| The Creative Touch |
The ability to be creative is something that we should not underestimate or undervalue. It’s something that sets us apart from most life forms. It raises us up above the ordinary and mundane. It gives us wings of imagination to soar up and achieve our aspirations. Creativity is one of the great driving forces of human life and existence. It makes an ordinary person into a superhuman being. It makes a dull life into a magical one.
In poetry we can all find that mystical, wondrous ability to use the power of our minds to produce something beautiful, uplifting and timeless.
By putting our words into print we create something, which will go on forever – long after us. We can create a picture that will stand the test of time.
In these pages we have put together the work of many poets who have all aspired to creativity with their written work. It is a delight for us to give these poets the chance to communicate that creativity to you.
BACTERIA Bacteria, you’ll be the death of me John Brown MAYLEEN - EARLY SPRING O Mayleen, O Mayleen Casting your alluring perfume T Henry Shanks DEMOCRACY THE VICTOR I read the papers everyday from the front page to the back, Brian Markey FEELINGS UNLEASHED Darkness engulfs the soul Lisa Plowman Born in South Wales, Lisa Plowman became a joint editor on Voice, the United Press
webzine aimed at the disabled, in 2006. “I started writing at the age of 14 but
only picked up the threads of my creative work again in 2005,” she remarked. “My work
is influenced by my children, my husband and life in general, and I would describe
my style as emotional, sincere, passionate and imaginative.” Aged 34, Lisa is married
to Nick and they have children Shireen, Jodie-Leigh, Benjamin, Connor, Angel and
Tiannah. “The person I would most like to meet is the children’s writer Enid Blyton,”
added Lisa. TO CONFORM OR NOT TO CONFORM A few weeks ago a woman stepped into a local launderette to wash her weekly load. Eileen McKee Born in Belfast Eileen McKee has interests including reading, writing and playing
the guitar. “As a child I started writing poetry to escape the troubles of Belfast
in the 1970’s and my work is now influenced by the world and the events in it,” she
remarked. “I would describe my work as raw and temperamental and I would like to be
remembered as someone as who gave inspiration through her words and work. I am a
36-year-old poet with an ambition to be published worldwide. I have three children
- Biddy, Niamh and Clodagh, and the person I’d most like to meet is Nelson Mandela
as I would like to know what kept him going in jail.” THE POST BOX At the edge of the village, the post box stood guard, Jennifer Muriel Frew THE GARDEN STATUE Neglect is an extraordinary thing, Timothy A Wilkinson Born in Northampton, Timothy A Wilkinson has interests including hill-walking,
travelling and writing. “Although I have been writing from an early age, I really
caught the poetry bug about six years ago, when I started a human studies course
at Bradford University,” he commented. “When I studied Philosophy and Literature
I began to see things differently. When writing I first consider the structure
and look of a poem. However, I would describe my style as a mix of principle truths
and contemporary concerns.” Aged 29, Timothy works as a customer relations advisor.
“The person I would have liked to have met is the poet William Wordsworth, and if
I could be anyone for the day it would be the Rincewind character in Terry Pratchett’s
Discworld series of novels,” he added. COME OUT OF MY SHELL I have to come out of my shell Sharon Bryson Dedicated and written for my son Jamie. Wherever life takes you, whatever you do,
remember my love is with you always. Born in Farnworth, Sharon Bryson has interests including reading,
music, art, design and poetry. “I started penning verses as a teenager. I love
words which rhyme,” she commented. “My work is influenced by people I know and meet,
as well as true life situations and experiences, and I would describe my style as
rhythmic and emotional.” Aged 43, Sharon is a community social care worker with
ambitions to complete her university degree and publish a book of her poetry.
She has two sons and would most like to meet David Attenborough to find out more
about the world’s wildlife. DAWN Out of the darkness Philippa Devenay Philippa Devenay said: “I was born in the Wirral and my interests include long
distance walking, reiki and spiritualism. I started writing poetry as a child,
and was encouraged and helped by my mother and sister. My work is influenced by
everything I experience and everyone I meet and I would like to be remembered
with love. My favourite meditations are becoming one with the dawn and flying
as an eagle, soaring up into the light, to be part of a oneness surrounding the
earth with love and healing.” APRIL April is the time of the year Gloria Preston HOPE STANDS ON THE HORIZON Hope stands on the horizon like a bright shining star Christine Goode TIME FOR BED Lights on. Emily Parsons THE UNIVERSE SMILED From nothing to something, the story of everything John Ambrose LOVE You haunt me in my thoughts, my heart won’t let go Suzie Flynn TIME TO SAY GOODBYE My eyesight is very poor now and I can hardly see Margaret Ward I’M STILL THINKING ABOUT YOU I wonder what I did wrong Wendy Elizabeth Day BUTTERFLY SHUTTLE It is here I sit and count thoughts, Ian Kitchingman Dedicated to my precious wife Paula, my beloved family and to God for making it possible. Born in Dewsbury. Ian Kitchingman has interests including reading classic English
literature and poetry. “I started writing seriously about 2004 after medical retirement
from the Royal Mail. My work is influenced by Oscar Wilde and William Wordsworth
and I would describe my work as a mixture of classic old style and the contemporary.
