On this page you can find the older contributions to Voice that have been moved to make room for the newer contributions on the main page.

FROM THE EDITOR'S DESK

Welcome to your first ever experience of Voice magazine. We hope you find it interesting, enjoyable and even rewarding. We also hope that you become a regular reader of Voice.

So what's it all about? The answer is simple. Voice is a brand new poetry and arts webzine. Its main contributors are disabled people but it is open to all.

Able-bodied people cannot fully understand or appreciate the problems which face the disabled. You have to be in that position before you can fully comprehend what it's like.

It's a very sad fact that the disabled get fewer and more limited opportunities in the arts. This is especially significant as the arts are, in my opinion, more important to the disabled than they are to the able bodied. There has always been a link between art and suffering.

Suffering can take many forms, but disabled people know it better than many. I am convinced that art is of such importance to the disabled, that a magazine like Voice is not just necessary - it is vital.

Any means by which the disabled can communicate creatively, express themselves and interact on an artistic platform with one another, has to be beneficial.

That's why I am delighted that Voice is now on-line.

If you want to be involved in Voice, email us, write to us at Voice Magazine, United Press, Admail 3735, London, EC1B 1JB, or use the Contact Voice menu option on the banner above. Tell us a little about yourself and tell us about your interest in poetry and art.

Again, if you think Voice is a worthwhile project, contact us. Tell us why you think so. Tell us what you think Voice can achieve and how it can achieve it. All the support we receive will add fuel to the fire of our conviction that Voice should be given the chance to be heard.

Peter Quinn, Editor

UNTITLED

Rush,rush,rush
everybodies in a rush,
rushing here,
rushing there,
people rushing everywhere.
Its time to slow,
theres no need to go
at such speed,
you will succeed.
Relax,have some fun,
all your tasks will get done.
Take your time,
relax,wind down.
Time to be happy,
theres no need to frown.
Look around and you will see,
its time to enjoy life,
its time to be free.

Lynn Rankin

SPOTTED DICK

Now here's a tale of spotted Dick
Who'd no unusual fetishes,
Except just one - he'd call by name
His ugly spots and blemishes.

Developing a carbuncle,
He said, "I'm sure this spot'll
Match the one Onassis had,
So I'll call it Aristotle!"

And when four nasty yellowheads
Erupted in a cluster,
And burst together with a pop,
He named the area, Buster!

Then once, when playing tennis
He developed two big blisters
Which ruined his game, they very soon
Became the Williams sisters!

And when two groups of postules grew
To form a virtual warzone,
He designated one group, Westlife,
The other he called, Boyzone!

But the blemish he's most proud of,
Bar a nobble on his right knee,
Is a small protuberance on his thumb,
A wart, which he calls Disney!

Tony Reese

FAMILY VALUES

Family values where have they gone?
Our children running riot, rude and, ungrateful,
Bad mannered and badly behaved,
Out of control,
The worst in the world they say,
Bring back good old family values,
A time when there was respect,
Obedience, we had time for each other,
Families talked together,
They ate together too,
They touched base with each other daily,
Children did as they were told,
Had good manners too,
Had good examples to follow,
Everyone had love care and affection,
People were not too busy to care, to love,
Where has all that gone?
Good old family values.

Lorna Jane Thorpe.

A HOT DAY AT SPURN POINT IN YORKSHIRE

The road is not very broad,
It's a daunting drive to the point.
Water passes either side of the road,
The sea to the left, the river to the right.

There's an old lighthouse at the point,
Which has now been replaced, I see.
It warned ships of the point at night,
As they made their way from the sea.

The ships are from distant lands,
Queuing to enter the river.
Anchored, awaiting pilot's guiding hands,
As sea currents cause the ships to quiver.

In the distance is Cleethorpes Promenade,
Beyond the two forts in the river.
And Grimsby Dock tower stands proud,
All neat, like a town built in miniature.

Sand dunes separate the beach from the road,
And couples find dunes for their courting.
Today is so hot, I feel I'm abroad,
And it's so peaceful and calming.

A middle-aged couple frolic in the sea,
Like teenagers all over again.
Splashing each other and still in love, I see,
It's certainly a lot of fun for them.

