Read Poetry from Whispers On The Breeze
LOST FOREVER
I chased it, traced it
Seized it, trained it And established a dream
In a blink, a second passed by
And so did the chase and the dream.
Lost forever No dream, no life
No chase, no journey
Plain, dread, sorry and sad.
Rejection, dejection
Confusion, repulsion
In a daze, a maze
Can’t find a way
Because there is no way out of this place.
Jeena Lakshmanan
Jeena Lakshmanan said: “I have been writing poetry since I was nine years old. My work often has a musical flow to it as I write songs as well as poems. The idea of writing poetry came to me by accident but ever since then it has been my principal hobby. I think dance and music greatly inspire me to write more efficiently and it also helps me expand my power to create words that flow. I have written close to 200 poems so far, but never had the courage to show it to anyone until now. So this is the first book my work has been published in and hopefully not the last!”
MUSIC
Are you able to submit to hot and marvellous music?
Today it was the devil’s trill that began the ascent into song he likes to motion with a baton he likes to warm the brightly plucked triangles so they become thimbles of colour and rush staccato into trembling rhythms of sin as their secret fantasy is composed to instead be good warm bright grow into mangos or banana trees or become yolks as yellow as sunflowers’ middles in brighter fields that lie past their own rivers of wood and silver.
Winged fish applaud wildly float their turquoise and blink a tempo as the clouds shiver rain to splash each octave twice around the sky’s orange palace, Mozart approves lending his delicate ear and lies here all morning listening to this symphony of wind-light this sweet pot of rosin seed this ash black milk baptism of sound.
Antonia Griffiths
SWEET TORMENT
Oh, I can’t get me foil wrapper off me toffee penny
I’ve picked and poked and scratched and stroked,
But luck? I haven’t any.
The sucker’s stuck so I can’t suck
Me lovely toffee penny.
But the thought of dreamy sweet delight
Is really rather thrilling.
Though not if just a scrap of foil
Makes contact with me filling.
And now I’m getting cross
And the novelty’s worn off
There’s too much toffee down me nails,
So, I’m thinking that if all else fails
I’ll have to lick it or lump it.
Michelle Chard
TO FIND COMPASSION
Now that the calendar has shed its leaves
And winter hugs me in his bleak embrace
The time has come to look Death in the face
For wilfully to banish him achieves
A false security, a fitful peace.
Now, having steeled ourselves and met his stare
We are surprised to find compassion there
and readiness to grant assured release
From daily failures of the tired flesh
And nightly troubles of the tired mind.
What comforter can offer more than this?
As youth lays bare life’s ecstasies afresh
We seek the pitch-dark province of the blind
Where nothing is desired and nothing missed.
Norman Griggs
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EVERY DAY
Every day I feel you reach out
Every day I see you look
Every day I hear you crying
Every night I see you sleep.
Every day you wake and smile
Every day you go out into the world
Every day you walk onwards, brave.
Every night you question why?
Every day there is truth to give
Every day there is hope to have
Every day there is love to share
Every day my child, every day.
Sandra Beamson
WEST WORLD
Chambered
In the night’s breath,
In the still arc, pressed
By the sea’s pleats;
In the west world,
Beyond distance,
Beyond breach,
Hung to existence
Closer than the beat
Of the far city
Starred,
Hushed holy,
Cushioning dark;
Heavened at the edge of the striping sea,
Gleaming with sword;
Far flung the west
The parting town
Wears wide
A lightened sky.
William Innes Wickham
PROMISE OF CHANGE
Change sings for release,
Revolution dreams to breathe.
There’s a wind in these trees,
Whispering of a country lost
In long grass and the sleepy defeated.
Light footfalls of rain,
Worn but comfortable shoes,
Staying inside no longer.
There’s a wind in this forest,
It carries the ash,
It carries the spores.
Water the wind,
Water well.
We’ll grow some change
In the little patch out back.
James Sykes
TUCK IN AND BELT UP
I have always felt
That with a belt
A gentleman of a certain girth
Looking like he may soon give birth
Can tuck in his casual vest
And push out his manly chest
Not allowed, you don't look cool
In fact you look like an old fat fool
My kids are my harshest critic
Nazi, fascist and quite explicit
I will, of course, not obey
One day my kids will go away
Mark Hillary
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CAT
I can stroke a moment enough to make the creature purr
Before advances the pulse resurging, fur
Urging the will to kill.
The naked feet across the sun-baked plain
Of endless impis, pounding like a train,
Feathers spiky in the heat, the beat
Of blood-lust bubbling up to fill
The spear’s lunge, to spill
Red blood, to sup the cup
To come in golden shower:
And underneath the skin this tawny predator
Prowls taunting, mean, between
Our glistening brown ripe need
Of succulent love-feed
At hunting’s core, the raw
Flesh fresh to lusty lips sip-sucking,
Jut jaws juicy crunching, tucking
Into the dark of body’s heat, our Saviour meat.
W Holt
PSYCHO TSUNAMI
A tear unwept
in a moment’s pain
can cause a tidal wave
in one’s brain
Drowning your sorrows
in a saline solution
to a dilemma engulfed by evolution
Immersing the cerebral seahorse
in the briny breakers of filtered blood
drained of its colour by the need to navigate
past the portholes of the submersible soul
Yet nonesuch need to be foundered
the agony of damning your eyes
can be effectively depressurised
by releasing the floodgates
as a single drop
Aidan Alemson
A MAN
I knew a man whom I did like
He said, would I just stay the night?
When I awoke he said to me
Was that so bad, a night with me?
I must admit it was rather nice
Curled up against him through the night.
My head lay upon his massive chest
His hand caressed my breast.