I would like to be remembered for giving other people as much pleasure from reading my
poems as I get in writing them,” he said. Aged 41, Ian is married to Paula and between
them they have children Carly, David, Daniel, Matthew and Shannon. “The person I would
most like to meet is the comedian and writer Stephen Fry because I admire his great
passion for literature and poetry,” added Ian. WORLD WAR The old men sit and talk now, of how life used to be Gordon Cowell
Bacteria, dangerous and small
Sometimes I think I know all there is to know about you
But then I realise I really know nothing at all
Bacteria, I wish I could see you
But bacteria I know I can’t
You can cause chaos considering the size of you
What would you do if you were the size of an elephant?
The only thing that gives me hope
Is washing with carbolic soap
So every minute of every hour
You’ll find me in the bath or shower
And that’s just how I spend my day
Washing all the germs away
Bacteria, you play this game with me
Look what you’ve done, you’ve made me neurotic
But I really don’t care what anyone else should think
I’ll just take a bath and have another antibiotic
Enticing the lover in spring
With your pink beauty
To cast off his hibernal garments
And disrobing beyond discretion
Removing even his thermal vest
Fortunate I thought to have nurtured
Your slim ankles and chill toes
With compost and thick mulch
Deceitful Montana
I now have a cold in the chest
A single story everyday keeps on coming back.
The story that’s so tragic makes you think, what for?
The story that I talk about is all about a war.
No matter your religion it will keep coming back,
The war I talk about today is one that’s in Iraq.
We really must remember our soldiers all have mothers,
And when they fight on our behalf they truly are our brothers.
So whether your opinion is right or it is wrong,
We must stand together and pray it won’t last long.
Soon our troops will leave there with their shaving cream and comb,
And we will all be waiting, to welcome them back home.
They’ll have done their duty and gave that country back,
Democracy the victor to the people of Iraq.
A world falls apart
Solitude has taken control
Left holding a broken heart
On the edge of insanity
Letting out anguish and pain
Shouting words of profanity
Although nothing is gained
All dreams are shattered
Feeling completely numb inside
Emotions torn and tattered
Something deep down has died
Hatred and hurt eat away
Days and nights seem longer
Spirit destructs, slowly decays
It longs to become stronger.
Upon unloading her clothing from the washing machine,
To her utter shock she had mixed her whites with her coloureds.
Her whites were red.
Her blacks were grey and her yellows were orange.
But then something struck me.
Why was she so upset?
Was it because her wash was ruined,
And if so who says it was ruined?
Society, that’s who.
Maybe we should all allow our coloureds to mingle with our whites.
Perhaps if we did, our laundry that is life would start to take on a new and beautiful colour all by itself.
Perhaps one day we will no longer see black, white, yellow or any other one colour but a whole rainbow of new and intermingling shades to make a world full of rainbow coloured races.
as the people all came to post letters and cards.
He quietly watched all the goings on
of the village people, as the day began.
First came the milkman, with his full load
of milk for the people, he creeps down the road.
Then there’s the postman, Peter's his name,
he collects letters and delivers the same.
The mothers they come with children in pushchairs,
leaving some to school, girls with ribbons in their hair.
They chat about families and everyday things.
Later they'll take the young ones to the swings.
The grandads reminisce, when posting is done.
The little post box hears of times that have gone.
The grandmothers stop to post cards for a birthday
and tell each other how they feel today.
The post box has stood silently, down through the years.
He knows all their secrets and their fears.
He smiles when they’re happy, when sad feels their pain.
Nobody notices him, as he stands in the rain.
though not wanton destruction, apathy is harm.
A boy, about half the age I imagine myself to be
dashes the dry autumn leaves running,
contented and laughing gaily through the trees;
he has changed the face of nature,
if only momentarily.
For untraceable time I have stood here;
as I listen to soliloquies of life
I understand the nature of human,
but am no more than a casual observer
in a game I can play no part.
Beside me Atlas crumbles;
some say he bears the weight of the world
on his shoulders,
though he does not shirk in his task,
for his master is despot.
To be this state is to be sentinel;
we are the remnants of antiquity,
and as such we may never live.
My secret I have now got to tell
I cannot linger in this living hell
It’s consuming the whole of my life
I cannot keep living with this strife
Each new day cuts me up like a knife
So many years this secret I had to hold
All the lies I have so seemingly told
To tell them I was just never so bold
All the years my feelings I’ve withheld
The trying times that my mother has yelled
For my emotions I have always quelled
My worse fear is that I’ll just be rejected
Like some virus that would be infected
And with treatment it could be corrected
Is it possible that I am just a sad freak?