There is seaweed and driftwood,
Washed up with rope from an old net.
Probably thrown overboard,
From passing ships I would bet.

Ian Hodgson

RATCHET MAN

From 40 fit and fast
Time's beginning to tell
I'm 50, fat and festering
And really not all that well.
Parkie's crept in at 48
But unlike some others
I haven't got the shakes.
It tripped me up
And slowed me down
It's put me on hold
Slammed on the brakes.

So I pop the pills
To move my stiff bones
But I find it depressing
As I'm putting on stones.
My joints are much stiffer
I go as fast as I can
If I were a super hero
I'd be, yes, Ratchet Man.

I know what to do
To live a long life
The buffs keep on telling me
Giving me strife
But the spirit's not willing
To gear up a cog
To knuckle on down
To diet and jog
So, my lifestyle's not right
But the bells of doom do not knell
However, I'm still 50, fat and festering
And time is beginning to tell.

So I'll jump on my bike
I'll go for a swim,
Get a rowing machine
An exercise gym.
The garden gets dug
The dustbin gets cleared
The dishes get washed
The hedges get sheared.
So all is not lost
My head is not bowed
And I still get a laugh
When my son farts out loud.

Rick Szota. Former action man and teacher now retired from both. Took up trying to write poetry to keep the brain occupied,and still trying 12 years later.

UNCLE PERCY

I've an uncle who lives in the country,
So needing a change I took off.
He's me aunt's only brother still living,
And he's always bin good for a loff.

I thought I'd surprise him, and turn up
Without calling – I'll give him a shock.
When I got there an old man surprised me,
Saying, "Where are you headed old cock?"

"I'm a stranger round here" – I informed him,
"Come to visit me old uncle Purse."
He said, "Sorry old mate – but yer fowa days too late,
Fact yer've onny just missed old boy's 'earse.

But don't fret me old son – yo'll catch up if ya run.
Just turn left at the pub down the street."
I said, "Right," – he said, "Left – are yo stupid or deaf?"
I said "Thanks," turning red as a beet.

So I ran like the wind through the village,
Turning left by the pub down the street.
It was there I bumped into the mourners,
And guess who's the first one I meet?

It was Purse – yes my Purse – not the one in the hearse,
But my Purse, who I'd come down to meet.
He said, "What’s up old cock, had a bit of a shock?"
When I told him he loffed 'til he wheezed.

"There was two on us born in this village," he said,
"We wuz given the very same name.
It's bin fun over the years – but the villagers cursed
'Cos we always give t'other the blame."

Well, we loffed 'til we cried, 'cos our Purse hadn’t died,
And we buried his namesake in style.
'Fact we drunk the pub dry, and our Purse had a cry.
Then we went to his farm for a while.

It's bin years since that time I went down there
To that farm owned by old uncle Purse,
But I think I'll go back there this summer,
Onny this time – I think I'll ring first.

Eric C Hill

DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE

I take a break from work,
And park at the Humber foreshore.
It's just gone eight o'clock,
But it's warm, so I open my door.

As the sun rises in the sky,
I look out across the river.
I can hear traffic passing by,
Yet, so still is the water.

The landscape is dotted with chimneys,
Puffing away as they pollute the sky.
And there are lots of tall cranes,
Beyond the old Humber ferry jetty.

A cargo ship passes close to the shore,
Bound for a distant land, I can tell.
As it cuts through the water,
Buoys quiver in the swell.

The Humber Bridge just looks terrific,
Stretching across this great expanse.
But I'll not be joining the surge of traffic,
As it heads for the county of Lincs.

Ian Hodgson

HEADSTONES

Laying,
Soaked bones,
Broken in the dead earth,
Roots whisper
Inheritance.

Their silent voices
Repeat: -
We are your ancestors
And we laid still
Until your coming.
Now we unite
In grave terms
That will always
Be hours
Of time and history,
And the symbols
On stones
That mark our
Coming and going.

Sally Plumb

YELLOW

I look around me,
I see:
Pale yellow pansies,
With delicate purple faces
Dancing in the breeze.
I see golden lupins,
Standing straight and tall.
I see:
Mellow marigolds, a cheerful mix
Of sunshine yellow and tangy orange.
I remember:
Daffodils and narcissi,
A myriad of yellow
To welcome in the spring.
I remember:
Fields of golden buttercups,
Their faces turned to the sun.
Yellow is the colour of sunshine.
Yellow is uplifting.
I say "Yes" to yellow!

