| Still Life |
Still Life is a widely known term from the world of art. It refers to the subject of a painting or drawing which is motionless. But the phrase has a double meaning if you add the remaining words from that well-known phrase "Still life in the old dog yet."
This ambiguity was explored deeply by the poets who contributed to the December 2004 anthology Still Life.
Here you will find a selection of work from the book and some contributors have allowed us to add a short pen portrait of themselves.
THE
PAPERS
The papers haven’t got a lot to say about you today
Perhaps your wish has come true and they’ve all gone
away
Staring lonely through four walls without a window
The face that once you could not hide, you’re now too scared to show
A man is ruined with a word
The truth is seldom heard
Information for the few who soak up all your views
Change the facts to make the headlines
They’ll all forget in time
Prince or pauper, not a care
Their lives are free for all to share
You are the hounds of shames and lies
You chase the fox until it dies
Your masters blow their horns of greed
And to their praise you sit and feed
Your teeth sink in, you won’t let go
Their secret’s there for all to show
You smell the scent, back on the trail
Another victim starts to wail
Can’t you leave them alone
Stripping the rass away from their bones
Sifting through the human debris for your story
Who pays the price
For your ultimate glory
Paul Blackmoore, Worthing, Sussex
Dedicated to Samuel for the precious gift of your smile that you give
so freely to me every morning.
Paul Blackmoore said: “I have been writing poems and songs since I was
12. My first piece was composed during a Cambridge University entrance
exam. Suffice to say, Cambridge was denied the pleasure of my acquaintance
in its halls that year. I am the devoted father of Samuel, aged seven
and run my own telephone cost reduction company in Worthing. My poems
and songs deal with everyday issues which affect us all and appeal to
a mass audience. I would love Samuel’s writing to blossom, enabling him
to pursue a career with it.”
THE GLORIES OF BATTLE
O grand are the glories of battle
To be on the battle field
Surrounded by many a guns a blazing and many a more swords a clashing
Spears have been thrown and axes slashed
O how it is grand to be a war chief
And to lead your men in to their bloody deaths
To have died in battle
Is as to have never come home
Thank the Lord
That my sword's a pen
Neville Teacy, Macosquin, Northern Ireland
THE NEW STRAYS OF LONG AGO
A wisp of scent through dark night air,
Tells arrival of my lady fair.
Labour’s love and lust defined,
Warm freshness, dappled feminine fine.
Linen, lace and love refined,
Equality dancers, roles divine.
Curvature and fullness shared,
Intuitive, though childhood’s heir.
Cathartic rhyme of liberty,
Coarse tail of sweet solemnity.
Truth ties the lover’s loveless lives,
The heart prevails on law bound eyes.
The black and white of dawn dusk days,
Nightly lights we coloured strays.
To travel waves of passion free,
To sweet soul seekers, bold as we.
John Matthew Jamison, Glengormley, Northern Ireland
DARKNESS
Light is fading, darkness is nigh,
The sun dips low, in a crimson sky.
Shadows creeping, silent and tall,
Creatures of the night, whisper and call.
I climb into bed, there’s nothing to fear,
Footsteps approach, I do not hear.
I’ve always felt safe, in my little home,
Never afraid of being alone.
Another dawn breaks, the sun is bright,
Gone is the darkness, gone is the night.
I wander downstairs, and gasp with fear,
Where are the treasures, I held so dear.
Suddenly feeling alone and old,
The day is warm, yet I shiver with cold.
I stumble and fall as I reach for the phone,
No longer safe, in my dear little home.
Susie Field, Brighouse, West Yorkshire
Born in Brighouse Susie Field has interests including
ballroom dancing, walking and gardening. “I used to write poetry at school and began again
five years ago following a school reunion,” she pointed. “My work is
influenced by my everyday experiences of life and I would describe my
style as easy to read. I would like to be remembered for my writing and
for my sense of humour.” Aged 58, Susie is a special needs teaching assistant
with ambitions to do well in all things she puts her mind to and to remain
healthy. She is married to Jeff and they have children Jane and Steven
and granddaughters Georgia and Holly. “I have published my own book of
stories and also had a large number of poems published,” added Susie.
HER MOTHER’S ASHES
She carried the past right there in her arms
Keeping it safe and free from all harms
Taking it back to where it first began
A warm and peaceful beautiful land
Her memory wandered down through the years
With its laughter and joy, sadness and tears
The ups and downs that make up life
Caring and sharing, trouble and strife
She put the root back in the ground
And all of a sudden all around
She could understand this final mile
She was the branch, the leaf, her child
Waiting quietly beside her all the while
They stood together hand in hand
The circle complete in this foreign land
Patricia Corry, Bangor, Northern Ireland
ONE MORE TIME
Butterfly moth descending
Amidst the dust electric dream
alluring shades of silver thread
Ascending to another head, hair and face
And hand with glass of guinness firmly held
An arm with watch still timing
Reaches to enfold a necked t shirt
Essence of a woody soap
Eternal soul, I touch your taste
Martha McGonigle, Belfast, Northern Ireland
Dedicated to Paddy - a mirror of love.
THE
SILVER USK
The silver usk languidly winds its way,
flowing underneath the fine, five-arched bridge,
picturesque on this sultry summer’s day.
I relax and slowly close my eyelids
hearing children play in the river,
also the sweet tone of bells from a church,
a Sunday I wish could last forever
as a breeze caresses me with its touch.
I open my eyes, watch a leaf fall down
to the soothing sound of the hissing trees.
The leaf will soon turn to a crispy brown
and crumble in fingers like many dreams.
I pity those who have never found time
to savour days when the world is sublime.
Guy Fletcher, Cardiff, Wales
ALL MY FATHERS
Spirit of the air, land and waters
All my fathers
Stand in me
And as I step
Into the wood
Children dance
Where I once stood
Eliot Baron, Pembroke, Wales
OLD AGE
With insipid eyes and sad sullen stare
At the shimmering morning dew
He reflects
Am I a reincarnation?
Am I a child reborn?
Toothless, infirm, dependent
Humbled to a crawl
Power of imagination vanished
Reason and rhyme dissipated
Control over proud faculties no more
Like a little helpless child
I am old age, a child reborn
A Jamil, Abergele, Wales
THOUGHTS
Dim, damp, dusky, greyness,
lingering in the shadowed streets
familiar things and knowing places
in a shrouded misty gloom,
change grotesquely all their faces
awaiting some nocturnal doom
Raucous voices strangely muted
whispering echoes in the night
Sounding out a way that’s routed
by an eerie baleful light
Ghost creatures glide past swiftly
blurring shadows in their plight
swirling clouds around their traces,
covering up their way of flight
P Barlow, Gwent, Wales
ARABIAN CATS
In searing heat the Arabian cats claw at their mangy unloved bodies,
trying but failing to
Dry-clean unkempt dusty coats,
A struggle to survive.
They mingle with herds of fellow tramps,
Competing for space,
Food and precious water, thankful, so grateful,
For any muddy pool to quench a throat hardly used,
Unless to greet a noticed glance or snatch a scrap
Of someone else’s leftovers; that would be a
Miracle.
They wind their weary bodies, the sand-cats,
Camouflaged along the dirty dusty roads,
Following in their ancestors’ paw-paths.
Nothing changes.
A life half lived, then merciful death. Their bodies left to feed the
vultures.
So far removed from the pharaohs’ cats.
Loved, revered, wrapped in swaddling,
Laid to rest for eternity
In a quiet clean grave.
Eidda Jeffs, Peebles
SOFT
so soft eyes
so soft
eyes of emotion
held holding
a connection
Lizzie Rose, Ardfern
OVER THE RAINBOW
Dramatic ocean colour scene,
Mountain drop and running stream
Lushes fields of green and gold,
Crofters’ farmhouses stand out so bold
Whitewashed walls of solid stone
A winding road runs to the sea
The turbulent sky with thunders fright
And in among this awesome light
I know it’s going to be alright
A shining, arching rainbow
William McHaffie, Peebles
Dedicated to all who live in hope, that one day their dreams may come
true.
Born in Scotland, William McHaffie has interests including
reading, writing, socialising and photography. “Writing came naturally to me and my work
is influenced by love, nature and people who thirst for life,” he explained. “I
would describe my style as inspiring and I would like to be remembered
as someone who brought some peaceful joy and laughter into the lives
of others. I am a humanitarian worker and my ambitions are to be more
professional in my work and loving in relationships with friends. I have
written over 100 poems but this is the first to be published.”