The comfort only a man can bring
As darkness falls and the cold sets in.
Isobel Hale
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HE'S HURTING
He’s hurting ... I cannot ease the pain
Time heals a rift, but, not this time
She found him, abandoned him and tore his soul apart
He sleeps to forget, but nightmares reign
Mind-altering drugs he takes, but the pain still remains
I cannot ease his pain
I cannot mop his brow
He’s hurting ...
I cannot ease the pain
Janice Brierley
BLACK FLOWERS FOR THE BRIDE
That sad and lonely look is plain for all to see
A reciting of vows that should never be
It’s going through with no-one to object
This poor girl’s heart will forever be in check
She’s lost all hope, lost all pride
Black flowers, black flowers for the bride.
To live a life in mundane
No feelings of love, only feelings of pain
Her parents’ wish was a command
The stranger in her bed will never be her man
She will be all alone and wish to die
Black flowers, black flowers for the bride.
Forever to dream of being elsewhere
With the love of her life, someone to care
But reality makes it all so untrue
What is the poor girl to do
Restrain such feelings she can never hide
Black flowers, black flowers for the bride.
Red stains upon a crisp white sheet
Her maker she did decide to meet
The chains around her heart have now been set aside
Black flowers, black flowers for the bride.
Michael Seecharan
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WHO CARES WHO'S WRONG?
Who cares who’s wrong?
Who cares who’s right?
It’s time to cancel out
The fight.
Come on boys now
Let it go,
You know it would please your
Parents so.
They loved us all in their own way,
So shake on it and make their day.
Life’s so short can’t you see,
We are not here for eternity.
Margaret Shaughnessy
DOT TO DOT
We are all dots on a page
Part of an endless drawing
We see what everyone else sees
We say what everyone else says
Hear what everyone else hears
We eat what everyone else eats
We look left, we look right
What do we see?
A world, a nation
Full of faces, stories, expressions
If the dots were words
A magnificent story they would tell
Of aiming high, inspiration and individuality
Equality, togetherness and love
But words do not exist, just dots on a page
But a time comes when a dot says, No more
I just want to be seen, I want to be heard
Nadine Grant
A SACRED DAY
Sacred hour, sacred day, which produces,
This vision of white and loveliness,
This vision the centre of all my thoughts and dreams,
This vision of white so pure,
This vision holds my love.
This day of realisation,
Of my loves ambition,
Will claim a topmost place,
In my happiest memories,
This joy I feel, and pride,
Conquers my nervousness of worldly things,
As this vision, my bride,
Takes her place, forever by my side.
Sacred moments of spoken vows,
Fill my heart with a divine sense,
Of possession, possession of my true love,
And the realisation of my hearts ambition,
Mine to cherish now, the bride smiles into my eyes,
A shy sweet smile of tender love,
The happiest moment of my sacred day.
Rownland Hill
AWAY WITH THE FAIRIES
Away with the fairies
Time out, you see
A restful sojourn
When you have been busier than the bees
As the weight of the world has left you weary
It’s time well spent, leaving you able to think more clearly
A ray of sunshine to lift the monotony of a dark day
Nature’s free gift, a breath of fresh air
Leaving you invigorated and without a care
Returning to your desk with a spring in your step
Surviving the day, doing your best
All the better for a moment’s rest
The day is over, back home to the nest
Safe and secure in a duvet cocoon
All wrapped up in the light of the moon
As the sun rises and the new day dawns
Off to work again over a dew-drenched lawn
Lisa Holliman
PORTLINS ON A DIRTY MATRESS
Stumbling in and out of love
Like a cold and soulless maiden
Thinking back to her frightening past
And all the dirty mattresses she’s laid on
Those hot nights and those cold mornings
Left her heart in disarray
Drinking bottles of Vintage Portlins
While she drowns her sorrows of yesterday
Waking up in a pit - a squalor-filled trap
Needles and brown, spoons upon her lap
A break from reality, a distant dream
A longing for the night, or so it would seem
For a future filled with golden stars
Seems like a far-away dream
Time spent wasting youthful days away
With no time, luck or hope left to redeem
The past is set in stone, the future’s glazed in unknown
The present is a struggle, a long hard day to survive
Although before she closes her eyes at night
She thanks the Lord she’s alive
Lee Rowden
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LEASE OF LOVE
Footsteps
Lightly placing an invisible trail
On the dry unyielding pavement
Quietly signalling his journey to strangers
Who do not know his destination
And the happiness that quickens his steps
To meet his love the second time.
The first time was unexpected
Never planned
Only a hope that always lived in his heart
Until he met her two days ago.
Then love came
And evicted hope like a benevolent bailiff
And rushed in to take up the lease, gratefully.
She is late, or is he early?
For a moment the anxious thought
That it was all a dream
Then he saw her
She looked different
Holding her hat and hurrying along
Looking for him, he presumed.
Kenneth Bray
NINE TO FIVE
Long, long, long and dreary
The day stretches before me
Working nine to five
Just trying to survive
When I was a child
I had such dreams
Of how my life would be
Now they’re all in tatters
Long, long, long and dreary
The meaningless day stretches before me
Working nine to five
Just trying to survive
The future looks so bleak
All in black and white
No colour
One long sleep
Long, long, long and dreary
The endless day stretches before me
Working nine to five
How will I survive?
Saiqa Irshad
Born in Burnley, Saiqa Irshad has interests including reading, writing, poetry and spending time with friends. “I have been writing since high school since I had my first short story printed in the school magazine. My work is influenced by my favourite authors and my moods. I would describe my style as eclectic. It changes day to day,” observed Saiqa. Aged 26, Saiqa works as a volunteer development co-ordinator for a charity and has an ambition to publish more of her work. “The person I would most like to meet is Jane Austen because I have read all of her work and I admire her writing. I have written some short stories and many poems,” added Saiqa.
