Read Poetry from A Writer's Quest
DAY BREAK
One rosy streak paints
the Eastern sky
in the wood owl flies home
with a last, long cry.
A great flashing star
that shone through the night
before the sun rises
puts out its lights.
Down in the field
lies the sleeping herd
out of a bush
comes the chirp of birds
Sylvia Quayle, Brampton, Cumbria
ENDINGS
To explore his creativity
He composed purple prose and poetry
For those who may wish to read it
But more for his personal therapy
At the door of his mind came a menacing knock
Not yet the hooded grim reaper
Grasping his life ending scythe
But the masked axe man to stop his brain
With the dreaded writer’s block
Geoffrey Martin, Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire
YEARNING FOR PEACE
I long to get away from the toil and strife
Which is such a part of modern life
As I fight my way through crowded streets
With aching back and tired feet
I yearn for peace.
The noise of traffic rumbling by
My shopping bag piled up high
With goods that I certainly felt I needed
But as I struggle on the bus wish I hadn’t yielded
I yearn for peace.
On arrival home I am greeted by boom boom
Coming from the CD player in my son’s bedroom
In the lounge the television’s on
But if anyone was watching they are gone
I yearn for peace.
I took myself to the Yorkshire dales
For some hill walking which never fails
To please, breathing in the fresh air and country smells
Whilst walking through forests swathed in groups of bluebells
This is God’s creation where my peace I found.
Doris Turner, Houghton-le-Spring, Tyne and Wear
THE STORYTELLER
The search for inspiration
To satisfy the writer’s muse
The feeling of excitement
As words fit in the groove
The stories now unfolding
Thought scans the mind
Searching for the many things
Stored in path of time
The fantasy that creates a story
When imagination wanders free
The reality of the normal
When back to sanity
Research is all important
In the quest to find the plot
And many hours of frustration
Come with writer’s block
The story is only good
If the reader judges so
This is the most important thing
The writer needs to know
Bernard Tucker, Rotherhithe, Greater London
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THUNDER STORM
Grey clouds gathering
Distant rumbling, roaring fierce
Rolls ever closer.
Showers spray the land
Falling fast, saturating
Bolts burst flashing lights.
Thunder cracks its whip,
Rhythmic rumble, flash, boom, crash,
Exploding tempest.
Thrashing, crashing down,
Frightening frenzied blitz falls,
Fades slowly away.
Clouds break, wind of change,
Freshness blowing, calming clear,
Sunlight peeping through.
Martine Gafney, London, Greater London
THE WIND AND THE SEA
There was no horizon, the gulls flash white
Against the leaden skies which reach down and blend
With the slow surge of a grey sea.
The lazy pulse of the surf crawls up the stony beach
Then reluctantly recedes.
And through the white foam
Can be heard the grinding grating sound of a million stones
Dragging across each other.
How calm it seems, and oh so quiet,
But in the night the wind howled in from the north.
Each stormy gust lifting from the sea
A curtain of grey-green water which it carried on towards
The chalky cliffs which defiantly
Denied the passage of the wind across the field
These rocks that would not yield
The wind shouted its rage
And threw the sea against the rocks
Which had withstood a thousand storms
Until at last defeated the wind fled screaming into the night
The morning has arrived to shed its dull light
Upon the petulant sea
Which slow and green
Looks up to the grey and colourless sky.
James Pyett, Pevensey, Sussex
VIETNAM, AFFINITY
Velvet skin
Imagination, memorising
Every moment, because
Time isn’t on our side
No, we cannot leave here
And, know we will never have
This moment again.
Always and
Forever continues
Flowering and rebirth
In our lives we carry on
Never ending
In step or not
Time is on our side
Yes, earth and its souls
Are always and forever.
Vietnam.
Sharon Kemp, Ipswich, Suffolk
“Dedicated to my mother Janice.”
Born in Hull, Sharon Kemp has interests including reading, belly-dancing and poetry.“I have always liked certain styles of poetry and I didn’t start writing for a particular reason,” she explained.“I would describe my style as from-the-heart and I would like to be remembered as someone who cared for others.” Aged 46, Sharon is a radio controller with an ambition to live life and be free spirited.“The people I would most like to meet are Led Zeppelin because I think they are brilliant,” added Sharon.
I SUPPOSE
That to pose as a model
Cannot be such a doddle
As it’s cracked up to be
Someone has to fancy
That others will think you an eyeful
So they can sell you
As one that others will fancy
To have their eye as full of you
As an artist would too
And as I most certainly do too.
The next problem must be
To find such beauty.
It is not everyday
One passes one who
Fulfils the requirements
And who consents
To the deal
Once she’s checked that the pay
Makes it worth it.
So the next day or two
I’ll hunt out a figure who has the vigour to be it.
John Coleridge, Fakenham, Norfolk
NOT ALONE
Why are we so desperate, to fit in?
Each of us is different, it isn’t a sin,
Yet people are afraid, of what they don’t know,
Showing no understanding, so negatively will flow.