BOTTLE NECK
For all the wrongs, celebrate one right,
Only a shallow light flickers,
When dead dawn lights,
Demons crowd blinding all reason,
One striking hammer
And you’re guilty of treason,
Crashing through another ceremony blue
Hell yes, what’s it matter
When you’re out with the crew,
A weak minded soul,
You reek, blind and old,
Cold and alone,
One bottle, one stone.
Graeme Innes, Newmachar
CLACKMANNAN GAOL
Her room was on view
Like a self-contained zoo
And the thought of meeting
One curious stare
Aroused more horror
That she could bear
The clients all smoked
To a film about fire
Choking on the knowledge
Their lives were dire
A shelf is adorned by
A Beautiful Mind
She yearns for days
Left far behind
Helene McCulloch, Edinburgh
IN THE SHADOWS OF THE TREES
On this wooded hill,
Reynard’s eating sausages.
He never refuses my nightly offering
in the shadows of the trees.
May he never fall to the four -
legged pawns of his evil enemies.
Long may he dine
in the shadows of the trees.
Shed a tear for his late vixen,
damn his evil enemies.
She never refused my nightly offering
in the shadows of the trees.
James Innes, Edinburgh
Born in Edinburgh, James Innes has interests including
local flora and fauna and walking his dog. “It is not easy to express my thoughts in
verse but it is my favourite pastime. I wrote my first poem about 40
years ago,” he remarked. Aged 66, James is a retired labourer. “I have
had poems published in magazines of contemporary verse and anthologies.
I have written over 100 and so far 14 have been published,” he added.
LAMBS TO THE SILENCE
Mothers and sweethearts
hide tear-damp hankies.
Away the young hopefuls go
singing: Bye-ee, goodbye-ee.
Wish us luck as you wave us.
We’ve supplies of fresh tommy
and tin hats to keep off the rain.
We’re bound for a picnic held
for boys on a field in Flanders
boggy and bleak. We’ll plant
poppies, then come home.
Jilly Garnett, Edinburgh
NIGHT THOUGHTS
With the dark comes childhood.
Stranger’s face clapped to the window,
white as a cloth-capped moon.
Silent, dead-eyed moon.
He has power to come at you
through uncracked glass,
To strike you bone-rigid and
Steal away your voice.
Not until morning
Will you know if he has killed you.
Marjory Callender, Inverness, Scotland
MY SCARS
There are my scars
Forever a reminder
They do not match
What has been done to me.
A woman no more
Flat, flat no nipples
Will my husband still love me?
What do I look like.
A robot, a skeleton, a robot
Help, if my hair goes too
Will I be a nobody, a neutron?
The mirror tells it all.
With my external cover
Inside I still feel sad
I have lost my womanhood
But I will survive.
Carol Habrovitsky, Glasgow
Born in Richmond, Carol Habrovitsky has interests including
writing, music and swimming. “I started writing following cancer when I had to
retire from my nursing career,” she explained. “I would describe my style
as frank and to the point and I would like to be remembered for bringing
the dreaded cancer word into the open.” Aged 62, Caroline is married
to Harry and they have one son and one grandson. “The person I would
most like to be for the day is a photographic model and I would love
to meet James Galway, the flautist.”
A WAR OF WORDS
When you lose control and the insults roll
Too soon it’s been said and done.
You’ll try to find ways to justify your case
When you know, deep down, there’s none.
A war of words is like a clash of swords,
But can hurt more than a blade.
There is no excuse for a barrage of abuse
And represents a verbal raid.
The words will trip off your loose lips
As your tongue declines to mutter.
Stop being a fool, adopt a golden rule:
It’s better to pause before you utter.
Mark J McAuley, Dunfermline
LOVE
Love?
What is it?
It is the peace at the centre;
the gift that life offers
that we can know ourselves and others.
It is not chosen, but already given:
found when the rain falls steadily
outside
like a soft grey veil,
behind which
I am
with you.
The warmth of you;
not the thought of you
melts
the thin remaining frost.
Lesley Atkins, Glasgow
FORTUNE
Have you a silken thread to guide me home?
Your eyes lured me with devastating force
And I am lost. I lack the skill alone,
Despite my strength, to quite regain my course.
When you have had your fill, and tired of me,
With such a gentle touch you’ll let me fall.
Once more adrift and helpless, all at sea,
By waves and wind tossed. battered by the squall,
There I shall stay adrift. And you, my love?
Lord knows what you will do. One thing I know:
No thought of me will ever cross your mind.
This certainty breeds no regret, my love.
When sleep won’t come and freezing blow
Such memories of calm, and you, I’ll find.
Peter D Robinson, Fife
GREY POWER
No families to raise
Or careers to forge
Few years left
In this vale of tears
Their stout courage
For the honour of England
No longer having meaning
In true yeoman style
They raise two fingers
To a re-created land
The senior citizens
With little to lose
Enjoying their final fling
Such people are dangerous
They know they can survive
Geoffrey Martin, Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire
IMMORTAL FLAMES
Federico Garcia Lorca
Took the Andalucian express
The Granadan poet
Took the train home
Bullets ended genius
With the certainty of stone
He who abhorred violence
Was exhorted not to go
Yet travelled into silence
Fifty seven years ago
The Falange is now forgotten
At least the personal names
While Lorca’s words live on
Immortal flames
Robin Tilley, Chandlers Ford, Hampshire
TRUE LOVE
The rain is coming down on the window pane
How I wish we were back together again
I miss you so much you will never know
Just how much I still love you so
My life is so empty without you now
How I regret that we had that bitter row
I still have your picture on my wall
Your smile just about says it all
You looked so handsome your eyes so blue
How shall I ever get over losing you
Please come back to me we can make a fresh start
For you have never left my heart
The rain has stopped falling fast
I didn't think it would last
The sun is shining through clouds of grey
A new day is dawning here to stay
I feel hope in my heart you will soon come home
Never again will you ever roam
By my side you will always be
For that is where you belong till eternity
Enid Skelton, Luton, Bedfordshire
ADULT ANGST
A dietsa
Riot,
On one’s entitlement.
Choc’late, the
Pup-fat
For our establishment,
Adolescence
Luminescence
On a maturing society,
A simmering potion
Playing with the notion
Of changing propriety
A growing mind needs lean
And fat, don’t deny it!
Support adolescence -
Hold off the diet.
Laine Briggs, Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire
HEARTFELT PAIN
You have to get from under it
So you will see it through
And not be drawn into it’s pit
As it will mar your view
So as each moment passes by
Fill your thoughts with what’s above
Try not to listen to it’s cry
But fill your mind with love
There will be many times you’ll find
When it creeps back into view
And don’t let it encamp in your mind
But give chance to renew
Peter Kitching, Eastleigh, Hampshire
Born in Chichester Peter Kitching has interests including
oil painting, cross country skiing, walking and writing poetry. “I started penning
verses in around 1990 because I wanted to share my thoughts and feelings,” he
explained. “My work is influenced by nature and everyday events and I
would describe my style as down to earth, with heart. I would like to
be remembered as someone who lifted people and put back their smiles.” Aged
70, Peter is a locksmith with ambitions to be active and positive. He
is married to Janet and they have two children.
TRANSITIONS
This precious wakening,
When nurtured youth
Bursts forth in proud maturity.
When child becomes man
And mother must lose her womanhood.
When daughter becomes woman
And son the ardent lover
And father’s rekindled youth
Makes mistress out of mother.
Only a brief fraction of our allotted space
For heart embracing moments, lost without a trace
In life’s eternal circles ever evolving and decaying
But stilled in sheltered memory,
Our soul’s forever resting place
Jeanna L’Esty Evernden, Watton-at-Stone, Hertfordshire
Jeanna L’Esty Evernden, author of Transitions said: “I have been writing
poetry since childhood. I am the daughter of the poet Kenneth L’Esty
and Greek National Theatre trained actress Thalia Kouri. I was accepted
by RADA at 16 and appeared in seven west end musicals. I played Dandini
to Stanley Baxter’s Ugly Sister, Aunt Sally to Jon Pertwee’s Worzel Gummage
and Liz in both series of Shoestring with Trevor Eve. My poems have been
scored for the Aléph Ensemble, Paris, for Wind Quintet and Voice and
as inspiration for Flute and Piano Sonata by composer son Paul Evernden,
who is at present studying at the Paris Conservatoire.”
THE MUSIC OF LOVE
The music of love is tune
And turned into real love
And plays a romantic tune
That plays out with real love
With the smooth, soft music and
Very quilt and happy love that
Plays out with love and
Makes you feel like that
You are in love and then
You hear the music of love
Sandra Goddard, Kingston-upon-Thames, Surrey
THEATRE OF DREAMS
Where is the place that has the space?