As I so long to change my physique
For the female form I so pensively seek
In this male form for now I must remain
Until someday when my dream I can sustain
Sharon Bryson
A glimmer of light
Begins to expand
And dispel the night
Slowly emerging
It brightens the sky
Lifting the veil
And our hearts up high
A sliver of hope
A promise anew
Again recreated
A wonderful view
Ever so gentle
Yet ever so strong
It will not be stopped
Birds burst into song
Power increases
Chasing the night
Replacing its darkness
With life giving light
I will always remember springtime
Autumn, October, November
Twenty years have swept by
I love you to this very day
Where are you? Why do you
stay away?
I hope one day if I pray you will come home
Where you can fill an empty room
You will mend my heart
It is broken now
Pleases come home before it’s too late
Each day I dream in vain
Hoping and dreaming I will see you again
Walk briskly in the garden gate
Hope is our companion to guide us afar
Hope makes plans for our life
To reach our goals and helps
Our dreams and desires to come true
To give aspiration to lead fullfilled lives
Always leading to green pastures anew
Don’t give up when things seem hopeless
Hope shows the way always leading out
And for better things to come
Look towards the horizon where Hope stands bright and Shining, beckoning on our path of life.
It is a guide for us all
I put myself to bed, a bed of self pity. With a regretful duvet and a remorseful pillow, for comforts sake.
To the side of me, my table, cluttered with bits and pieces.but each with a memory of you attached.
A mug.
A cold mug of tea.
Formed stains on your letter, where carelessly
I have used it for nothing more than a coaster.
Scrunched up
Tear stained tissues
Scattered
Tell the story of both our hearts
Scan the room pointlessly
Lights out.
Energy massive and surging with power.
Split-second timing fine tuning they call it,
Beginning of time and creation’s first hour.
Gaseous clouds, swirling and curling,
Gravity fusing a mass in the sky.
Atoms are born in the starlight of burning,
Stardust will scatter and planets will fly.
Nine billion years for the fires of creation,
Four billion more stir the travails of life.
Carbon once kissed by the lightening of heaven,
Flashes the swamps into struggle and strife.
Crawling and creeping, evolving mutations,
Flying and splashing on ocean’s vast spray.
Burgeoning exuberance and pageants of beauty,
Earth’s ancient splendour and dawning of day.
Storms daily darkened primordial skies
While nature’s alarm cried out in the wild,
Yet there in a cave of despair and renown,
A baby awoke and the universe smiled.
Strength tries to win the day, but the heart breaks through
An aching pain, dull but present, strong again
Let me be, you visit my heart again and again,
How do I say goodbye to the one that has broken my heart,
My wounded soul, joy has been the journey of pain,
Laughter and tears, when I think you are gone, there you enter,
A way in to my heart I miss you when you are gone,
Angry when I hear not a word, angry at you for being you,
Angry at me for loving you, friends we will be but love will always bear your name.
Your hand as it strokes me when I rest it on your knee
You took me in, I had no home, I knew you'd be my friend
I liked you from the start and loved you ’til the end
But I am old and grey now and I'll soon be leaving you
A nicer home I couldn’t have found and so caring too
I didn’t need much training all I wanted to do was please
You very rarely got cross but were always there for me
My legs won’t hold me now but I know that you still care
I can see the time has come that we won’t now be a pair
A puppy has now joined us to live in our lovely home
She will make you happy and fill my place when I'm gone
You will be busy training her it will help to fill the void
I don’t mind if she uses my blanket or plays with my toys It’s time to say
goodbye now, thank you for what you’ve done
As I lay here you are crying I know this is no fun
But soon it will all be over I can feel the needle going in Goodbye dear master
be happy until we meet again
I don’t know, but I must be strong
I never see you, or hear about you anywher
I never see you, but I try hard not to care
I’m still thinking about you
Trying to know just where I stand
I’m still thinking about you
Hope it works out as I planned
Here in this field
Under this sun,
Sat amongst the falling blossom,
Nature’s snow of summer.
It is here I see the butterfly shuttle,
Flitting through my mind’s loom
Weaving garlands of memories.
A cloud passes the sun,
I lose count,
I panic,
Then it’s gone by
And all is sunshine and blossom again.
I start recounting And smile.
When all the world was fighting, for so-called liberty
It was the war to end wars, at least that's what was said
Little did they realise, how many would be dead
We'll all be home for Christmas, was all that you could hear
But no-one seemed to mention, what would be the year
They face the cameras bravely, the old men on the benches
Where years before, they fought the war, in knee-deep mud-filled trenches
There's not that many left now, of that old warrior breed
They sacrificed their lifetime, so we could all be freed
They came home with the glory, of how the war would end
But twenty-odd years later, it all began again