AM Allan

FOG

I am driving to work on a winter’s day,
Thick fog all the way.
I can’t see a thing in front of my face,
Crawling along at a snail’s pace,
Almost driving blind,
Hoping the driver can see me behind.
He just tore past me.
I’m sure he can’t see.
He must have a death wish,
I don’t want to be added to his list.
A nightmare on the motorway,
I can feel myself going grey.
I’m getting a headache with eyestrain.
I hope I don’t wander into the wrong lane.
The headlights can’t pierce the fog.
Nearly at work, what a slog.
Got to work at half past nine,
I thought I left in plenty of time,
But at least
I got here in one piece.

Richard Trowbridge

THESE SOUNDS I HAVE LOVED

The high spectral owl calls
faint and two miles away
waking me up

Faintly calls again and then
I feel the brush of wings
and closer two-oos

And two-oo
Night owl makes contact

The dawn birds singing
bringing the morning in their beaks

And the woodier
throatier calls of dove
calling out love to another dove
these sounds I have loved.
Faintly calls again and then
I feel the brush of wings
and closer two-oos

And tw-oo
Night owl makes contact.

And two-oo
Night owl makes contact

The dawn birds singing
bringing the morning in their beaks

And the woodier
throatier calls of dove
calling out love to another dove
calling out love to another dove

Frances Turner

I AM HERE!

Thank you for speaking to me,
For not averting your eyes
Or looking surprised,
But actually looking at me!
Since my legs stopped working
Some think I no longer exist.
That I have no tale no tell,
No lips that want to be kissed.
Many thoughts and opinions
Float around my brain,
When they come out of my mouth
I am often looked at with disdain.
Thankfully, times are changing
And people like you listen.
Should I still go on shouting?
Until the sceptics stop hissing!
I wonder what they are afraid of,
Am I a warrior, or a peaceful dove?
If they would just consider my freedom,
I don’t want to rule any kingdom.
I want to exist
I want to be me
I want to be here!

RJ Gallienne

LOUISE OF CORNWALL

"Look into my eyes"

Her words haunted me,
Down through the centuries.
I remember her eyes that were opened wide
Before me
As she looked into my soul,
Dear Louise.

She had a face,
Strange, like a pixie.
There was a touch,
A look, a glimpse
Of the gypsy.

She had a strange way of moving,
As she swooshed in her dress rhythmically,
And looked impish, positively pretty.
Her brown hair fell down her cheeks
And she blushed a little.

In ancient days
There was a craze:
A merry dance that blazed,
As God looked down through the purple haze
And saw Merlin, and Magdalene
Golden, and bathed
In her crown full of rays,
That converted Daniel into Errol
To enable his escape from his cave
Into Camelot’s King Arthur days,
As they turned the mists of the stem
Of the cup of Time,
And coagulated the wine
That took the tide
To Mirigold – half-spirit – half-human,
Born again.

Mirigold is fair, Magdalene is rare,
With beautiful, auburn, sunburnt,
Striking hair.
Each shapes her glassy tower,
Making it true, making it white.
She creates it pure,
As she sharpens her sight,
Leaving luck-littered clues
For Errol.

Mirigold lives in her glassy-white tower,
A world of Beauty,
Matched only by a flower
That orchestrates music
As she writes away the magic hours
As she does the work
Of God and Mary.
Magdalene was Queen of the British Isles
In days of old,
When knights were bold,
As was Mirigold.
The Queens were twins
In this island world, enthroned
And sent. The World whirling
With their Catherine-wheel
Twirling,
Into the Indian Fylfot symbol
Unfurling.