To help re-live our dreams
To extend our minds across the lights
And know what drama means.
Where is the word that’s not absurd?
To complete a message thrown
Across the stalls and into the Gods
And steam into ears unknown.
Where is the time that’s most sublime?
To create comedic effect
A classical sliver of silent noise
Prepares us for what to expect.
Where is the light that gives us sight?
To see, then not to see
A sudden flash or a dimming glow
Takes the eye to where it should be.
Where is the stage that knows no age?
A scenic drape unfurled
A backdrop to magic excitement
That sweeps us out of this world.
Dennis Harrison, Midhurst, Sussex
PEACE
At last I’ve found the perfect
Ground, far away from strife
And sound.
Where can I find this place I
Hear you say, not far but reached
At any moment of the day.
Here within the windows of my
Mind, my thoughts are there if
So inclined.
To American red canyons high,
They seem to reach to the
Ever changing sky.
Deep chasms so far down, which
Makes me wonder
Where they reach the ground.
To watch the condor bird fly with
Great knowing, sets my heart for
Ever glowing.
Anne Whitington, Bexhill-on-Sea, Sussex
POET MIND
Oft times my mind’s compelled
Inspiringly to write
Of all the things that I behold
My senses to delight.
Oh eager me, oh eager heart inside
command my hand
With pen o’er paper ride.
Come thoughts to me,
Bring words to rhyme and blend.
Come eagerly
to my mind and attend
To every detail, every vision there,
Let moods prevail
Of laughter, or despair.
I will not rest
’Til I have said it all
In happy quest
As words to paper fall.
Renée Shaw, Chichester, Sussex
FIRST BORN
The wool heavy sheep rest
Like drifts of late snow
On the well cropped grass.
In a corner of the field,
Sheltered
By green tipped hawthorn,
A ewe pants softly,
Her warm breath
Becoming visible in the morning air.
Suddenly she bleats in surprised pain,
Before panting again, and again,
As she surrenders
To the timeless rhythm of birth.
At last she rests,
Quiet with maternal pride,
As her first born nuzzles
Into her fleece deep side.
Mary Ellis, Purley, Surrey
Mary Ellis said: “I am a poet and artist living in Surrey.
Many of my poems are illustrated by my paintings. My inspiration comes
from my love
of the countryside and my daily walks across the North Downs with my
springer spaniel. In my paintings and poems I try to capture the unique
feel of each scene which adds an invisible extra dimension to life.”
COMMITMENT
Slices of sun through
The leaves of my oak
Pointing to the stone
With my name and yours.
Smooth weight
Nesting the cryptography
Of our promise,
Neither the wind
Nor the rain can ignore.
Please, break it into halves!
You will bury mine;
I will hide yours.
Loyalty doesn’t need witnesses.
We are the signature and the Voice.
Maria Maritato, Upminster, Essex
CANCER SONNET
I saw an angel in the cancer ward,
Leaning over beds to bless defective cells;
Chemotherapy was a flaming sword,
Paradise barred with the choice of William Tell.
You might think a doctor is like a priest,
Daily touching the rub of our condition.
But medicine’s just a service industry,
The science of a cheap fairground magician.
The tumour is a flower that grows inside,
You cultivate this garden as it kills you.
You want the Flowers of Evil, they’re before your eyes,
Though no one has the heart to admit to you.
So my angel performs a thankless task,
We all pray for cures, but we’re running out of gods to ask.
J S Rafaeli, London
IF BUT NOT
How does one mend a heart that got broken?
Should be put back together this time frozen?
The one whose pulse beats in pain must perform the repair.
My captivator, my angel, how I miss your beautiful essence.
How many others must I dance for to dim the blinding power of your luminous
light?
How many layers of skin must I shed until I am whole again enriched in
sight?
When I gave you my heart to hold you gripped it but with only one hand,
Not holding tight it would slip away like ticking sand.
If but not, are eternal movements in the rhythm called life,
With only stillness we are numb, without these dances our souls empty
and dry,
All would be an illusion, wisdom could not be wise.
To feel is to be,
To love is life,
To be loved is divinity,
I wish you life.
Lenia Vasiliou, Enfield, Greater London
EXISTENT
What’s wrong with these people?
I ignore you, but ask yourself this question: Do I really want to?
What would it be like to get close to you,
Before I really do?
Am I just a joke to you, a novelty?
Aren’t I a real human being with real human feelings?
Would I fit into your personality,
Would you like it if I tried.
Working that feeling around my shoulders, shivers down my spine.
I feel cold and warm at the same time.
It’s never going to happen, or is it?
Just something that let’s me know, that you know that I exist,
Or is that existent?
Lisa-Marie Austin, Tottenham, Greater London
DEATH WISH
Beware the quilted cushions blessing;
It saps the soul.
The kapoked blackout’s warm caressing
Obscures the goal.
Soft mists are more deceiving than unseeing,
So welcome the maelstrom portal of unbeing.
The heartless stars with poignancy are rife;
So spare a glance,
Weaned from the umbilical of life,
To take one chance.
When the ethereal music strikes its chords,
Grab death for all the openings it affords.
Welcome the scalpel and the hound of steel!
The blackness drawn -
The velvety curtain is not truly real;
It hides a morn;
All living things must tread this grinding mill
Until unbeing makes the samsara still.
Paul Jeffrey, Harrow, Greater London
MY ISLAND SEA
The sea alive, with natural wealth and power
By day sunlight glistening the deep sapphire
By night silver slivers gleaming in the moonlight
Natives completely entranced by her watery sight
A pleasure riding her waves, a sight to behold
Her clean shores give anglers joy untold
Her natives earned from her their daily bread,
Through high winds, rain and stormy dread
She provides succour for all on her shores
They rejoice if her trident touches a rainbow
They watch her play as nature takes control
Of dead pebbles, sand, deaf stones ages old
She foams, roughens her waves, bellows and roar
Moving these lifeless things from shore to shore,
Moving moss, pebbles, sand and kindling debris
They pile up like cumulus clouds changing milky
She stills her voice to a whisper and is kind
Then quiets her tide, it’s a peaceful time
Then lay gently, serene in her crystal band
She rested peacefully in her blissful calm
David Austin, Harrow, Greater London
David Austin said: “I come from Barbados and have worked
on the underground, as guard, driver and manager on the Metropolitan
line since 1964. My
writing is influenced by the sea, observing travellers on the underground
and nature’s effect on people. I write poetry to amuse family, friends
and myself. I started writing in 1987 and have collected over 100 poems.
I am married to Lasmin with five children and six grandchildren. We enjoy
music, singing, reading and I’m an elementary tennis coach. Another of
my poems My Little Sailboat has been published in the Brent and Harrow
writers’ group magazine.”
UNREQUITED LOVE
How can love be so unrequited
when the giver cares so adequately?
No starry eyed dream can deny his heart
yet, in the same misunderstood breath
I would say, feelings can’t be planted as seeds.
They must germinate naturally in the soul.
These philosophies fill the graveyard of love not returned.
To love is to give your ideal your heart
and trust they will nourish it.
When the expectancy of a heart return is denied,
your rose has grated your hopeful mistake,
once a victim, now an inflictor.
My heartbroken state teaches me nothing,
for I do not live,
there is no life beyond love.
But what would I know?
I’m just a child.
Juanita Margerison, London
LONGING FOR VERMEER
The paddle squeezing out the fluid
Finds the centre clot
Gently pushes it sideways
marked as ready
I could now add colours to it
The fine powders of amber, lamp black, rouge
Or let my master spade in lapis lazuli
As we stand side by side in the light
Of the slanted window in the attic
Yet
I must let it go
My dream still fresh
As I pound butter instead
Longing for the flash of brilliance
To light up my earing
Long lost after he painted it
In the dark corner of my neck
Where his breath had warmed
Our unexpressed desire
Juli Jeana, London
POST-MODERN FUNERAL CORTEGE
Up north,
Undertakers want hearses to drive
In bus lanes to insure
Any ceremony is reached before
The decomposition process starts to eat,
The memories start to erase.
These days,
Even when you’re dead,
You get caught up in traffic,
Rotting quietly in the congestion
Of soccer mums and bankers
With hands free cell-phones.
Robert Selby, Sevenoaks, Kent
Robert Selby said: “I’ve only been writing poetry of any kind for two
years, since I began my degree course at Bath Spa University College.
