doth your past-bruised sensibility
Soft whisper in your other ear, Take care?
Reserve a measure of your self: don’t share
Your utter soul. Entrust to none fragility.
What’s treason more? To give the heart, or not?
Enchained’s the mind when passion rises hot.
Frederick Rapsey
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LOVE
Mutual love colossally bestrides
Each fiddling exception. Mark the gift
Of wholeness of the spirit. Will you sift
The finer grains to sieve a clump? The tides
Move stones, cut earth, a line of sea-wrack leave:
Thus doth affection. So will you give your all,
Cast off your careful weeds, at Syren’s call
Address yourself into another weave?
Or doth your past-bruised sensibility
Soft whisper in your other ear, Take care?
Reserve a measure of your self: don’t share
Your utter soul. Entrust to none fragility.
What’s treason more? To give the heart, or not?
Enchained’s the mind when passion rises hot.
Frederick Rapsey
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BEHIND THOSE EYES
The sun’s unchanged, the moon’s the same
Its invisible breeze affects the trees
That twist and dance to silent tunes
The air is filled with dappled hues
In town, by coast, down country lane
Smiling faces, sullen frowns catch our glance
What thoughts behind those troubled eyes?
Everyone’s life a secret book
A wistful thought to memories past
The passing years rush by at breakneck speed
Turn the clocks back, if but we could
Recapture all those precious times
Pamela French
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IDOL
Like sunshine you chased the dark clouds away
To ensure us that not just there was a silver lining left
Under each, but the bright dawn
Radiating a golden epoch, beckoned,
Where humans would respect and obey the divine law,
Granting everyone dignity, peace and joy
With a big heart and the king-sized
Courage you were born to transform the world,
To let humankind taste new hope,
To destroy the death might, to love like Jesus Christ.
For moving the Earth in the right direction,
And your labour of love you’ll always be idolised.
Why not honour our idol for the magnificent job
Still being carried on? To bring concord
In the parts of the world torn by wars and discord
You jetted on the fastest airplane Concorde,
From Heathrow airport a lot! Let it bear your name -
The Princess of Wales, as a gift on your 50th birthday
May all in your name always rejoice!
Lucy Carrington
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LONDON BUS
Bigger than most,
caught after breakfast while dining on some morning,
marmalade and toast.
What a fuss, here comes the London bus, to take people out,
Where during the day the street vendor will shout.
Pillar box red and standing tall, in the London traffic,
patiently waiting for another passenger.
Black as liquorice turns the momentous, circling rubber wheels,
taking its passengers to do their deals.
Over Tower Bridge, past Big Ben,
powers the engine with cams turning,
and people yearning
to start earning their wage.
Past the black taxi and the man on a phone
drives the bus through the congestion zone.
Page after page of a book reads the lady, as schoolchildren
take a look out of the window, at London and its wisdom.
Up comes the morning stop;
later the bus will drop
people near their homes.
Warwick Owen
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THE LIFE AFTER WAR
A whisper that hangs in the cool air
Breaks through barriers strong,
And so when the warriors come
They face only sorrow.
Bittersweet memories sting the raw earth
And taint the flowers that bloom,
A life of love is a lifetime ago,
And with it went the harmony of song.
Now people skulk in the shadows
And their scowls echo from the walls,
Why put through this the pure and unbroken?
A war once gone,
Shattered heartbeats.
Jordan Clark
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THE ORCHESTRAL ENSEMBLE
The conductor waves his arms, taps his podium,
Puts one finger to his mouth - there’s a hush,
The drums take a roll and the cymbals crash,
As the conductor’s baton points to the wind section,
The flute then pipes itself on board.
The trumpets start a fanfare and along comes the oboe too,
Orchestral jazz takes its place, with the saxophones singing the blues,
Kettledrums tap a mean beat and a big burst from a Himalayan gong,
Sending shockwaves through the air.
The double bass and cellos spring into action,
The agility of the bassoon and its distinctive croon,
Xylophone, bells and a glockenspiel,
Two harps, strings and clarinet,
Violins, violas and a tambourine,
Completes this ensemble that is so serene.
Oh, close your eyes and listen,
Can you feel that power, the sensibility of music?
Does it make you feel complete?
Such a great merriment tapping in your feet!
David Everitt
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FATHER
I remember father with a whiff of blowy hair
Smoking quickly
Walking gracefully
Gliding through a farmers’ fair
A man of silence a man of action
Loved by many loved by her
Shy but seemed gregarious
Liked to sing an Irish Air
Comfortable in a quick session
Knew the rule to listen well
Did not outstay a welcome
Always heard the last loud bell
Successful in his calling
Faithful to the one who withstood it all
Only my perception
My perception I hear you call
Yet did I really know him
He who stood so very TALL?