(It was their way of displaying mirth
To bare the quest to test men’s worth!)
One day there came to Earth
Another.
She was Magdalene and Mirigold’s twin,
Except that’s where the similarity ends!
For Jersey was prone to play with fire,
And swastika-ize her symbols of sire,
And she desired these islands
That had been given to the twins
In this, the beginning
Of the Second Millennium,
When their spirits appeared again!
And claimed their rightful inheritance!
In the invisible dimension
That was a gift of God to Merlin
Who had been fired by love
For the charms of the walk milk and gems
Of Magdalene.
Whereupon…
Jersey inspired,

Transfigured herself,
And became Mirigold,
Whom Daniel desired,
And, in her disguise,
Entered his bed
In Errol’s cave,
To where he had been led,
Recreated
By this lioness,
And she said to his head:
"Twist it so deep
The dagger so deep,
Undermine the soul
That dares to peep;
Insert in its stead,
A pillar of lead
To cast the Dead
In eternal dread,

To cry out and weep,
In a bloodless tomb:
A universal seep
Encased in a shriek,
Destined for you
Mirigold and David!"

The Battle now moves
To stud-terrained Space,
Where Mirigold flies
In a terrestrial race
From Jersey’s hold.
On the tracks of Mars:
The newly-born child
As it floats askew in the stars!

Backwards – forwards – across the stars,
The Universe
Views
The Battle of Mars,
As the man-in-the-moon looks on
In the defiant hue
And laughs!
Forwards – backwards
The mighty gladiators’ swords clash,

As Jersey is run through
And we see a crescendo of silver flash!
As she discards her mask,
Breathless,
And we see Lucifer!
Revealed!
In her face,
Beautiful!
Lord-on-High of Heavejn and Hell!,
At his death knell….
And we hear the whisper
Of a clarion stir…
As he ascends
The stairs
To the Universe,
Transforms, transmigrating,
To the baby Jesus
In the burning circle,
Withering, and incarnating….
As we hear cymbals –
In the embers
Of opposite strong Worlds clashing,
In the dying ringing…

As her eyes glimmered, and sparkled,
And she looked away,
At the bar of the water,
In her coloured skirt,
That contained little, tiny mirrors,
That had been woven into material,
That glittered her studded dress, picturesque

The yellow roses of Saint Endelion
Peep through the window,
In the morning of the new day.
A yellow ray
Illuminates her hair
And she the vein of the stem of the flower
That blows and grows over her grave
Reminds me of her stare,
And symbolizes her beauty.

The water laps like ghost
- There is a sound, "Hello…"
And she looks around,
And says,
With a smile,
"Thank you, David."

David de Pinna

THE DISCIPLE

People gather round
you walk on sacred ground
the patch of dirt you trample
is where the aliens came down

I've been everywhere
I've studied everything
I found UFO religion
It's the reason why I sing

I have the second eye
and it's the reason why
I see my grey buddies
smoking spliffs in the sky

Nineteen forty-seven
is when it all began
aliens crashed at Roswell
on a non-stick frying pan

My tears melt away
like ice-cream in the rain
because I recently escaped
from a home for the insane

WA Covington

PROGRESS

It’s called progress, that’s what it is:
a gas fire that burns with a hiss,
an electric light that glows so bright
that turn’s the darkness into light,
a microwave oven that warms your grub
when you get home from the pub or the club.
Progress? It makes you sad.
We had all of that when I was a lad.
We had the thing that done the lot,
why it would even your teapot hot.
What was this myth that changed our fate?
Don’t you know? It was the old black lead grate.

Brian Harding

LOVE

Love is in the air we breathe,
not felt, not seen.
Until one day we forget to breathe,
and love is missing,
gone, dead and neglected.
It's hard to bring it back to life
when life makes you feel rejected.
Cultivate what you have,
don't let it wither and die, live life to the full,
greet each day with joy.

Lynda Day Bidston

AUTISM

He is sad today.
Why? He will not say.
How do I know?
Instinctively I feel
His emotions are so real.
I see the tears,
And through the years
I read his mind so well.
This is how I tell
That he is sad today.
He is pleased today.
He does not say.
A mother knows,
For it shows
A gleam in his eyes.
I know it well.
I am pleased to say
He is happy today.

Bridie Sutton

BECAUSE YOU'RE MINE

It can be painfully revealing, analyzing one’s own feelings,
but mine are very easy to define.
Quite simply, what I need is a purpose, which indeed is
to care for you, and why?
Because you’re mine.

That day when I caressed you, I knew I would possess you,
- your soft brown eyes, your jet black hair so fine –
and that we’d always be together for untold years – if not forever,
eternally, and why?
Because you’re mine.