Initially I only saw myself as a prose writer, but after reading the
poetry of Simon Armitage, I was inspired to write some of my own. I have
settled into a relaxed, conversational style which comments on specific
events which grab my attention. It’s not wholly conventional, but I feel
my poetry should be easily accessible to all.”
I NEVER LOOKED FOR YOU
He spends his time listening
To that inner voice
Cursing all the choices he can’t make
It is far better off in his own head
Clicking as the keys on a keyboard
Crash towards the finale of an end that can never be
He spends his days watching
Behind open opaque eyes
Senses for the movement in the trees
He would be better off in bed
Sleeping as the leaves begin to fall
Floating towards the ground in the air he cannot see
He marks the hours truthfully
With his heavy sharpened knife
Catches all the moonbeams in his hands
Tears up the letters he has never read
Voicing softly as the pieces slip away
“I never looked for you, when did you forget me?”
“I never looked for you.”
Ian
Matthews, Herne Bay, Kent
NO LOVE LOST
With this ring
I thee wed
Did they forget
The things they said?
Love once shared
Has now been lost
A decision now made
But at what cost?
No argument in
This split apart
No sleepless nights
No broken heart
Their time together
Has run its course
Wasted vows
Lost in divorce
Del Mahoney, Tonbridge, Kent
LONELINESS
The terror, the horror
Utter desolation
Abject misery
A weeping heart
The unshed tears
The wallowing
The drowning
A roomful of people
Some hellos
Some goodbyes
A sea of faces, blank
But stop
Desist
Must self-assert
One can dispense
With forced success
This heartache that is loneliness
Rosita Jenkins, Ramsgate, Kent
TO PETER
Peter is my precious brother
Very much like his mother
Always a smile, strong and brave
The love of the countryside he does crave
From his father he does take
Of a wonderful husband he doth make
Smart and kind, hard working too
May God bless my dear brother
I love you
Anne Churchward, Groombridge, Kent
SUMMER FIRE
The rose you gave was perfect,
Crimsoned petals held in soft bud,
Your heart when given was a flood of passion
Flames of fire coursing through your blood.
The kisses we made were tender and deep
Spiced with the tang of pine and heather,
Our hands caressed, our lips touched,
Our bodies sang of infinity together.
The afternoon seemed endless, timeless,
As we stood in the warmth of the sun
Like two bees in precious amber,
We were held in eternity where love is young.
That once red rose is now withered,
Faded the moment and its sweet perfume,
Cold the heart once set on fire with love
And I am amazed that it should die so soon.
Pearl Davis, Maidstone, Kent
THE CUCKOO
Is that a cuckoo in my garden?
Could it really be?
I’ve heard it in the woodlands,
But it’s never sought out me.
Or is it wishful thinking,
For that time keeping bird?
A recall of my childhood,
When cares would melt away,
At the sight of patchwork meadows,
On a heady scented day.
Veronica Cowgill, Scarborough, North Yorkshire
HAPPY BEFORE
The moment before you said,
“You’re starting to look your age,”
Was full of quiet promise.
Now, seen through a rearview mirror,
It flutters, a dying bird.
“I didn’t mean it,” matters less
Than the tremor on a drumskin
After the last beat.
Beth McLaren, Ryton, Tyne and Wear
Beth McLaren said: “I live in the north east of England
and have been writing poetry since childhood, but Happy Before is the
first poem I
have sent to a publisher. I am a
psychology lecturer and have been greatly influenced by my readings and
research in the subject. My poetry attempts to encapsulate feelings and
suspend them in time, like an emotional camera. I am married with two
grown-up sons and an assortment of pets. I am currently working on a
novel and a collection of poetry.”
END OF THE WORLD
This is the end.
This is the end of the world.
So, what will you do with your last few seconds?
Will you beg for forgiveness as here-after beckons?
Or confess all your sins to some Jesus freak?
Will you have one last look for the things you seek?
What will you say to those you have harmed?
How tight can you hold your true love in your arms?
Will you think of the laughs that you had with your friends?
Or be far too busy trying to make peace and amends?
Spend your last living minute making love to your one?
Or be so busy screaming that you’re already gone?
Maybe in your last few seconds you’ll wish for a few more?
Well, I guess you should have thought of that before.
This is the end of the world.
This is the end.
Mark Foster, Sunderland, Tyne and Wear
NIGHT OF THE HUNTER
Invisible, I stalk the night,
Enveloped, swathed, secure
In the thick sweet blanket
Of moist, cool air
That is only after dark.
Occasional glints of jade
May glimpse you when the moon
Peeks from her cumulus pillow,
For even she in all her silvery,
Sleeps shameful when I prowl.
I am silent on my velvet paws,
But for the click of curved, cruel claws,
Across your dreams
And pebbled paths,
Where the scent of slighter life
Scuttles fearful in retreat.
Juliett Branche, Sunderland, Tyne and Wear
TIME TO LISTEN
Just stop, listen to the world
Hands of time starting to unfold
It started with a great big bang
It will end with an enormous twang
We are here for a limited time
So why waste life committing a crime?
We evolve but never seem to grow
What to do is what we need to know
So stop fighting and making war
Its peace we need and much much more
Sheila Bradley, Hull, East Yorkshire
THOUGHTS SUBLIME
Freckles on moonbeams touching us close
By whispering water evergreen now
With myriads cascading dappled in light
Droplets of dew, silvery now
Caress dancing grasses
Where fingers of mist creeping tenderly
Paint all in their path, with eerie light
Through glimmering rays, forms of happiness
Trembling there, fleeting, tiptoeing
Through screens of light, demurely now
Like unicorns prancing the dawn
And leprechaun teasing, stealing away
Less they be caught with oncoming day
Tread softly down the rainbows of my life
Where windows glimmer shafting light
And shadows cobwebbed, trailing lace
Softly fingering my face
Mavis Meier, Steeton, West Yorkshire
THE WITCH WOMAN
You will never quite capture
My singing heart
You will glimpse it, reach out to grasp
It will elude you.
For consolation, I will if you wish
Allow you one fragment from it
But take warning, the splintered
Fragment will tighten around your heart
And you will never quite be free again
D Anne Flint, Elland, West Yorkshire
SNAIL
I guess I am a snail, I take things very slow.
I’m not too sure of who I am or where I’d like to go.
I glide along without a clue, if only that were true.
You see, I already realise that all I want is you.
I look upon your face, a joy for me to see.
Your eyes, they tell me everything that what you want is me.
I don’t know how to say this, you make me ache inside,
But every time we meet our feelings we try to hide.
I love you oh so very much, from the very depth of me.
I’d love for us to join our hearts, so you and I are we.
Susan Griffiths, Crewe, Cheshire
Born in Malvern, Susan Griffiths has interests including
writing, photography and swimming. “I have always liked to write but have put pen to paper
much more in the last five years,” she remarked. “My work is influenced
by my life, family, friends and situations, and I would describe my style
as impulsive. I would like to be remembered with a smile.” Aged 42, Susan
works as a postwoman. She is married to Paul and they have children Christopher
and Elaine. “I have written a few short stories and many poems,” she
added.
HEAVENLY FRAGMENTS
We are fragments of totality
unique though each piece be -
we all possess a part of God
so other folk can see.
We must strive to see the good in all
though praying for the rest
for prayer releases miracles
when faith has passed its test.
We are destined for eternity,
not meant to be apart,
but sin keeps us divided
and it grieves our Father's heart.
As fragments we are separate -
each damaged little soul -
but as He draws us all together,
Jesus makes us whole.
Winnie Pat Lee, Hale, Cheshire
THERE AND BACK
Have you ever been to hell?
Well, I’ve been there and back.
I sank into devouring flames,
Felt the lashing thongs of heat,
Held a head with pounding pain,
Carried a heart set to break,
Saw my lard of life drip down,
Knew my life was on the ebb.
Have you ever been to hell?
Well, I’ve been there and back.
Helen Broady, Runcorn, Cheshire
LIGHTHOUSE MAN
I look to the lighthouse man
Who thinks of me when he can,
Sometimes he is far away
But always he is in my day.
Fathers know your children
While they still know you
And it will all be worth it
When their foot fills your shoe.
Beware the nowhere men
With forgotten families far behind
Who shirk responsibilities
Of those to them assigned.
Sons are just the reason
And daughters in themselves a cause,
Keep your pathway to them open
And never close the doors.
Boys will be boys
Until the day they’re men,
If moulded in your likeness
Would you be happy then?
Ruth Ann Arthur, Macclesfield, Cheshire
Ruth Ann Arthur said: “I am both poet and lyricist and was born in Australia’s
sweltering top end. I now reside in the UK with my husband and baby daughter.