I loved him from a distance
He was a man’s man after all
Theodore Sinton
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KITCHEN TABLE INVENTOR
Brooding over chucky and soldiers yields
eggshell structures and crumby creations
that vie for attention with the red tops.
Spoon-stirred ideas slop and splatter to
battle for space with the broadsheets
and congeal between table and mug.
The envelope recycler discovers new
uses for old cereal boxes; notes sticky
with age measured by cup rings and stains.
A brilliant breakfast bonanza delivers Eureka!
over the sink. Elevenses unfold into
lunch; all points clarified with a pot of tea.
The leafy brew stews the imagination
that, steeped in morning’s ambition, steams
ahead with designs on the afternoon.
Alison Riley
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TOUCHING EPHEMERA: ROME, APRIL 2009
You cannot pin down your immortality,
Trap it in objects for other eyes than yours.
Descendants, strangers to your young, fresh self,
Will see the playbills, turn over the stubs,
Finger the objects wonderingly,
Both the familiar and those to them historical,
Will speculate about who and what and where you were.
But they cannot know the essence of your presence,
The scent of the flowers, taste of ice cream,
The laughter of friends untraceable,
Who shared your treats, your journeys, your hours of every day.
They cannot know the silence of your heart,
How moment linked to moment in your eyes,
The dancing of your lively mind.
Your day by day delights are there,
Outlined in objects in simple silhouette,
But only glimpses of your life’s texture, its density,
Its complex rainbow weave, remain,
Faded as an ancient tapestry.
Your immortality rises, flutters, dances and is gone,
A butterfly in the future sun.
Sophie Agrell
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BEYOND THE BARLEY
Over the fence, beyond the field,
I will go in the early,
down through the dip, between the may,
beyond the field of barley.
There the grass is lush, the pasture’s green,
for I can see it clearly.
Soon I must go where I’ve never been,
for I can sense it plainly.
But the way is barred,
by a gate that is locked,
by a bolt that is chained securely.
Someone has the key
to the lock on the chain,
One day it will open surely.
When the crop is ripe
and the time is right,
the bolt will be drawn out cleanly.
When the gate swings wide
and the way is clear,
then I will go in the early,
along the lea, beside the field,
beyond the waving barley.
George Fairlie
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MERRY-GO-ROUND
I am a child
I had a father
I saw him when I went to school
Then found him hanging on a tree
I am an orphan
I work my father’s fields
I fear for my life
I pray for my father’s soul
I am a soldier
I still work the fields
I fight for my people
Will I die like my father?
I am a father
They drag me along the ground
I am hanging on a tree
My children cry at my feet
Elena Piras
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RETAIL PARK, PERTH
White goods, clothes, all that’s left,
Where women worked the warp and weft.
Where workers came and went at night,
Weaving ‘til the morning light.
Weekly pay, coins in jars,
Without debt and credit cards.
Walls of screens, vision HD,
Once fabric of local industry.
Kyla Lennon
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SUMMER, SUMMER
Summer, summer, burning bright,
What is that smell of the night?
Is that the smell of fresh cut lawn?
Is it of land that is torn?
Is the smell a taste of life?
Merry here, not one small strife.
Not one little ounce of wrong,
Europe, united in song.
Is the smell a taste of death?
The last smell with the last breath?
The last hint of something good?
The world caring? Like it could.
Summer, summer, burning bright,
What is that smell of the night?
Is that the smell of life or death?
Or is that smell the world’s wreath?
Stephanie Smith
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BLUEBELL FOREST
The sun was shining brightly
Through the tall trees of the forest
As I wandered with grace among the flowers
With bluebells displaying their pride
There were many people in the forest
Resting on benches and gathering flowers
And some beside a fairies wishing well
Tossing in coins and making wishes
I tossed in a coin, and saved my wish
And wandered on, unaware of the time
I was lonely and tired, and made my wish
Before I settled down to sleep
The fairies came as I was sleeping
With characters of a fairy tale
And wildlife of varieties, I became alone no more
When I awoke I was where I came in
People were preparing to leave
I gathered some flowers, and made for home
A perfect ending to a perfected day
Jim Carlin
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MISSING IN ACTION
Cold, grey dawn, unheralded by flute or song
Rolls across the heavens from a dark sea
Not a seabird, not a wave disturbs
That deep and chilly blackness
Not a leaf stirs in the branches of trees
For there are no leaves
Not a note of birdsong cuts the silence
For the birds have all flown inland
All I can hear is a silent flute
And a woman weeping
Richard Hernaman Allen
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CONTEMPLATIONS (MAY 2011)
In centuries back, our kings and queens
Beheld some very gruesome scenes
If then the king or prince you wed
He might decide, Off with your head.