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BEYOND YOU
In your breast beats a fist of hate
Which fuels the rage that seals your fate
It feeds the poison thumping in your veins
The darkness it brings, your soul it stains
The world’s to blame, to this you cling
You want to damage everything
Ruptured from the inside out
Your innards spilled lie strewn about
Now colour seems not to exist
Only blackness still persists
You’re upside down and back to front
You pathetic little wretched runt
You filled our hearts with fear and pain
We’d never be the same again
The absolution you craved
Served to keep as all enslaved
You kept us close, you kept us near
We did all but disappear
But there’s a place you could not reach
Where there are walls you cannot breach
Nicole Miller
THE HEARTBREAK OF THE MOON
The pale moon casts her veil over the land
Like a lacy glove on an old lady’s hand
She reflects her sadness on the desolate moor
Of a love long-lost and gone before
She weeps for that love, the warmth and the fun
Tenderness given with a love just begun
Sue Allen
Dedicated to wonderful Sophie who encouraged me to paint and write
and in memory of Bob who gave me love and romance.
Born in Shirley, Sue Allen has interests including watercolour painting, photography, gardening and the theatre. “I started writing poetry five years ago after my husband died. I found it therapeutic to write about my feelings,” she explained. “I’m inspired by nature and the memories it evokes, I would decribe my style as romantic.” Aged 63, she is retired and has an ambition to publish a book of her poems, photographs and paintings. She is the widow of Bob and has a daughter, Sophie. My biggest fantasy is to have one of my paintings hung in the Royal Academy,” added Sue.
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THERE IS NO PEACE IN THIS WORLD
There is no peace in this world.
You distasteful politicians, you have no shame
But lie in the whirl of this distorted world.
You governments who speak of hope and shadowy
promises, but in vain.
Broken hearts reach out for help, yet you do not recognise their pain.
Children cry out for help, they say, Help! Save us!
Yet you do not acknowledge them.
You who take from the poor to gain a comfortable life,
You dark forces of the world,
May your punishment be so severe.
The poor harvest in the fields with little water and food
In the days of the blazing sun.
Do not speak of peace, you people in power with lying tongues.
You assure the people that there is peace and harmony, But torture and evil desires exist in this world.
Do not hold out too much hope.
Be kind, be brave, love one another
Yet know this -
There is no peace in this world.
There is no peace in this world.
Nell Salim
I REMEMBER
I was a child, but I remember
Absent fathers, lonely mothers
Whispering ladies, worried eyes
Dying soldiers, weeping families
Quiet moments, silent prayers
Sleepless nights, crying babies
Frightened children, special hugs
Rousing songs, air raid shelters
Wailing sirens, whining bombs
Ugly masks, spluttering planes
Blazing fires, piles of rubble
Deep holes, loud explosions
Cold houses, hours of darkness
Rationed food, patient queues
Homemade toys, allotment gardens
Radio news, peace at last
Victory parties, thankful prayers
War brides, sad goodbyes
Brave wounded, red poppies
Years have gone, I still remember
Christine Johnson
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GUESS WHAT?
A list, must write a list
A list about the lists I need to make
A cigarette, just one won’t hurt
Tomorrow, I’m giving up
A-list anti-ageing cream, look ten years younger in a month
I bought it, all thirty nine pots
New exercise class starts Friday
I am going, if my knee is better
Cross crisps off shopping list
Guaranteed weight loss by the wedding
Guess what?
I didn’t write that list or have just one cigarette
I will never lose weight or stop buying crisps
My knee still hurts and I don’t look any younger
With all the stuff I fret about, is it any wonder?
Kelly Alls
PINS TO NEEDLES
The pin-box my mother always kept was sitting there
Used so many times
Filled with beautiful pearl-ended pins
The colours shining in the single ray of sun
Coming in through the window
I looked, bewildered by their elegance
Yet the fact remains that all these pins are used for
Is to hold things together before becoming one
I reach for one. Not wanting to move them, they lay in such a way
Blood. How could this be?
Something as pleasing as these pins could hurt me
What must this mean?
Call all things so splendid and good hurt me as much?
Is life filled with objects waiting around the corner
Waiting to pounce, to fulfil their own life purpose?
If so, then maybe it’s best not to delve too deeply
Not to be tempted by beauty, splendour
To look, never to touch
Isn’t it better to see what you want to see
Rather than feel the pain born from understanding?
Eleanor Corless
COUNTERACTIVE RESISTANCE
Look inside, open up your mind’s eye, see the light, time has stolen these moments like a thief in the night.
On the long and lonely road, the fruits of youth are growing old, broken down, lost souls, emotions overload.
The voice of reason is always guiding my steps, it’s life or death trying to manoeuvre through the viper’s nest.
The righteous are blessed but evil regimes sabotage, it’s hard to be avant garde when they limit creative art.
Here’s a real piece of my heart, love pours out so
profoundly, hatred surrounds me but I transcend every boundary.
Unveil the facade of this superficial existence, trailblazing the tracks, it’s counteractive resistance.
The unredeemed need the key to unlock the chronicle, mad and methodical, mixing ill with the logical.
The system weakens your spirit like a killer disease, it’s better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.
Joel Cheetham
SUMMER
Is summer ever going to arrive?
Will we see the sun again?
Between you and me, I’m getting fed up
With continually hearing the rain
We need to see blue skies
And feel the soft summer breeze
So we can take off our vests
And wear shorts down to our knees
Our hubbies could take off their shoes
And wear sandals, with socks, instead
And if the sun shone down on their bald patch
They could knot a hankie on their head
A walk along the prom would be nice
Wearing a Kiss Me Quick hat
Or maybe relax in a deckchair
To watch the cricket, owzat!