My work first came to public attention in Sidney 2000 when I wrote the
lyrics to Spirit of Sydney a song which was played at the opening of
the Paralympics at Stadium Australia and international songwriting competitions. I
view poetry and lyrics as a way of giving voice to the voiceless and
hope my works are a catalyst for thought. The CD Spirit of Sydney may
be purchased through www.chaosmusic.com and another of my works Checkmate
may be viewed through www.asai.org.au/results2000.htm. If you would like
to know more about my work send your email to raawriter@yahoo.com.”
CAPTURED BY CANDLELIGHT
Standing by the candle,
Her silhouette captured
On the voile drape behind.
No fluttering wings now.
She still felt that fly swat
Hit her fragile body,
That outstretched red gloved hand
Eclipsed the moth ballet.
Her solo performance,
By candlelight ,ended.
Life was ebbing away,
Wings closed as if in prayer,
Her brief life extinguished.
Angela Pritchard, Sandbach, Cheshire
ARID SACRIFICE
What would you give to take away the rain?
That lashing, pounding,
Endless rain.
A finger, a toe,
An arm, a leg, a limb.
An eye or perhaps,
A life.
Water, ruining your washing,
Or stopping you from shopping.
How tragic, how sad,
A wasted day I never had.
What would I give to bring the rain?
That lashing, pounding,
Endless rain.
A finger, a toe,
An arm, a leg, a limb,
An eye or perhaps...
Michael Parr, Southport, Merseyside
Michael Parr said: “I live in Southport, Merseyside, where I was born,
and I started writing when I was very young, as I found it was the perfect
outlet for my creativity. I draw my influences from issues that I feel
strongly about, as well as nature and the conflicts between and within
people. I would describe my style as deep, dark and thought-provoking.
I would like to view myself from somebody else’s perspective, to see
how another person would perceive my character. I am currently working
on a novel and continuing to write poetry and short stories.”
TO A BRUISED SNOWDROP
Your slender neck holding up your lovely head
Has been drooping for a while,
As you look with sad eyes at the uncaring world
And smile your sad smile.
But your strength comes from your courage
For you long have been unafraid
Of emerging alone, before other flowers
Cover the sheltered glade.
Myra O’Brien, Bromborough, Merseyside
MY LOVE
I think of stars, trailing clouds of glory through the skies,
Their brightness dimmed beside the shining love light in your eyes.
I think of worlds unknown, of beauty grand afar,
They tempt me not. The wonder of my world is where you are.
I think of heavenly choirs with voices raised in praise,
Whose music fades when likened to the music of my days.
I think of sights so grand that people stand and stare,
But none of these impress me when you are standing there.
I can’t compare your love with any wondrous thing,
No night of stars, no glorious days, no birds on wing.
Nothing in nature, beauteous though they be
Can fill my heart as does your love for me.
Dorothy Gerrard, Southport, Merseyside
Born in Bacup, Dorothy Gerrard has interests including
painting, photography and playing the piano. “I started writing as a young child because I
have a compulsion to write about what moves me,” she explained. “My work
is influenced by the classics and I would describe my style as flowing,
descriptive and emotional. I would like to be remembered as a sincere,
insightful writer who had empathy for everyone.” Aged 66, Dorothy is
retired and has ambitions to remain healthy and have lots of her work
published. She has children Mark and Paul.
ELECTRONIC EUPHONIC EUPHORIA
The alarm clock resonates, I want to weep.
The duvet’s around me in a heap.
A “mobile” message, just take a peep.
Across the landing I try to creep.
Ringing tones link the net, my emails to reap.
My personal password is a secret to keep.
The meal is now ready; there goes the beep.
It’s another prize pizza, cheesy pan-deep.
The car’s central locking sounds off with a cheep,
I stumble inside it, longing for sleep.
Like slime from a sluicegate these signals do seep.
Instinctively I act on them, like the proverbial sheep.
My heart is uncertain, whether to sink or to leap,
When it answers a summons to the ubiquitous bleep.
Ruth Hayes, Southport, Merseyside
TIME AND TIDE
Old men can make fine metal, old age is smelting
Dross falls away, true soul resulting
Fine to finer, and the other way
Base baseness showing, burst shells nuts display
Sound and sweet, or ash of death
Doctoring, I have seen it, marked it as a sign
Sometimes of last decline
Old men forget, small things, not great
Rocks life’s ebbing tide leaves
Some worth the view, others where we foundered
All now best surrendered
For our day has two tides, on life’s
Ebb death’s rises, lifts us off
Carries us to seas we know not of
Warren Durrant, Hoylake, Merseyside
GREY VALLEY OF MIST
Grey valley of mist
Blanket spread over all
Faded green of past summer but not autumn
Beauty of fields, trees, hills
Hidden under the damp wetness
Damp grey green world
Grey flat world of formless nothing
Alan Kilburn, Padiham, Lancashire
THOSE WHO PREY
A cat lay hiding in grass one day
With greedy eye watching her prey
Never stirring, hardly breathing
Should she lose the meal she’d claimed
A black bird, whom she did enthral
To sing a final curtain call
A frantic swirl of black, grey, red
Cat triumphant as bird lay dead
Circle of life, how vicious
Robbing one of life, so precious
A malignant mercenary came to rest
Making a base camp of a breast
Preparing for the final battle
Metastatic foe, be wary
Of whom you would be predatory
An armour of hope
Cloaks her faithful heart
From your artillery she’ll dart
Her prayers will be her battle cry
To prey on you before she’ll die
Julia Gaze, Preston, Lancashire
Julia Gaze said: “When time allows me to be creative,
between looking after two children and working as an osteopath, I enjoy
writing verse.
I often get inspiration from my patients, who come from all walks of
life. Over the years I have heard amusing, unusual and sometimes tragic
stories and experiences. By re-telling them in verse, I feel I can share
these experiences without breaching patient confidentiality. One of my
favourite poems is My Other Self, inspired by a patient who
was a transvestite. My aim is to compile a collection, which I hope will
interest a publisher
of medical writing.”
THE PRISONER
Oh, pretty bird, with looks so forlorn,
What ails feathered friend on this bright sunny morn?
See, you look out the window, where the sky never ends,
And long to be soaring up there with your friends.
I cannot recall seeing you in this mood,
You must be upset, you’ve not eaten your food.
The silence is heavy now your chirping has ceased,
Sing me a song, ease my conscience at least.
The depth of your sadness, I seem now to gauge,
Your demeanour has forced me to open your cage.
Bill Austin, Blackburn, Lancashire
Born in Lancaster Bill Austin has interests including
inventing, gardening, wood and metalwork. “I started writing poetry two years ago when I was
nursing my sick wife,” he pointed out. “My work is influenced by nature,
people and society and I would describe my style as humorous, observational
and topical. I would like to be remembered as someone who helped all
and sundry.” Aged 82, Bill is a retired radio engineer with an ambition
to reach the age of 100. He is a widower with two sons and two daughters. “I
have written over 100 poems and had a large number of them published,” he
added.
THE CAT
I crave the calm silent serenity of the cat,
That wilful trespasser on scared lawn who sees no
boundaries.
For her the world is fenceless, wall-less and carefree,
The rude ways of men are too insignificant to disturb her feline musings.
But the ears, soft, fur-covered antennae,
Ever moving, twitching, searching, sifting.
They digest, store or dismiss on a plane far above human perception.
They, only they, betray the ever alert mind beneath the statuesque facade
I crave the calm, silent serenity of the cat.
Deanne Heron, Whalley Range, Greater Manchester
THE ROSE
With summer sun and soft warm breezes
It’s now the month of June
When the days are long and the air is sweet
And the rose perfects its bloom
So many colours bold and strong
And petals of soft velvet
With glossy leaves and a sharp thorn to guard
And to protect it
Blow gentle breezes across the garden of my heart
Caress the rose that lingers there
With a fragrance no other can impart
Where bees will dart from dawn to dusk
Tasting the nectar Sweet
From beneath luxurious petals
As softly as their wings beat
The rose displays great beauty
And can mean more than words can say
Special greetings like “I love you”
And especially “Happy Birthday”
So with the rising of the sun
A season comes, a season goes
But there is none more welcome
Than the season of the rose
Jan Imeson, Allington, Lincolnshire
CELTIC
SEEDS
Enchantment and magical spells
Cast by those with mystical powers
O’er land and lakes and streams.
Visible world; invisible world
Reality or dreams?
Romance and love, enchanted swords,
Persuasive talk of war-like hordes.
Heroes and heroines; shamans and seers,
Wielding power from pauper to king.