I took you home to my place, hung your picture by the fireplace,
poured a drink, then went outside to clear my mind.
Then, as the daylight ended, and into night it blended,
you came to me, and why?
Because you’re mine.

So what now my lovely lady, full of grace and oh, so stately?
Because you’re wonderful, and beautifully equine,
I’m going to leap upon your back, so you can gallop down the track
With me astride, and why?
Big horse you’re mine!

Anthony J Reese

GET UP YOUR OWN END

If you was playing with a ball,
"Get up your own end!" was the call.
"I’ll see your dad and tell your mom,
I’ll bet she don’t know what’s going on."
'Cos playing ball was not permitted,
and if you was caught, you warn’t to be pitied.
There were lots of things that could be done,
but playing ball was not the one.
Hop scotch, skipping, cards, and whip and top
You could play until you would drop
in the gutter. In the street
you could play without getting under their feet.
If you behaved as good as gold,
"Get up your own end!" you wouldn’t be told.
Now no one seems to notice, what can you expect?
No one seems to teach people the word respect.

Brian Harding

AUTUMN IN THE PARK

I'm sat on a bench in the park,
Watching a playful grey squirrel.
In the distance I hear a dog bark,
As it chases after a ball.

I listen as the birds trill,
High up in the tall trees.
A child is flying a kite,
In the cool autumn breeze.

Horse-chestnut trees stand tall,
As autumn is all around.
Their golden leaves begin to fall,
And conkers crack open on the ground.

Weeping willows take a bow,
Their tips almost reach the lake.
I can see the water quiver,
As a duck swims with a drake.

Geese gather near the lake,
Looking for discarded bread.
They're making a loud squawk,
As they stray onto the road.

Ian Hodgson

VOICE

Stalling cannots fall before the vital voice.
Mercy’s cries rake hard eyes of the towered kings,
Voice resounds, splinters ground, and melts rocks to dross.

Sailors bound to lost boats, set their halloos lose.
Comforts wrung, from salt throats, seek out hope in song.
Stalling cannots fall before the vital voice.

Captive husks of men who long to be set lose
scale walls with caged words, rattling their rings.
Voice resounds, splinters ground, and melts rocks to dross.

Shell-holed soldiers cover theirs, in khaki loss,
crying out from high wires, where the hopeless hang.
Stalling cannots fall before the vital voice.

Commanders marshal theirs, with swords sharp as frosts,
pressing men from hungry squads to dusty gangs.
Voice resounds, splinters ground, and melts rocks to dross.

Lovers hush white whispers braving hell and cross.
Nature has its own, for which the lonely long.
Stalling cannots fall before the vital voice.
Voice resounds, splinters ground, and melts rocks to dross.

Owen Lowery

WATER

It milked and vesseled, thick and fast
as warm cream on dairy farms,
sprayed by red and spading hands,
and left to curdle golden pools
of infant creaming cheese and whey.
Snowflake water, fouled and frothed
to the fat lip of my boiling bowl,
looking for all worlds like fresh death
on tap. I tipped the cup, spilled drops
in pouting porcelain. Unplugged
gurgles lingered on metal sieves,
giving off no warning ordured
odour, and then charmed down slim arms
and chirping pipes to sewage coasts.
Recoiling, I felt mental chains pull
me to polluted youth, and days passed
pissing and swimming Snowdon’s streams.
Green and silver limed together,
a soft, illegal, cordial.
A smashed jar slashed your pink foot
and drew more of your colour
where none had been before.
I laughed: grating and grateful
that you had felt it first.
While my wrecked drink sunk
in borrowed urban burrows,
once Welsh water trawled, and
trundled under dumb floors.

Owen Lowery

SONG

I was keelhauled down moon dunes.
Through whoring gorse I broke headlong
when I heard the swooning tune.

Fencing spears and saffroned tongues,
I branded prints on virgin sand
and ploughed new ground seeking song.

I listened hard and made a stand,
but nothing found save soughing waves
and the kelp-wracked strangle strands

of sounds on humping sailor graves.
Hollow it hung, Merman remote,
but I sought song as fall-leaves

seek boughs. Between skies and foam float
tides, the boated notes remained ghost
thin, and flew from cry gull throats.