I yearn for these days again
With long, balmy summer nights
But as I write this I’m watching the rain
Wrapped up in me cardie and tights
Paula Bradford
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THE SHORE
Far extended chest the seagulls strut
Waves crash, horses leaping
Glistening water patch making in the sand
Of firefly ground gems shining
Grey into duck-egg blue
Sky indistinguishable from the tidal flow
That straight horizon line marking
Ocean depths velvety glow below
Magical rock pools splendid
Salty filled with sea-life bounty
Weed, crab and blood-red lichen
Streams of crystal waters beauty
That ever changing strip of sand
Driftwood pastel shells and pebbles smoothly sitting
High majestic cliffs eroded yearly
Backdrop to the view sublimely waiting
Bobby Freeman-Roberts
Born in Luton, Bobby Freeman-Roberts has interests including music, animals, nature, reading, museums and art galleries. “I started writing poetry when I was 12 to express my inner feelings and my personal view of the world and nature,” she commented. “My work is influenced by writers like Blake, Plath, Clare and Betjamin and I would describe my style as free and eclectic.” Bobby is a former teacher with an ambition to have all her poems published. She is married to Ron and they have children Ben, Jamie and Samantha.
SONNET - TO MY CHILD
When first I held you close within my arms,
I little realised as time went by,
In spite of all your sweetness and your charm,
There would be times when you would make me cry.
Within your life of storms I would be the calm.
To always be supportive I would try.
When you felt pain then I would be the balm
And comfort you when sorrows made you sigh.
But summer comes- the sun shines through the clouds.
Look up and let its warmth caress your face.
Stretch out your limbs, be glad that you’re alive.
Leave solitude and venture in the crowds.
Feel your heart and pulse increase their pace
And grasp the stinging nettle that is life.
Alison Thomas
MY WORLD
Would you care to join me
For a nice cup of tea or gin and tonic if the hour is right?
Be warned for once across the threshold
There is no going back.
I can unlock the gate, the key is heavy and takes two hands to lift,
But I’ll gladly do so if that’s what you want.
Your world behind you, can you see it? Or is it too seen already?
Don’t answer, for speaking will close this gap forever.
My world has its risks and you do not know how dangerous it will be for you.
There are others here.
I see their shadows sliding under rocks and behind trees.
One day I will meet them but now my time is full with my work.
Every night, I have to sweep the water back into the lake.
Do you think you would like to join me?
Shall I pick up the key?
Pauline Cornwell
LOVE SONG
A time at Tutton Lodge I remember,
Half naked, on an evening in summer,
A child, I stood, cool among the flowers.
Evening primroses, tall, gold, above my head
Beneath willows that had once been pollarded.
My father, across the garden, walking
In shade, home from his day in the surgery,
Beneath the old, leaning, laden fig tree.
Indoors, mother at the black baby grand,
A love gift from my father to his bride.
Swift and deft from her fingers on the ivories,
Silvery love notes sparkled and danced down
Flowed and shimmered and filled the garden.
Bathed in sound, and the scents of summer
We floated, transcending to some faery plane,
“Salut d’Armour,” Rachmamanov, “Fur Elise.”
Margaret Duguid
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THE BIG CHAT UP
Confidently, he saunters into the room,
Stops, and turns to look my way.
Gazing at those ice blue eyes,
My heart leaps a little dance.
The tall physique and smart suit,
The scent of John Vavartos.
Please sit next to me, I pray.
He walks towards me,
Asks in deep, accented drawl, Mind if I sit here?
Speechless, I shake my head,
Watching his long, lean fingers shuffle papers.
My thoughts, not on work.
His profile, chiselled jaw,
High cheekbones, commanding nose.
Brow furrowed in concentration
On the meeting’s agenda.
With a smile he turns to me and says,
Are you wearing those glasses to make you look intelligent?
Amanda Hobbs
THE GIFT
The bustle of the day has ceased
And all is quiet and still.
Soon, little stars come twinkling out
While the moon rides o’er the hill.
All around the world, the children
Are tucked up safe in bed,
Unlike Mary, mother of our Lord
Who had nowhere to lay her head.
The tired children sleep and dream
Of the wonderful day to come,
With presents under the Christmas tree
And the cake made by their mum.
Then, as you give your Christmas presents
To your loved ones, near and far,
Remember the gifts of the three wise men
Who had followed a bright new star.
And, as you celebrate today
Keep God’s gift within your heart -
Lord baby Jesus, born to die
To give us a brand new start.
Lucy Williams
TERROR
As her brow bears the pressure of the gun
And iron bars prevent that she can run,
She is seized with fear as she waits her end
And longs for peace, that her spirit will transcend.
She wonders how many times the bolt will strike her brain
Before her consciousness will halt and the horror and the pain.
Then thundering out she is ejected when
They hoist her up ready for the killing men.
Her body weight hangs by just one leg
And her life’s blood rushes like a torrent to her aching head.
Alarming noises echo loudly in her ears
As her throat is choking with the terror and the tears.
Paralysed and suspended for the knife to plunge her neck,
With agony she bleeds
Until she is wrecked,
Then dead.