Merlin, Arthur’s wise man
And other inspired druids,
Advising folk on everything.
Gossamer-thin divide between the worlds.
Poets held in high esteem;
Monks taking writing under their wing
Tales being told throughout the years
Of reincarnation and heroic deeds.
In Ireland today
Celts still sew the seeds of healing
With passion, along the way ...
Annette Borrill, Boston, Lincolnshire
Annette Borrill said: “I have been writing verse for
12 years. I have had many verses published in anthologies, self-published
booklets and
two books of inspirational verse, Soul Friends and Three Rays Of Light
are available from me at Aborrill@aol.com or Willow Lodge, Fellands Gate,
Old Leake, Boston, Lincolnshire, PE22 9QY. I am a freelance adult education
tutor. My work with GFS Platform has resulted in the women attending
having a book published. I have recently received funding from the Arts
Council England and Healthy Communities to provide creative writing workshops
in the community.”
MAY I
May I walk with you, may I understand
May I stand with you, may I take your hand
May I see the light that others asininely demand
May someone guide me, may I one day aspire.
May I talk with you, may I stand on common ground
May I cross that divide that bigotry solemnly commands
May I call you my friend, may I hold you in my arms
May I lay my weapon down, may I?
Ian Street, Calverton, Nottinghamshire
Born in North Yorkshire Ian Street has interests including
fishing and writing. “I started writing a few years ago as a new challenge and my
work is influenced by my wife,” he pointed out. “I would describe my
style as slightly different from the norm and I would like to be remembered
as the man who wrote nice stories.” Aged 57, he is a farm manager with
an ambition to succeed as a writer. He is married to Hilary and has written
short stories, a TV comedy drama, sketches and a novel, as well as many
poems.
JESUS
Through boundless love and endless grace,
You came to me when I was in need,
Your healing power flows through me,
You lift my spirit, my heart soars,
Angels sing on high, for a lamb
Once lost, now found.
I am cradled in your arms,
Carried through shining fields,
Of glorious colours and hues,
I can feel your love for me,
Warming through to my soul,
Like the summer sun.
Angels surround us,
Their loving spirit envelope me,
A church bell chimes in holy praise,
A blackbird sings a joyful song.
Carole Ann Hort, Heanor, Derbyshire
Carole Ann Hort said: “I have been writing poetry for many years. When
I was a child my mother read me Longfellow’s Hiawatha, which gave me
a love of poetry. My work is influenced by my faith and gratitude for
my Heavenly Father’s love. This is my second poem to be published. I
am presently working on a book entitled The Tongue of Angels, a collection
of faith-inspired poetry, which I hope to publish shortly. Copies can
be ordered from me at 12 Carrock Avenue, Brookfield Park, Heanor, Derbyshire,
DE75 7PF.”
MEDITERRANEAN EVENING ALONE
In sea swallowed, sun lost evening loneliness,
As twinkling lights replace that blaze of day
Whose rainbow hues now calm seas caress,
And then in silence slowly fade away,
I ponder deep and this soon dimming view
Is brighter made by loving thoughts of you.
Calm sea, so briefly bathed by colours
That you drowned
When bounded by horizon,
Where once that sea met sky
But now as twilight deepens
Where none is to be found,
And space of earth and space of heaven
Each other now deny.
Gone is the light your earthly arc to show
Whilst deeper thoughts of love within me grow.
As evening coolness now gives way to night,
And silent calm becomes that moon flecked sea
Which, saddened not by loneliness,
So dances bright that broken
Is my thoughtful reverie.
I wish for you such deep tranquillity
As brightest moon upon the calmest sea.
Douglas Kennett, Loughborough, Leicestershire
DERELICT THEATRE
Haunting voices from a silent stage,
Delivering lines from a bygone age.
Escape to a lofty gallery,
There, trapped in time eternal.
Whispering protests, that they are no longer heard,
Except perhaps by the wayward bird.
Sitting her nest in a rotting rafter,
Oblivious to ghostly laughter.
Drama acted with burning passion,
Unwanted now by time or fashion.
Here, the thespians timeless craft,
Stirred only by a chilling draught.
Listen carefully in this old place,
Where pure silence fails to show its face.
For abandoned lines in all their throes,
Reside betwixt the lonely echoes.
George Bryant, Grimsby, Lincolnshire
Born in Cleethorpes George Bryant has interests including
film-making and writing. “I started writing when two spinal operations made me wheelchair-bound
in 1992,” he explained. “My work is influenced by close observation of
people and past experiences, and I would describe my style as open, covering
various subjects. I would like to be remembered as someone who never
knowingly hurt anyone.” Aged 78, George is retired. He is the widower
of Audrey and has a son, Graham, and a daughter, Lesley. “I have written
my autobiography and many poems, several of which have been published,” he
added.
THE FALL
Archangels downing tools
Consider the climate inappropriate
For feathers and the run of light.
This is a time for the breaking of rules.
Michael and Lucifer on wings of high-voltage gold
Descending from the altar
Inspect the burned patch where they used to live.
When something dies a space is left on hold.
Accustomed to haunt with stone
And paint and fiery symbols,
They see no option but to skid on the world’s edge.
What will they wear when no-one paints them anymore?
Sheila Sullivan, Oundle, Northamptonshire
WHAT IS AN OFFER?
Hopeful clairvoyant showed his card:
What is your future? Give Paul a ring,
Only he can tell.
Card without a number.
Any clients, one presumes,
Must similarly be percipient
As Paul and able to divine
Without the aid of telephonic means
Or disembodied voices giving chat
About their future and their likely fate.
In this eventuality, I fear for Paul
The prospects are not rosy:
Remuneration will be lacking
For his pains.
Joseph Smedley, Lincoln, Lincolnshire
Joseph Smedley said: “I was born into an industrial environment, and
spent the war years working in a mine on the Notts-Derby border. My early
poems were written during slack periods in the workplace. Later I studied
fine art at Reading University; and after graduating taught art and the
history of art. Following retirement from lecturing, I continued to practice
painting and returned to writing poetry. I recently published a book
of verse and drawings entitled Out of Time available from 58 Mill Road,
Lincoln, LN1 3JH, at £8.”
FORTY YEARS OF TRAVELLING
Forty years of travelling yes
Travelling just where to
Where we went in all that time
Someone else before us had seen the view
Forty years of travelling yes
Travelling around and around
Yet no matter how hard we prayed
No-one ever heard a sound
Forty years of travelling yes
Then it all came to an end
For here we have to stay
Until the very end
Keith L Powell, Skegness, Lincolnshire
Keith Leslie Powell said: “I was born in Darley Dale, Derbyshire in 1952.
After attending Roe Farm Junior and Derwent Secondary Modern Schools
until the age of 15, I worked on my grandparents’ farm until it was sold
in the late eighties. I then came to live in Skegness with my mother,
where I got into the poetry world by accident. As well as having a few
poems published by many of the English Poetry Publishers, I have won
the Lyric Prize 2000 Song Expo Benelux International Song and Culture
Festival.”
CACTUS
Dried up
Burning
A sweating heart
Yearning
Sullen eyes
Look down and cry
Fall on the ground
So ragged and dry
They look down at what once was
A youthful body full of
That’s now so sick
And tired of love
Now, left parched
And burning in the sun
A lifetime is left
To think of what I have become
Sarfraz Ahmed, Derby, Derbyshire
SPIRIT OF THE SKY
Rising with the moon
Your face is in the clouds
Your ghost is but a shadow
Upon my heart
Your expression will reside
In the sky forever
Rain clouds may cover your tears
But sunlight will heighten your smile
Contorting and drifting for my eyes to see
My soul one day
Will join your spirit
And drift together for eternity
Susan Rainsford, Birmingham, West Midlands
INVISIBLE LOVE
Deep inside of me you hide
Where nobody can see
Deep in my heart you lie
So that our love is free
Deep in my mind you live
So that we live together
Within my spirit you are alive
As one, we breathe, forever
Sally Richards, Shrewsbury, Shropshire
Sally Richards said: “I live in Shropshire and have
two lovely daughters, Katie and Gemma. We share our home with a menagerie
of adored pets, including
Razzle our devoted yorkie. The inspiration for my poetry often comes
while walking and enjoying the changing seasons in the beautiful hills
and woods near home. I find words powerful and evocative and have enjoyed
writing poetry since my early school days. I am strongly moved by the
depth and diversity of human emotion. Words well up from deep inside.
This is often fuelled by my life experiences, spirituality, and a love
of all things creative.”