They hurdled tossed and albatrossed
around the cracked up crags. Stone chins
shook throughout the trembled coast.

My senses spun and pranced on pins
of perfect pain as I plucked grains
from my graveled eyes like grins

from some lobstered corpse. Then again
it came. I felt the Caedmon flame
and miraculous it strained.

From where, from what, from whom it came
I could not know, but come it did,
unbidden as fable fame.

It carousing crested and hid
itself no more. Lifting and free,
its fins forced apart the grid

of gusted storm and it found me
with its crystal voice. I raised my
eyes and scoured the ceaseless sea.

There was no eruption, no high
angel interruption, or great
puca kelpie standing by:

just slanting sliding mess of slate,
and the tangled marine laced air,
No sure reason for my state

of mind and not a single bare
fact to which that song might be tied.
Coast aside, nothing was there.

The notes blew true and petrels cried
and bent their voices to the moon,
until the howling wind sighed,

and limping died, behind the dunes
too soon, too soon. And though I long
for its encore, the rare tune

is gone. No more will nature's song
appeal to me so clear and strong.

Owen Lowery

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

Solitary confinement. Is it real or in my head
At night I watch videos and spend my days in bed.
Visitors are few and far between
Am I awake or asleep? Is this all a bad dream?
Places that I used to go are now out of reach
Friendships that I used to have, all of them are breached.

In a world on my own I am left to play
No longer really caring whether it’s night or day,
For in solitary confinement things are always black
Dreams of things that once were good can never be
Brought back.

So in the darkness I sit alone, waiting for release
As bit by bit I lose my sanity and my pride
Piece by piece.

So if anyone can hear me or will listen to my plea
Slowly I am dying. Please come and rescue me.

D T W

THE INNOCENTS

On a morn like this
I stood, alone,
Watching,
I felt the movement of his breath,
The spirit in him, the body,
As I looked at him,
From within,
And saw the light mirror
Inside his soul, to me.
I had taught him
Thought, kindness,
His muse, I was,
As I looked at him,
Watched him love
I, his wife,
Witch, I was, white
Gene, in the heart
Of the ring
Of the circular string of pearls
Of the chromosomes
That jingled a refrain,
And pictures moved
In the reels
Of the spools
That went round,
In the camera,
In the cinema,
Of his mind,
United the Spirit of “I”
Beneath him,
And opened,
And let him come inside,
To the Gene string
Of beads of chromosomes
That sang and rang in his head,
To cause the explosion, lance
The cancer,
In his bed,
That formerly had been roses –
Was now a garden of evil,
The den of the General.
For it was this gene in the cabin
That rang its message of evil
In the church of the cathedral
In the theatre where I operated,
As the surgeon, blinded by hate,
The Pirate, a jet pilot,
I split the atom,
The source that caused the cancer,
The cathedral of bells,
The chimes that sang and sang,
Rang for the deaths of the Lebanon,
Israel, mothers and the children
That the jet pilot captain General
Had exterminated
In a boomerang
In the middle of which
Were caught the innocent
Children, and I, Magdalene –
My Red Cross ambulance
Had burned to cinders,
My people –
And Jesus’,
In a terrible explosion
That wreaked terrorism
On the innocence
Of the world,
Scorched and scarred
The Dead of the hell of Terrorism,
In a body of Hell,
A requiem,
For a mass,
Of a Red X ambulance.

David de Pinna

THE END JUSTIFIES THE MEANS

I was a writer,
And then I became a lawyer,
I couldn’t chase the ambulance,
I thought I had a duty,
To the Law Society,
Then I saw others
Who made plenty of money,
And that’s when I became a writer
A poet of lunacy
One day, an ambulance came,
And innocent children and women
Lay in it, slain,
And were murdered
In bombings, over and over again;
And that’s when I became
A lawyer, again.
But I realized I could do nothing,
So I became a union,
Each other,
But neither achieved anything,
So I became a contradiction,
Each living like brother and brother
And we watched the television,
The bombings,
And saw each was led by lawyers and others,
Who had each done nothing,
Either,
But kill and murder;
So I began to think “We” were leaders,
Conforming, projecting
To a type, like them,
Defined and provided according to an image
And measurements,
And “they” sought guilt and punishment
To pay the price of all these Selves,
Created members of a secret society,
Like wandering, meandering tributaries
Doublecrossing my destiny,
But one day I realized
A divine, Conscience society,
That didn’t seem to bother
Politicians that were our Leaders,
Children were irrelevant
To their jurisdiction, their thinking,
And one day, they did a masterpiece
Of credit – stealing rescue packaging,
After the media, foreseeing,
Warning
The means does not justify the ends,
The means are steps that in themselves
Must be just,
To flower,
The Divine Justice,
And free the Selves,
Imprisoned by our selves – us,
Our greed our lust.