E A Taylor
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PROPHECY OF DOOM
The prophecy of doom awaits
The ending of mankind
On our planet earth, fated for destruction
In a not so far off time
Volcanic eruptions, thunder and lightning
Floods of fear and forest fires
Earth quakes and boiling sun
Famine, strife and killer diseases
Travels to the universe
Exploring life beyond the stars
The challenges to our heavenly planet
To fight the errors of man’s ways
The ending will come in many ways
These are just a few
Our heavenly star shall exist no more
Disappeared in our solar system
But from the bad shall come the good
In a new world yet to come
With fresh green pastures, new horizons
And new life for the old
Jim Carlin
THOUGHTS
Colours gliding ‘cross the sky
Signal now, what’s to come by,
Like the thoughts going through our minds
Lay the way for us to find.
When it’s fine and shining bright,
Glowing with a brilliant light,
Then our path may seem so good,
And no evil by us stood.
But when the storm clouds gather round,
Darkness falls upon the ground,
Then our minds are clouded too,
And we know not what to do.
But when we have faith to share,
Then we do not have to care.
We will always weather it through,
Pass the clouds and start anew.
Annette Twilley
DESTINY
Decisions can be made but the outcome remains the same
Every choice we make cannot alter this mysterious game
So stop trying to change what fate has in store
Take what life throws at you, ask for nothing more
In the end you can’t defy it for
No matter what you do
Your destiny is out of your hands, it’s not controlled by you
Deborah Cordin
YOUR FACE
Your face, an undigested map
Of life stories, discovers a journey
Of pain and loss.
The terrain is marked with roads that have no end,
And fields parched with lack of rain.
Your eyes hide their story, a veil drawn down
To a world that waits, a world that echoes
A shadowed heart.
The mirror is misty, cannot reflect that hidden rapture
Where a spring begins to bubble through the earth.
At the corners of your lips a smile
Tickles your cheeks as you smell
Possible perfumes of the path ahead.
The mask has fallen as your eyes taste the colours
Of new life.
You will face the pain, transform your sorrow,
Gently water the fields behind your eyes.
The skin on your face will glow and all roads
Will lead to the mountain.
Rosalind Beeton
THE TENDER HUMAN THING
Tell me, sweet one,
Will our love ever fully know
The joy of tender human things,
Of tears and smiles and soft awakenings
To some dawn we see together?
Will we ever tread barefoot
Over the soft grass of a mountain?
Or hand in hand, sing sweetly to the stars?
Will there come a day of timeless hours
Where we can share each joy, each happening?
Or must we always watch a clock
And never know the tender human thing?
Madeleine Gorham
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THE PENCIL PORTRAIT
His pencil takes to the page,
Charged with capturing her essence.
Reminding me of the days
I used to spend in her presence.
Each stroke is a stroke of her hair.
The shading reveals her complexion.
It’s almost as if he was there,
Sharing her eyes of affection.
He returns her into my hands,
We’ve conspired on the greatest of gifts.
I’m giving her back to herself.
The gesture is mine but the effort is his.
She senses the truth when she sees it.
Her lips ask after the artist.
I’m sharing her with others already.
I handed over love and lost it.
The girl left with him that night,
But every love leaves a vapour.
Preserved forever in pure white,
Her soul remains on that paper.
Mat Dickie
NEVER TOO LATE
Through the peaceful field they walked,
Hand in hand, heads inclined
Towards each other, matching steps,
Their obvious love so unconfined,
It took my breath away.
In the peaceful field they sat,
Hand in hand, heads apart,
Laughing gently, talking low.
Their obvious love so pained my heart
And took my breath away.
In the peaceful field I wept,
No hand in mine, no one close by
Touching me and whispering words
In my ear; now wondering why
I was there at all. I should go back,
Back to him and talk it through,
Talk it through and hold him near.
Talk it through and kiss his lips,
Stop the fights, so stop the fear,
Before it takes our breath away.
Jenny Brown
GOSSIP
When gossip flies
It often lies
It then grows more destructive
So hold your tongue
Whilst you are still young
Learn to be constructive
Speak of good
As we all should
Learn to be forgiving
Have no fear
Be full of cheer
The code for better living
Terence Browne
TIME TO THINK
Life rushes past
A blur of dashing here, doing that
E-mails, mobiles, letters and junk mail
A blur of faces
Smiles and nods and passing waves
How did the children grow so quickly?
Are my parents really old enough to die?
Have I really been married 37 years?
How many years have I got left?
Wandering around the garden
The sun hot on my skin
Birds singing their hearts out
Traffic and people, noise all around
This is real
Linn Halton
WHEN I AM BORN
When I am born, think on me,
I am the golden sunbeams on the sea,
I am the fragrance of the summer rose,
I am the songbird in sweet repose,
I am the million diamonds in the sky,
I am the skylark soaring high.
In your going out and your coming in,
I am the sun and moon within.
Of the pearly dew upon the grass,
I am like all things that pass.
But do not bow your head and mourn.
I am a distant star. I am not born.
Syd Wragg
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COLOURS
Azure sky and golden sun
Silver and purple when day’s nearly done.
The green of the grass, blackness of night
Stars high above with faint gleaming light.
Full moon suspended in ethereal hue
Colour and life march on two by two.
Our moods can be grey - our thoughts black and white.
Eyes blue green or brown sparkling and bright.
Anger is red, sorrow is blue,
Serenity green pale and subdued.
Orange of sunset, lilac of dawn,
Sadness of grief, black speckled with fawn.
Pink dewy rose bud curled up tight,
A myriad of colours enhancing our sight,
Free to enjoy what God lets us borrow,
Ours to preserve, for those who follow.
Rose Edwards
LIFE TOGETHER
We live together, my dog and I
I know her every mood and sigh
Sixteen years now have passed
Her eyes are dim and her sight will not last
She wags her tail, I know not why
She sees and hears not my tears and how I cry
We’ve shared so much and still do
Albeit these moments are now quite few
Jackie Liddiard
E=MC SQUARED IN HOLY WEEK
If the universe is from random chance,
Without design, without a guiding hand,
If the universe came out of nothing,
Then who supplied vast energy and matter?