EVERLASTING LOVE
Love
It’s easy to explain the first rush of lust
With physical attraction
The need to be with them all the time
That creeps into your subconscious mind
And takes over your every thought
Your loins control your actions and your brain
And common sense flies from your body
But then
One day without warning it’s different
You realise an emotion has hit your life
Like a bolt from the blue, you care
You are overflowing even more with a deep sense of desire
Pleasure with more meaning, more clarity
And the realisation, if you are lucky, will carry you
To a place in eternity with a memory of everlasting love
Sheila Rogers, Walsall, West Midlands
Dedicated to those I love. They know who they are. And to memories
made with no regrets.
STARING INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH
A crocodile came out to play
A small baboon got in its way
With gaping jaws that opened wide
There was nowhere the babe could hide
The jaws snapped shut upon his head
Very soon he would be dead
His mother danced upon the shore
She couldn’t bear it anymore
Then all at once he struggled free
And ran to join his family
There was rejoicing on that day
Not many creatures get away
From crocodiles with such huge jaws
That bask upon those sunny shores
So if you do not want to roam
Just view TV safe in your home
Janet Garness, Worcester, Worcestershire
IN MEMORY OF MY GRANDAD
My grandad has left this world for good
But I shall remember him how I should
I would normally describe him as the best
But now I shall put my thoughts to the test.
Was he humble, no not at all
He had to be right
The answers he would call.
Was he tall, I think not
He was just like a tiny dot.
Where did his money go
On horses I’d say
If he were here
He would have betted today.
Where did he drink
At the Boarhound of course
This evened up the loss of his horse.
Who was the one true love of his life,
Her name is Jean, his beloved wife.
Laura Medea, Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire
DAYDREAMS AT THE SINK
Suds feel silky
Gazing at the enclosing fence.
Beyond is someone else’s.
Now my thoughts can run
Gazing up, escapes constraint.
Like Jonathan Livingstone seagull in my youth.
Remembering my floral bikini.
My tight body within.
Liking being noticed.
Hot sun on my body.
The tingle of first love.
The daring of topless.
Breasts no longer pert
Slightly pendulous, their function fulfiled.
Beyond is the domain of others. Husband. Children.
Phone rings,
Switching automatically
Back into wife/mother mode
Smiling. I wipe my hands.
Still feeling the sand in my toes.
Kevan Taplin, Thuxton, Norfolk
THEN AND NOW
Funny how a snatch of song, a special voice
Can make an era of your life return
With full flood feelings.
A face, a place, a car, a bar, then.
Not less or more unhappy,
But so different.
The feelings now are less intense, most of the time,
Painfully so.
It was a relief when the feelings numbed for an hour
A period of recuperation
For the next heart tearing emotion to surface.
Marilyn Worship, Norwich, Norfolk
INSIDE TECHNOLOGY
The confusion of simplicity
Is the profusion of uncertainty
Amid its own reality
For we live in a society
That lacks variety
Simply because its piety
Isn’t of its own reliability!
Dave White, Downham Market, Norfolk
LIFE
Tomorrow arrives, breezing endlessly through shuttered avenues
Points converging, amalgamating time resides within means
Entering silently, terror abounds, endless pertness, life living
Risen forces, alternate sketching of Shakespeare’s deeds
Quivering bow, archaic prose, utmost time
Searching out before it strikes, targets of day and night
Crowing souls, forsaking today, light, open and crescent
Shapes mourning and seeking out
Diamond sheens, forgetting all gone by
Return again to this fair place of quaint remains
Until by chance the night arrives
To cover land with shadows long
Twinkling lamp-light, towering high above the street
Glimmering screams wail out until withering down
Until one more awakening breeze
Return to us joys of youth
Alas we see the home of mirth
Paul Cutting, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
FOR ALL THE LOVE OF LIFE
For all the love of life I see
No existence, time or gap for me.
For all the love of life I know
The little difference past times will show.
For all the love of life beware
Of fences too high, of warning stares.
For all the love of life be true
All that is held close and dear to you.
For all the love of life don’t complain
As others weep much more in pain.
For all the love of life be wise
To avoid those moments of your destroying cries.
For all the love of life see another day
Another set of answers told in a very different way.
Annabelle Fasulo, Peterborough, Cambridgeshire
UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
My precious child
I will watch you grow
Protect you, guide you
And love you so
Adored and treasured
Each day that pass
Unconditional love
That’s made to last
I will open my heart
I will pour you my strength
I will lead you a path
At any length
You’ll choose your life
You wish to lead
And I will be with you
Whenever you need
Look back my dear child
Once you have grown to be
And remember dear child
You were guided by me
Nicola Harwood, Great Yarmouth, Norfolk
Born in Cambridge Nicola Harwood has interests including
arts, crafts, socialising, music and entertaining. “My work is influenced by family,
friends and musical artists and I would describe my style as emotional
and from the heart,” she remarked. “I would like to be remembered as
an achiever using self motivation and as someone who helped others to
be successful.” Aged 29, Nicola works in retail management and has an
ambition to gain recognition for her work. She is married and has one
child.
NO-MAN’S LAND
I lie waiting for the whistle to blow and for the first shot out of a
rifle, whistling through the air.
We jump out the trenches onto the vast scale of no-man’s land.
Then the bullets fly across the sand, men scream and fall down,
Their eyes filled with terror.
The brave colonel leads, his sword held high through the dust.
The bullets swoop down on him like the vultures above.
He drops down screaming, and then lays still.
Yet we advance, our rifles loaded, running into certain death.
Soldiers, friends, family, fall down by my side.
We pray to God to stop the war,
But the bullets keep coming more and more.
William Perchard, Jersey, Channel Islands
Born in Jersey William Perchard, has interests including
reading and tennis. “I started writing poetry at school and I have an ambition to
get a literacy degree,” he pointed out. “The person I would most like
to be for a day is the President of the USA and the person I would most
like to meet is David Attenborough because I am interested in wildlife
and enjoy watching his programmes.”
TO A DYSLEXIC CHILD
You stupid child! I’ve taught you every sound
Without the “uh” that teachers made you say.
Just put them all together. Well?
You’ve found it worked before, why shouldn’t it today?
Oh timid child, what thoughts behind those eyes
Of anxious supplication should I see?
What misery, what shame within them lies!
Because I teach are you afraid of me?
What jumbled symbols do your eyes perceive,
Twisting and swimming on the printed page?
With such ungrateful speed you close and leave
The book designed for half your mental age.
God grant that I may teach you how to read,
Fulfilling then your spirit’s deepest need.
Mabel Underwood, Jersey, Channel Islands
MEETING AT FORMIAE
The noble Caesar crossed the Rubicon to Rome
By chance, by choice or chromosome
Who can tell the subtle measures of a man
An Emperor and yet bound by one lifespan
And so Gaius opened just the once that door
Of final choice and is before his time no more
That is the nature of the choice, thought Cicero
That sharpens action, makes it so
Antony Bellows, Jersey, Channel Islands
WHAT IS LOVE?
What is love? It is the dawn’s caress
Of waking earth, holding the opening flower,
The voice of birds, the momentary pause
For life’s response, the stirring breath, the song ...
What is love? It is a cloudless sky,
Where no perverse intruder leaves a mark;
A fall of dew, a mist, a summer rain;
A rainbow arching over, many hue’d.
What is love? It is a lingering sunset,
Bidding the darkening world a last farewell ...
Colours of joy illuminate the heavens;
A gentle twilight laying all to rest.
What is love? It is a star at midnight,
Lifting its light above the planet’s shade:
Thin silver trickle crossing countless aeons -
Faintly to shine upon my upturned face.
This is love! A rough-hewn, bloodstained cross:
No jewelled ornament on which Christ died;
Willingly giving all for love of all;
Death overcome, life for eternity.
Vera Urwin-Mann, Tavistock, Devon
Vera Urwin-Mann said: “I was inspired by the glories
of nature spanning a single day; purity, harmony and sheer untouched
beauty reflecting the
love that created it. Age and health problems shared with my husband,
together with my own recent diagnosis of a rare and incurable blood cancer,
have helped to focus our thoughts on the supreme sacrifice of our creator.
Held in the arms of such a love, should we fear any future? If this was
my last poem, I could ask for no better theme. Was it by chance I have
just glanced through a catalogue offering gem-encrusted gold crosses?”
THE SWAN
Gracefully lain.
Head nestled under its wing.
The cold mist.
A drape for the soul within.
The blanket peacefully smothering.
The beauty before me so serene.
Amongst the wavering bank of green.
The bow of feathers of a galleon sweeping by.
A fleeting glimpse, ghostly vessel drifting toward the sky.