David de Pinna

BITTERSWEET MALADY

Outside the cinema
I look up into your handsome face
Looking down at me from the poster
Tall, dark, devastating and masked
As the Phantom of the Opera
His pain is my pain and
To me you are the epitome
Of masculine perfection and
I know that it does not matter that
You would never look at me once
Let alone twice, and
Not only do you fill my heart
With a longing for something
I can never have but
I am also reminded of all that I have lost
Not only my youth and looks but
Also a desperate longing for
Something I can never regain
One last look into those wonderful eyes
My own well up with tears
As I turn and wheel myself away …

Denise Manning

MILITIA

Helicopters flying past, bombs dropping, thick and fast
Flee the devils on horseback! They have come at last!
Explosions, fear, the deafening noises people fleeing in terror
Why are they doing this to us? There has to be an error!

Fires ignite and burn their homes, panic shouts and wailing screams
An old woman stands alone, transfixed, as if witnessing horrific dreams
Fleeing bodies run and scatter from the human locust flood
The Janaweed militiamen hungering for their innocent blood

Once a thriving village, why? They cannot understand
Slaughter rampant, machine guns cutting them down where they stand
Men, women, boys and girls, its as if they do not matter
Hatred finds its mark, clubs and machetes wound and batter

Tortured lives with hopes destroyed whilst horror yields
With snipers hidden lie in wait within the flooded fields
The young, the old and pregnant women screaming flee their land
Witnessing with anguish as their children’s lifeblood wets the sand

Mindless genocide of the militiamen as they murder, rape and pillage
Bloodstained ground, violence all around the burning village
Stumbling over the dead and dying, it's difficult to avoid
The innocents whose lives were lost, leaves others scarred, destroyed

A day that started out in peace seemed just like any other
Who could have known the day to come that man would kill another
Hell on earth had come to scourge a people of differing faith
How is that mankind can justify evil on what they think their god may sayeth

Through the haze beneath the sun, the rotting flesh, flies hover thickly
The foetid smell of hate and carnage hangs in the air so sickly
Now all is quiet again, almost peaceful in the stillness, after the wrath
Evil now sated, has had its way, leaving only this, the aftermath

Denise Manning

WINGS OF PEACE

Lightly ascending above the pull of gravity
Gliding slowly on the arms of the breeze
Cover the earth in a protective quilt
All this a duty for your wings of peace

A white dove, symbol of a nation
United in a new understanding
Of forgiveness and compromise
Beginning the long awaited truce

Old grudges fade like dated memories
With the gradual change of
Attitudes and views of yesterday
And your peace once again soars on the wind

Lynne Barclay

LIGHT OF A FLOWER

A yearning bud creeps towards the sun
The loving mother to a child’s outstretched hand
And calls for the much-needed flood
Of rain in which it will not drow
Only blossom into a flame
Giving the burning light of a lone candle
But shade deprives its growth and blocks the maternal rays
And so the bud retreats
Unwelcome to the cold, harsh soil
Where it cannot nourish and grow from the ground
Only sleep in the darkness
And so a spark is lost in shadow
In the deepest nightly hour
Nature loses the light of a flower

Lynne Barclay

I SAW AN ANGEL

I'm sure I saw an angel on that sad and fateful day
I'm sure I heard her whisper telling me to walk her way
She held her hand out to me perhaps it's all a dream
Silence all around me but I still hear people scream

I don't know why she chose me, I don't quite understand
Why other people round me didn't get to hold her hand
She told me that I'm special and she had some work to do
She said she had a message that I need to share with you

She took me to a wondrous place with beauty all around
My feet were floating in the air not stepping on the ground
The sun was shinning brightly there were flowers everywhere
I don't think I have ever seen a sight I could compare

I asked if I could stay there but she said I had to go
Your help on earth is needed to let the people know
That angel’s walk beside them and protect them every day
Your angel will be told by God if you should come or stay

There’s nothing to be scared of there’s nothing you should fear
Your angel will be with you there’s no need to shed a tear
God gave you life for living you must live the best you can
Then when the time is ready you will see your angel's hand

Diane Heron

KEEP PLAYING

Not only can you see an orchestra, you can hear it too,
And this is what I see in you.
No matter what people think, see or do
They'll always have a voice with you.