And atomic structures so precise,
Stable, workable and necessary
For the big bang?
Blind chance without design,
Without a supreme intelligence,
Has bookies’ odds of trillions to one against
Of ever becoming a universe.
Without original intelligent design
There would be no computers, no intelligent man,
Nor building blocks for evolution.
Long before the big bang,
God planned, thought, worked out all the maths,
Physics, chemistry, and coloured artistry.
The word became worlds. The word became flesh.
This bread I break existed before creation.
John Ambrose
Born in Watford, John Ambrose has interests including film, art and reading. “My work is influenced by nature, God, women and poetry and I would like to be remembered as a novelist and poet,” he explained. “ I am a teacher and my ambition is to live by writing novels and poetry.” John has one son and the person he would most like to meet - and marry - is a literary lady. “I have written over a thousand poems and had several published and I’ve also written novels and screenplays,” he added.
WHO KNEW?
Who knew?
In those unsuspecting eyes
That you would be enticed
Not once
But about three times
The tears dripped
The broken sipped
I told you so
The words once tipped
Nobody knows
Where he’s gone
Or where he’s been
In fair heartbreak
Where we lay our scene
Paul Burgin
A SILENT CALL
I just called to say I miss you,
I just phoned to say hello,
I just text because I can’t kiss you,
Just wrote to let you know,
That I just want not to miss you,
And I just want to have you near,
I just called to say I miss you,
But I just couldn’t pick up the phone.
Faith A Bennett
MY PERFECT WORLD
How I wish that I could change the world today
There would be no pain or suffering in any way
All the animals would be treated with respect
There would be no cases of neglect
Every child would have a loving home
So nobody would ever want to roam
There would be beauty all around for everyone to see
I know alas that this can never be
If we could only build a heaven here on earth
Just imagine how much it would be worth
To see acts of kindness every day
That simply took your breath away
There would be compassion for all
Even the smallest person would stand tall
We are all searching for happiness it’s true
But will we find it here? it’s up to me and you
Look to your heart, you will find it there
With the Lord’s help for all to share
Enid Skelton
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A CRUEL FATE
Age old, outworn modes, absorbed
Through sainted, tainted mother’s milk,
Revered, feared, your father’s blows,
Learning not to unlearn, even so,
Disappointing scion of your house.
A worthy spouse portrayed, arranged,
Air-ported, arriving in a cold, foreign land, a breeding ground?
Unrecognisable your blood
Related mate, and blind your rage,
Banged up, hobbled in your cage,
Seeming endless time to ponder fate.
It’s hard when you were raised not to
Ask the reason why,
Just do, just die.
Helen Rose Goodway
ASYLUM SEEKER
London’s blind angel keeps solitary stance
Transfixed, the great sword of justice on high
A desolate watch of constant surveillance
So rigid, so frigid, ‘gainst cold blooded sky.
Her weapon is grand, but held unused in her hand
Beneath, hidden victims are “vanishing”
Father, mother, small child - an innocent hand
Imprisoned loved ones so long languishing.
What wrong have they done - what crime committed
To be herded in pens just like cattle?
Does their patience run out? do they rail, scream or shout,
Bang on tables, and make the doors rattle?
Alas no, their fate has been sealed far too late
Lumped and dumped, as is flotsam, nearby
Or pressed on a plane, and returned once again
To the hell-hole they left, to rot or to die!
Obey Liberty’s call! Give freedom to all,
Evil detention centre, open your door!
Let the people flood out. Hear all prisoners shout,
“We are free! We have hope! We don’t fear anymore!”
Roy Bellamy
THE HIGHLANDER
You may have kept me chained within these stone walls
beat me till I cannot stand the pain denied me sunshine
upon mine eyes and the feeling of the cold refreshing rain
and in the morning you shall come for me for my body you
shall finally slay but before you do I shall whisper to you
and these are the words I shall say
in my mind I have been walking the hills where the sweetest heather grows upon the ground
I have heard the piper play to me oh twas such a glorious
sound and I was standing by the side of the loch there my
true love was next to me for I was born and bred a highlander
man and as a highlander I shall always be free as a
highlander I shall be free
Cheryl Lee Fraser
SELF
There is a place of hidden self.
The celestial city of self,
It beckons you to fill your senses
With senseless
Crowns of imaginings.
Like tales of far away lands
Where battles are fought with intangible foes,
And victories are in itself.
Hearts are aglow with tangerine
Lights of victory’s
Translucent bells,
Echoing praises of
Self, self, self.
Yvonne Taylor
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FIRE MOUNTAIN
The fire mountain
Stands tall
Shades of brown
Emerges bright
From smouldering red
Fire mountain
An awesome sight
Time of long ago
When lava flows
Like thunder
To emerge
Covering all
A mountain
Vast and wide
To boiling point
A crater
So deep inside
Maureen Thornton
THE LADY
Did not wish to knit or embroider
Take Spanish lessons, or sew
For life was simply not the same
Since heaven had claimed her Joe
She did not wish to grow fruit or veg
Or have flowers around her door
Belly-dancing was not her scene
Nor any of the suggestions galore
No appeal for her, was joining the WI
Baking cakes or visiting the sick
Which was really quite a pity
For she was physically very fit
All the lady wanted to do
Was cry, and cry, and cry
For she missed her sweetheart
Husband, friend
Her irreplaceable guy
Until one day she heard her children sobbing
And she gently asked them why
We miss our dad too mum
But we don’t want you to
Leave us too, and die
Joan Kernick
THE BUTTERFLY
Tremulous pennate limbs double-fold glow
Crimson, printed with oblong pools of gold,
Creating a symmetrical red bow,
Oscillating open before they fold.