Or suffer most horrendous torture
If the king said, Traitor! Caught ya.
We’re glad now things are as they are.
Or have they gone a bit too far? ...
Now terrorists have human rights
We’re feeding now the mouth that bites
Now criminals cry, I got molested.
And victims are the ones arrested.
The US hunted down Bin Laden
No-one would think to grant him pardon
But his friends here living in UK
Get treated in a different way ...
Instead of blasting them to bits
We shower them with benefits.
Valerie Burch
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STANDING BEFORE A LANDSCAPE PAINTING
It’s the moment one feels oneself
wanting to be swept into the picture.
Self alone in a whole new landscape
with the urge to load the lungs
full blast with the scent of bluebells;
the blue paint heart of the woodland floor;
each soft petal promising something
of its own. And catching full-on
the tones of spring sunlight
dark and light on the unmistakable
trees, that are already juicing their leaves
towards a shimmering summer.
Innocent green everywhere, even
on the path littered with moss,
beckoning the feet to follow
until the unknown horizon
grows wider and one feels
oneself looking back on
all that landscape and all that
catch-the-breath beauty.
Sue Burkett
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I COUNT MY BLESSINGS
I count my blessings every day
I can’t believe my lot
How come I have so much
When others have not?
I have a wonderful husband
We’ve been together thirty years
We have two beautiful daughters
Together we’ve laughed and shed tears
Like on the day our grandson was born
Oh what a joy that was
He really is amazing
Filled with so much love
A son-in-law to be proud of
He’s just like one of our own
We have a perfect family
It’s a pleasure to watch them grow
Yes, I count my blessings every day
For no money on Earth can buy
All the happiness and love we share
Together, side by side
Karen Walker
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NO BRANCH
Butlins’ at Filey, always denied me,
From an early age, rebuffed.
To sideline witness popsicle tastes,
And pastel shades, fade, close,
Then diminish with each mortgaged decade,
To stretch and tear worn-out satin and sheen-lost sequin.
Tightened and pulled by overfed, heavily indulged
Families from the ‘burbs, with aunties of twelve,
And uncles for the absent, somewhere in Spain,
Sinking in sangria, Prozac and amphetamines.
Minds, hearts, sunk on North Sea oil.
Flattering and fattening,
Rendered unable to walk your miles or wait
At Scarborough for a connection,
For a branch to the Filey holiday camp.
I think a lot of what we are remains here still.
Abandoned engineer, overgrowth, litter. The car.
Trashed history, vegetation,
Left in a hurry, without a worry,
To extremities’ last tranche, and a place with no branch.
Steve Judge
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WATCHED OVER BY MACHINE OF LOVING GRACE
The cosy café
Coffee, with congenial company and convivial conversation.
Those compulsive calls,
That inane melodic line,
Why won’t she turn the darn thing off?
Manipulated with marionette strings
Emanating from her mother’s mobile phone,
Steely umbilical cords that never sever.
Where are you?
What are you doing?
Are you coming home now?
Those clenching fists,
Squeeze from his brain,
Apt words of Thomas Cranmer,
Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live,
And is full of misery.
Geoffrey Martin
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A SUMMER CHURCHYARD
In place of shade still shines the sun
So warming ground for those to come
Up grass and path the beetle drones
A fleeting flurry from stone to stone
Uneven ground swells of the past
An easy place for grief to last
But summer comes all the same
Undeterred by loss and pain
Over fence sits chain and harrow
Patchy rust and perch to sparrow
Hardened ground breaks tine and link
Left in the grass to spoil and sink
Gazing cherub, ubiquitous stare
Unchanging face in face of despair
Stone eyes and cheeks, there roll no tears
Despite the witness to grief of years
Life pans down and sinks the soil
And therein lies our varied toil
So laid to rest this mortal coil
Sunk and still in summer sun
Sam Harper
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SELF-REALISATION
Lost between borders,
Wandering without a home;
Terrified, frightened and afraid,
Worried and all alone.
Peace comes in the night,
Just when you least expect it;
A sudden shift,
A change of perception
That brings a bright ending.
Love is the way forward,
It conquers and brings the light;
A shining sphere in the darkness,
A lit candle burning bright.
Natalie Saxton
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BAT/VAMPIRE
Mists boil upwards
Eyes looking skywards
Sanguine wings flutter
As if rapping on yonder shutter
Leathern wings slice the air
If striking stone they’d cause a lustrous flare
It’s a hovering, pulsing form,
That for an eternity existed on a life of scorn,
Thus commenced as it was born,
A face formed of base evil,
The only thing that would repulse you
More would be a bulbous weevil,
Nefarious eyes that will turn you,
With time, flirtatiously burn you,
A slavering bite,
Will make your life a raging vampiric plight,
Then your kin’s dirge embarks on its voyage.