The rolling mist of waves,
Meeting the tangerine blush of the night
The moon beams flecked.
Dancing with the velvet ripples
Sequinned mannequins, shadowed by the light.
Geese in migration, the river’s dance in flight.
Graceful swan lain peaceful.
In the throng of darkness.
The glimmering amber fringe,
The city curtain embracing dusk.
Rachelle Mole, Newton Abbot, Devon
THEY
She, lissome, her step gracefully light,
Perfectly poised and upright,
Moves like liquid mercury effortlessly.
Hair the colour of sun-washed beams
Gleams reflecting the hour’s curled air.
Hands clasped calm, finger-tipped still.
Wide eyes, colour of deep moonglow
Reflect the patterning of her inner soul.
He, finger-flick quick, moving mountains
Agile of thought, informs, waterfall fast.
Covers all points of the compass
In one sentence, his hands gesturing.
Presents the day with new pathways.
Knows of himself the knowing still to come.
Panther passionate, resonates, even toned
Honed to respond to the needs of others.
THEY
Eager to embrace nature’s song of living,
Await the baton of their time to orchestrate
The symphony within, heartbeats in unison.
Janine Vallor, Bridport, Dorset
FISHES
IN THE WATER
Fishes in the water, fishes in the sea,
Lover’s coming to me, feels the need to plea,
Conscience needs a healing
Been damaged by his hand,
Fishes in the water, fishes in the sand.
I’m drowning in the water, falling in my dreams,
My heart’s been stitched too many times,
Is bursting at the seams.
Won’t someone come to save me?
I’m blackened inside out,
My lungs are filled with water, I’ll choke without a doubt.
Fishes in the water, fishes in the sea,
My lover finds himself distraught
Praying over my body,
“Dear God, what have I done?” he mutters into space,
Floating on the water, falling far from grace.
Nina Ann Pascoe, Bournemouth, Dorset
SONNET IN SOLITUDE
Beloved, you can not be dead.
I saw you when you were so ill.
Your loveliness is with me still,
Here, in my heart and in my head.
You are forever at my side,
As on the day when we were wed
And you were to the altar led
To happily become my bride.
Beloved, we must move once more
To some remote and distant shore.
There, then, our marriage to restore,
And I will worship and adore.
Then there shall be no sadness, nor
All else but bliss, as was before.
L A Payne, Weston-Super-Mare, Somerset
Deceased I pray, let no-one say, I passed away.
I would instead, that it be said, that I am dead.
That simply, or he was before, but is no more.
L A Payne said: “My inspiration for the above, as in
life, is my beloved wife, Ivy. I have followed this with another sonnet,
which I have named
Sonnet in Solitude. I am now
91 and am crippled and blind.”
ADDICTION
Mouth like chalk, head pounding, heart racing,
His red bleary eyes find it hard to focus.
With trembling hands he fumbles with the cap of the whisky bottle.
Ignoring the glass tumbler, he upturns the bottle to his lips,
Swallowing hard, the amber nectar floods into his spent system
And he sighs with relief as the golden panacea begins to work.
Pain, sadness and unbearable grief are being blotted out,
Inside, a broken spirit, love and comfort are but a distant memory.
Outside, a gnarled down and out, a drunkard, one to be avoided at all
costs.
Hopes and dreams vanished like the sands of time when life had laughter,
Dark days, long nights with the liquid poison as his only comfort.
His body aches, he’s a victim of his own self-loathing,
misery personified.
Carolyn Stubbs, Portishead, Somerset
LIFE
IS SHORT
You’re born, you grow
You work, you marry
Have children, have debt
Have cars, have a nanny
Do travel, do time
Do food, do wine
Get tried, get bored
Get taxed, get ignored
Now old, now ill
Now lonely, now worry
Now waiting, now dead
Time’s up
Melanie Mcallister, Swindon, Wiltshire
Born in Swindon, Melanie Mcallister has interests
including gym training, swimming, reading and writing. “My work is influenced
by different stages of my life, and I would describe my style as personal,” she
remarked. “I would like to be remembered as a loving person and good
mother.” Aged 23, she is a student with an ambition to become a clinical
psychologist. Melanie and her partner, Trevor, have children, Jordan
and Summer. “I have written stories and many poems, but this is the first
to be
published,” she added.
HER NAME
You still love her
I know because
You sighed, smiled
And said her name
In bed last night
You cuddled me
Pulled me close to you
Said I love you
And then said her name
In bed last night
Lesley Denton, Stroud, Gloucestershire
GYPSY GIRL
She swept me away on a sea of touch
As I drowned within her love that crushed
She filled my heart with passion burning bright
Yet my head, arms and legs longed to fight
As she swept me away on a summer night.
She swept me away on a wave of kisses
Lips burn, my heart beat misses.
She touched my soul with a flame undimming
My legs, they reeled my head was swimming
As she swept me away on a summer’s night.
She swept me away to a shore of doubt
Where she used what she wanted then cast me out
Onto a land where nothing grows and all is lost
With darkened skies to stand alone, to count the cost.
On the night she swept me away
When summer dies and winter stayed.
J M Aitken, Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire
LONELINESS
It can’t be touched, only felt,
Into the city it seems to melt.
Slowly eating at our pride,
So into the hole of depression we crawl and hide.
Decaying our willpower,
Making us bitter and sour.
It festers and grows,
Until finally a raging river of anger flows.
Young and old fell it’s pain,
The vicious scorn they try to tame.
Weak and strong, all are it’s prey,
Only love and affection can keep it at bay.
Waiting in the darkness ready to pounce,
Loneliness with cast a hypnotic dance.
Lynette Harrington, Southport, Merseyside
JEALOUSY
Seeds of green implanted, interred within the mind,
Grass is always greener where others are confined.
Seeds of green are welling, they’re swelling up to splay,
Bubbling up to bursting, oft’ rubbing up wrong way.
Seeds of green are sprouting, as bilious mustard seeds,
Gall inspired, tormented, words choking, thoughts and deeds.
Seeds of green are goading, loading bullets to fire,
Stalks of green are stalking, covetous eyes, desire.
Evergreen with venom, by bird, fruit, flower denied,
Gangrenous, contagious, vaunt on, dissatisfied.
Forest if fixation, a garbled ganglion grown,
Taking full possession, as graven image known.
Image, idol, icon, thy name is jealousy,
Grass is always greener, elsewhere, for you for me.
Rhian Morris, Hereford, Herefordshire
Born in Wales, Rhian Morris has interests including
logical puzzles and the theatre. “I enjoyed writing stories as a young
child and returned to writing about two years ago because it is now the
one thing in my
life which motivates me and gives me peace and fulfilment,” she explained. “My
influences are drawn from experiences in my life and I would describe
my style as deep and emotive but capable of being quite humorous. I trained
as a musician and my ambition is to perform on stage, TV or radio. I
have written several short stories but this is the first of my poems
to be published,” she added.
SNOW
Snow fell softly, it graced the ground
Let us go and play, you come with me too
Oh please can we go now, just before tea
It was morn when we ran out
Jump, run and play around
Oh such a good time was had by all
Rolling upon the ground
Then evening came and still we ran
Angels,snowmen and their crown
Oh such fun we had that day
When snow had fallen down
Malcolm Dexter-Tissington, Walton-on-Thames, Surrey
Born in Cuckfield, Malcolm Dexter-Tissington has interests
including technology and sport. “My work is influenced by my life, loves and experiences
as well as my children and I would describe my style as transmografic,” he
pointed out. “I would like to be remembered as someone who tried. By
profession I am an inventor and the person I would most like to meet
is God so he could explain what life really is all about. I would love
to be an angel for a day.” Malcolm has written over 200 poems and had
60 published. He is married to Kerry and they have children Oliver and
Nicholas.
UNAFRAID
Death my friend, I know you’re waiting
Your presence fills the room in silence
With open arms or gates closed
The scales of life are balancing
Mysterious, unknown
Feared yet respected
Like a bird of prey about to dive
If not now soon, it’s certain
From birth came life
And we grew to face the burden
Taking each challenge along the path
Becoming stronger and wiser in each aftermath
Dying habits, changing ways
For good, bad or indifference
We must swim with or against the tide
For time is what we have made it
The cruelty of war, with its bride, hate
Warm the smile of victory, always late
An ailing world with so much beauty
Strangled, betrayed, but not defeated
Before, after
The challenge is consistent
Let us not shirk and hide but stand our ground
For every beginning must find its end
Colin Steel, Edinburgh
Dedicated to Donald and Helen Steel, parents, mentors and friends.