Ebony lines, ebullient and bold,
Separate the rich rouge autumnal hues.
Fixity of owls’ eyes never grow old
As they stare in silent, inviting ruse.
Speckles of amber inveigles and woos
The starry-eyed soul sat staring upon
Luxuriant beauty that does infuse
His being with admiration so strong.
A perfect butterfly, glittering bright,
In an instant disappears into flight.
Mehreen-Fatima Ashfaq
THAT TREE
That tree always pleasing me,
Donkey years old oak,
In an enclosed green, on the mead.
In shine and sock,
Expose its seasonal moods.
Winter cold, forlorn and nude,
Angry at offending dogs being rude.
Spring sprung into green buds,
Hatching out of irritating bugs.
Summer in full inspiring leaves.
One realize how massive
That old oak is.
Autumn colours of off reds,
Dirty yellow leaves
Hanging half dead.
That old oak, pleasing to see.
Bryan Clarke
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OH
Once I was young I was beautiful,
I could dance, I could run, I could jump.
Now when I look in the mirror
I just see a sad shapeless lump.
The young girls have such lovely fashions
Primark, New Look are so cheap.
Mutton dressed as lamb I admit to
Making friends and my family weep.
My hair is a source of amusement
Coloured blonde - okay rather badly,
I wear shoes that I cannot walk in
Fall over a lot rather sadly.
Away with my friends I try dancing
I may look a bit of a sight
But inside I’m lithe and balletic
So pretend I am young for a night.
Life is still good and I’m happy
Got purpose, got friends and I’m fit.
Forget age and how others perceive you
Life is just what you make of it.
Pat Roser
THE MAGNETIC PRESENT
Could our money ever buy
The gem we glibly call the eye?
Yet in our being we could find
A self that knows the eye is blind
By a magnetic wand to all is sent
These star-filled gifts omnipresent
Would caterpillars realise
Their destiny is butterflies?
Gerald Hammond
ENGLAND 2009
No please, no thanks, only streetwise manners,
Effin and blindin, if you don’t like it, ban us,
No holding open doors,
No ladies any more.
Lying, cheating,
Materialism rife,
No morals, no ethics,
Angry life.
Beer bellies, tattoos,
Shaven heads,
England shirts, speed cameras,
ID theft.
No one caring,
No one sharing,
What’s mine is me own,
Give no one a loan.
Nothing really matters, cause life is but a joke,
Gonna live forever providing you don’t smoke,
And banks with zero interest rates,
For a people with zero interest.
Ed Penney
Ed Penny said: “I have been writing for 20 years and I have written numerous pantomime scripts which have been performed and a full length comedy play for the stage. I have also done sketches for the stage and various short stories, as well as several screenplays, both short and feature length. I only seriously started writing poetry this year. I will be having an e-book of my poetry and other prose published in 2010 and will continue to mainly write both poetry and screenplays. Thanks for reading this far. My e-mail is edwardpenney@btinternet.com."
WHAT IS LOVE?
Love is quite difficult to define
It’s shown in many ways
Sometimes a look, or just a sign
A touch or tender gaze
Caring and sharing is part of it too
Being honest and also sincere
Mostly it’s shown in the things people do
Good thoughts, kind words, nice to hear
Forgiveness, compassion and respect
Many feelings are thereby involved
Together they should have a good effect
Perhaps that is love solved
It won’t run out, there’s more to spare
It must be meant to use and share
Caroline Sinacola
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RETURNING
Even when I am not there
I am still sensing the slight shift of breeze
on those southern downs and the untaxed rain
drenching something beautiful.
This scene is in me.
I am thinking of it now in this strip-lit office,
even though it’s months since I’ve walked
that green-capped ground
watching the birds returning
specking the sky.
My childhood roots are this landscape.
I like its sense of order
of weathers and seasons;
the scenting molecules of pollen in the air.
These free elements are restoration. I need to abandon
the ever quickening city that beats a rhythm
like no drummer can and return again
to those southern downs.
Sue Burkett
DESTRUCTION
Our rainforests are nearly depleted,
Some wildlife are almost extinct,
Our planet is so overheated
That the icecaps have started to sink.
The delicate balance of nature that has
Maintained us for millions of years
Is suddenly sent into chaos,
By man's greed and total deaf ears.
Can none of them hear the earth screaming?
To stop before it's too late.
To turn back all the wilfull destruction
And let nature once more procreate.
Patricia Anne Withnall
THE POET SAW IT
Greatness and mercies, an author’s story
Disorientation, resolution, the poet saw it
Words and impunity grabs like a tiger
Digest it without hunger
She toils all day without a pay
He sits there all May
Listen, hear the rattle, words dropping from the pen
She says, “Lord when?” The poet saw it
Gosh, she is dynamite
Just listen, open a bottle, the poet saw it
It’s fizzy, she is so dizzy as she struggle, plough and plant
It is here, it is there, when children cry and rant
It is everywhere, sun burnt and tan
But where is the caring one? Stay to the end when body all bed
Could this be love, oh, dignity and dainty, when lacking such humanity?
Look - see that passing dove? Show me some reality and sincerity
Freedom so seldom, molecules at random
Happiness bouncing when loneliness speaking
Short and tall, in some very strange situations
Large and small with some brave, blue emotions
Eileen Boyce
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ORPHAN
Reality
and I wake up
to the voices of thy parents
in mind
the constant kindness and understanding no more
Mother, father
the voice of the Lord is powerful
the voice of the Lord is majestic
you listen to my voice
you hear me
you follow me
your presence is balm
Unwillingly
I always return
to reality
to the blessed world of reality
But the gift of God is eternal life
I must carry on
the will of my beloved parents
Kevin Lamaro
V - THE PANTHEIST
All meet in you. Orange, fig-tree, wave,
shadow and hillside. Into your mind
each leaf, each stone, is welcomed by your love.