Mark Pope
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ONE SMALL DROP
One small drop
Falls, splashes, grows,
Spreads, expands until it is a puddle.
One small seed
Nurtured, stretches, grows,
Pushes up and lengthens until it is a tree.
One small brick
Adds to a pile, spreads upwards and outwards,
Becomes taller until a building is formed.
One small problem
Becomes larger, wider, taller,
Until it fills every corner of my mind.
Once built up and grown it’s inescapable.
No chance for destruction forseeable,
Until it is ripped from its roots and shaken to the very core.
Victoria Parrin
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LIFE
Life is like an iron chain hanging round your soul,
When it’s taken all it can, it lets your spirit go,
A gift you say, well He can have it back,
Sadness a gift would surely lack.
Of one thing we can always be sure,
For that eternal disease there is no cure.
So when your time has finally come,
When you feel drained, weak, useless and numb,
When it’s drained your heart, flesh, blood and limb,
Life will move, on
To claim yet another unborn, innocent victim.
Lynn McLean
Born in Dunfermline, Lynn McLean has interests including reading, walking and drawing. “I started writing as a teenager, shortly after the death of my brother,” she said. “Emotions and life trials influence my work, which I’d describe as varied but mainly dark.” Lynn, a student, would like to make a difference, no matter how small, and her ambition is to never have to worry - and to own a Bentley. “I’d like to be remembered as someone who smiles and laughs in the face of adversity,” she said.
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THE BIRD OF PARADISE
Upon her they fell all eyes
With wings outstretched
And her patterned coloured feathers wide
The astonishing overwhelming atmosphere
The queen of all birds
This is but truly sure
With head up high and full of pride
And beauty full of glamour and colour
Within a dream of every hour
Every moment every breath
Like a phantom or a myth
Enriched with all exquisiteness
Existence full of magnificence
This is a bird of beauty
With feathers swaying such shimmering elegance
And posture full of grace
Pleasing the eyes with all its beauty
Some kind of mood or fantasy
Marking all birds hide in shame
Its presence for pleasing gleaming only
It cannot but not to hide
With wings outstretched and feathers opened wide
This is the bird of paradise
Androniki Eftychiou
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EMPTY TEARS
Tears fall dry on deep sea of sorrow
Lost all rationale, all reasoning for tomorrow
Goodbye, farewell cannot ever express
Surging anger, confusion, or sore bitterness
Who, how, why, or what? Can it be, is it not?
The time to end all beliefs, or seal them locked?
Silence forever falls from your sealed lips
Porcelain hands as cold as ice lie rigidly stiff
Love leaves your lifeless, cold eyes closed
All warmth abandoned, you lie bare and alone
Like fragile cherry blossom blowing from frail trees
You’ll pass along, carried far adrift, on nature’s breeze
One last, lonely journey, emptiness your only companion
Asleep forever, eternal dreams pondered beyond
Tears fall deaf on waves of sorrow
Lost in shadows of tormented tomorrow
Memories cast hard in stone still remain
But can life? Will life ever be the same?
Goodbye, farewell, but can they let you go?
Tears, swallowed up in sea of sorrow, forever echo
Martine Gafney
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A DAY IN MY LIFE
A day in my life when I wake to find
Joints that are free from the constant grind.
A day in my life to do as I please
Without any protests from hips and knees.
A day in my life to jog if I want to
Or even play tennis just like I used to.
A day in my life with fingers that sew
Or deftly run across my piano.
A day in my life to wear fancy clothes
Along with a pair of tall stilettos.
A day in my life not taking one pill
With side effects that make me ill.
A day in my life to be free again
Twenty-four hours - my holiday from pain.
Edith Anderson
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THE WOOD
Among the orange and red hues where acorns fall
and squirrels play rabbits leap and jump mice eat
the corn and swallows begin their flight home where
solid oaks stand solid in line and sycamore softly
moans in the breeze and limes and silver birch arch
proudly tall trees Oh to lie in leaf glade with silk
grasses sweet and tender and to scratch my name
in the bark the love I have for you we share a kiss
soft luscious like your body next to mine but may
another time sun has set it’s not warm now so we
walk home happy in the magic of a kiss
Gillian Robson
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FOR ANGELA
Look at the present
Not at the past
What’s happened has happened
And life goes so fast
Don’t miss out on the joys of each day
What ever the future holds
Who can say?
Whatever has gone we cannot change
There’s nothing we can do
So live life for today
For your family, and for you
You’re loved and you’re cherished
As a wife and a mum
And to each of your friends
You are second to none
Elizabeth Lloyd
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