When you have the ability, to have your say,
Don’t be afraid, don’t let things get in your way,
If you have the ability, to do some good,
Don’t hold back, let the kindness flood.
Some people are afraid, to show real love,
God is watching, from above,
Reaching out to someone, to show you care,
Let them know, their not alone with the cross they bear.
We all feel alone, sometime in our life,
Especially when we’re faced, with adversity and strife,
Be there for someone, don’t just say your there,
Listening to their pain, they’ll see you care.
Michèle Wood, Scunthorpe, Lincolnshire
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QUESTION?
Does a writer have a quest?
Unquestionably, to do his best.
May be to have a point of view
Write of acts both brave and true.
To write of love or feelings deep.
Maybe in strange fantasy to leap.
With future past or present link
To make us shiver, laugh, cry, or think.
Childhood memories, queens and kings,
A writer writes, he has few strings.
Beauty of nature and changing seasons.
Oh, the writers quest has many reasons.
Think of famous women and men
Who took their paper and their pen
To record and teach, write for pleasure
Books we read and always treasure.
For mistreated children and animals I pray
That they may see a better day
Does a writer have a quest?
I know he does, my pen I rest.
Alma Olivia Hynd, Sleaford, Lincolnshire
A SCOTTISH DREAM
The Scottish mountains of Argyll reaching for the sky,
Showing great strength as they tower on high.
Appearing like great cathedrals, solid, firm and proud,
Awe-inspiring and mighty, but never bowed.
Surrounded by mists of time, and softly falling dew,
Where profusions of heathers grow of every hue.
Crystal clear rivers run deep along the glen
With silver fish, and waving ferns, as on their way they wend
Beneath the tallest fir trees, where on spiky branch
Red squirrels flick bushy tails as they scurry and they dance.
I wish I was in Scotland to hear the calling of the deer,
To see mellow sunsets and enjoy air fresh and clear.
To listen to the bonnie pipes as the tartans swirl,
To gaze across the loch as I did when as a girl.
I miss the mountains and the lochs, they mean so much to me,
I must go back, I will go back, for the pipes are calling me.
Jan Imeson, Allington, Lincolnshire
A FRESH START
A heartwarming picture appeared in the press,
Of a horse looking over a fence.
Its owner stood near, one whom he loved,
And saved him from a fearful fate.
He was once a prisoner used and abused,
In a dreadful bull fighting ring.
His owner had saved him from all this,
And his terror was healed by a violin’s strings.
He was soothed by music and calmed by love
And is now part of a team.
Trained in the art of dressage,
While the past seems like a bad dream.
Many lives are today
In this world’s bull ring
Unable to see any way out.
Not even thinking what the future might bring.
Such fetters can be broken,
By one who has conquered all.
His grace, his strength and abiding love,
Can be had if you only call.
Florence Brain, Weston-Super-Mare, Somerset
CHALLENGES OF MANKIND
A writer’s quest is challenging
To choose such words with care,
Like the painter chooses colours
And the sculpture shapes and sizes.
To climb the highest mountain
And break the fastest speed
With the swiftest mile, yet to be broken
Travels to the far off lands.
Voyages across the seven seas
Exploring fathoms of the deep
Scaling mountains of the tallest peaks
And tall trees of the forestry.
Journeys to the universe
Beyond endurance of humanity
Defending earth from unknown evils
From times past, to present and future.
Jim Carlin, Barnstaple, Devon
MY ART OF POETRY
When I write I create a picture.
Like tubes of paint with their lids off,
The colours tumble, cascading onto the page.
Mixing them carefully on my thought palette.
Needing to find the perfect shades of light and dark.
Expressing thoughts and dreams, sharing my art.
Space, motion, time. How, why, when and where?
Placing them on the canvas with love and care.
Red’s envious, angry, a bloody stain,
But colour’s a rose bud’s bloom.
Orange so zesty, exciting, youthful, zingy and full of fun.
Yellow is golden memories,
Kindness and warmth of the sun.
Green for fresh natural vitality,
New life, freedom and relaxing.
Blue of azure skies, lofty heights,
Melancholic’s solace by cool streams babbling.
Indigo for riches, royalty, power,
Romantic moonlight walks under inky starry skies.
Violet is feminine, delicate and beautiful,
But often very shy.
The whole picture reminds me of God’s love,
The real treasure at the end of His rainbow
Judy Edwards, Nailsea, Somerset
EVEN THE SPARROW
After so long working with the child
To help him understand
To be calm and begin to turn outwards
Dispensing with rough play
And form words that had meaning.
With music, repeated messages, pointing at things
Gaining his attention with unorthodox
Yet not cruel means.
The catalyst showing utter response,
Knowing where he was in the scheme of things.
Making him see life was not a game of whim
But a flesh and blood reality.
Then oh bliss, the shop well known,
He uttered a clear, good morning
Twice before it was taken up
By mother telling of the wonder
With crying joyful praise
At the miracle of his first words.
Ann G McNair, Verwood, Dorset
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