For this is the divine Eros, refined
in you to the supreme acclaim of all
existence. No storm, no tiger, strikes in you
a discord: you have uprooted from the tall
vaults of the soul envy and fear, and view
the cosmos with empathy. Compassion flows
alike to man and beast, to the green
forests, the white snows. Each seed finds reply
in you, the microcosm. All mortality
here is born, is watered, flowers serene,
and dies in the mystic ground where it arose.
Ian Ferguson
LINES ON BARBUDA
The mighty hills beneath the blue skies
The perpetual sun that fills one’s eyes,
The common love of what is there,
For man to imbibe day by day.
The waterfalls are a gem to me,
The palm-fringed beaches and the sea,
And that sweet breeze which fills the air
And stirs the emotions everywhere.
The fresh water and the grapes sweet wine,
No sweeter taste could nature divine
The meadows where the cattle graze,
The young were won’t to spend their days.
I cannot tell you what it’s like being
A man who tarries and doth sing,
On the roads and under the palm trees,
Midst the beauty of the West Indies.
Oscar Frank
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WHAT ARE MY WORDS WORTH?
Within all the libraries in the land
The corridors will be walked, by you,
With pen in hand.
The situation is research for ideas
The inspiration is modern or but to,
Write a classic.
With the poets and the novelist
And the writers who delight us
There finally will be a space on the shelf
For your work to maybe inspire,
And give thought of kind to others.
We all hope that the day will come,
When we can eventually say,
What are my words worth?
Michael Avery
ABRACADABRA
Your eyes upon me through the window.
Knowing this look I cannot forget.
And your woman’s fears, still fumbling inside.
This morning I crunch through the snow,
Looking back at my footprints.
How should I answer those last remarks?
Dreams are like snowflakes on the river.
But if only we once could find us again ......
No, now I won’t look down,
But follow the white bird, curling through the blue.
I have waded deep into the drift.
You are trying to reach me with words.
But how can I ever come to be,
When quietly, layer by layer,
I feel myself slowly solidify?
A woman dancing, wherever I turn to see,
As houses and trees conglomerate.
My hungry creations encompassing me,
I turn towards the blue above,
And your old abracadabra to live.
David Munro
THE THIEVING MAGPIE
I play to the tune of the one that stole
As you flaunt with the jewel that is part of my soul
I’ve weighed up your ill-gotten deed of the day
As you flap your wings like a conductor display...
... Orchestrating the steal with flowing themes
You weaved your wings through beating streams
Artfully gliding through rhythmic veins
Following pathways through melodic lanes
Through acoustic ventricles in the artery place
Where four chambers resonate in harmonic grace
Nearing the centre where the G-string was aired
Whilst the beat crescendoed and song was declared
The organ played merrily in rhapsodic allure
And the thief found the heart of overture
With vibrant wings you seized hold of your hoard
And escaped to the sky in tuneful accord...
... A sorcerer you are and apprenticed in bliss
So this former sonata blows you a moonlight kiss
Duet with your capture in pastoral delight
For on wings of song, we’re a symphony in flight
Peter Brown
Born in London, Peter Brown has interests including reading all types of literature and writing. “I have aspergers syndrome and started to write when I was 15 in order to understand people from their perspective and therefore understand myself,” he explained. “My work is influenced by historical figures and I would describe my style as emotional, witty and thought-provoking. I would like to be remembered as an inspiration to others who have similar health conditions to me,” added Peter.
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THE HEALER
The sun glistened through the trees,
Its light made communion with the water.
Anxious crowds stood silent as they waited,
Here and there a nervous laugh, a sigh, a silent recited prayer,
Filled the air, hope was everywhere.
Suddenly in silent humility a figure of a man appeared.
He stood alone, far from home,
Strange lights shone in his eyes, he had an air of mystery.
This was a spirit come to earth,
To write man’s history.
His hand was warm upon my face,
I felt its love go deep, reach my inner space.
Looking into his eyes of dark brown,
I felt trapped in a strange but loving sunrise.
Deformed, I felt him hold me tight,
As he lifted me in his arms,
Jesus the healer. I became humble in his grace,
I felt the healing, reached and touched his face,
My life would remember, to eternity, this embrace.
Heleneia Brierley
THE PENCIL PORTRAIT
His pencil takes to the page,
Charged with capturing her essence.
Reminding me of the days
I used to spend in her presence.
Each stroke is a stroke of her hair.
The shading reveals her complexion.
It’s almost as if he was there,
Sharing her eyes of affection.
He returns her into my hands,
We’ve conspired on the greatest of gifts.
I’m giving her back to herself.
The gesture is mine but the effort is his.
She senses the truth when she sees it.
Her lips ask after the artist.
I’m sharing her with others already.
I handed over love and lost it.
The girl left with him that night,
But every love leaves a vapour.
Preserved forever in pure white,
Her soul remains on that paper.
Mat Dickie, Grimsbybr
Mat Dickie said: “As a videogame designer, I have always seen life as a creative process. I was in the business of turning dreams into reality. It taught me to trust my imagination and express it wherever possible, instead of suppressing it, as so many of us do. I delight in drawing out the poetic significance of life, which is what I now do in my writing. My autobiography, Inspiration For The Interactive Generation, is available on Amazon where it has enjoyed five star reviews.”
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