Maybe others don't understand,
Maybe they will not support you with money at hand.
But time is on your side and an orchestra supporting you.
And when played long enough and loud enough
They'll even pay to watch you.

JUST A MAN WITH FEELINGS

I am just a soldier,
Here to serve my country well,
But I have a secret,
I feel I now should tell,

I am not as I seem,
I want some release,
I do not want to kill an enemy,
I cannot fight for peace,

I don't want to kill another man,
I don't want to fight a bloody war,
I follow the Ten Commandments,
And face my conscience once more,

Here we lie in trenches,
That smell musty and damp,.
And the only light that we can see,
Is from a kerosene lamp,

The sound of gunshots can be heard.
And bullets fly overhead,
It puts the fear of God in me,
And many tears I shed,

I never wanted to be here,
For I am a pacifist you see,
But I never told the authorities,
When they enlisted me,

So here I am in this trench,
Blood and bodies all around,
Feeling scared and out of place,
On this bloody battleground,

The Seargant Major's shouting now,
It's time to go over the top,
The blood it chills in my veins,
I think my heart will stop,

My body shaking with shell shock,
As I consider what I must do,
Go and shoot another human being,
I can't do that, could you?

So I took my chance and ran away,
Away from the war and the hate,
But I was captured very soon,
And now will find out my fate,

So here I am, tied to a post,
On a cold and frosty morn,
The firing squad is ready,
I am to be shot at dawn.

A letter left for my wife:

I am sorry for the shame I have brought,
By not fighting as I must,
But I am just a pacifist,
In God's hands now I trust.
I love you.

Sue Crocker, Jersey, Channel Islands

THE EYES OF A CHILD

In the eyes of a child war is fun
Running around with a plastic gun.
Bang! Bang! You're dead! Drop to the floor
Then get up to win the war.

In the eyes of a child good guys always win.
Bad guys always pay for their sin.
Then live to fight on other days.
The next time, the part of a goodie, he plays.

In the eyes of a man, suffering years of pain,
There's no such thing as a hero like John Wayne.
Blood isn't made out of paint and water.
Friends don't stand up after the slaughter.

In the eyes of a woman,the pain goes on;
For this broken man, once so strong.
Hearing his nightmares for so many years,
Makes the eyes of this woman fill up with tears.

Tracy Hartshorn, Chesterfield, Derbyshire

DREAMS

Every time I close my eyes to sleep
Strange apparitions flash across my mind
Like, Venus, rising from the ocean deep
Sunken ships from, Davy Jones' locker find.

Vortex demons spiralling up,
Falling, falling, watery graves drown.
A long spoon with the devil to sup.

A kaleidoscope of spirits and goblins.
Dreams floating away in the Milky Way.
A man of the cloth fighting my sins.
I pray that night will soon turn into day.

Derrick Roach, Penzance, Cornwall

VIEW FROM A WHEELCHAIR

They're taking me to the country,
Oh boy, I'm really thrilled.
I don't know whose idea it was,
But I'd like to have him killed!

Why can't I just be honest?
Why sit here and take the piss?
Why don't I tell them what I really want?
Why don't I tell it like it is ...

I'd like - just once - to board a train
And not have the porter make a fuss!
I can't go down the Underground,
I struggle on and off a bus.

Toilet doors aren't wide enough,
I get the call of nature too!
I may look like a sideshow freak,
But I still need the loo!

In museums, and theatres too,
I need a bit more room to move;
I can't do much about the legs,
But my mind can still improve!

I'm a city boy; I like the lights,
Nightclubs, discos, dens of sin;
Stairs and steps all spoil the fun,
I simply can't get in!

I don't want your bloody country walk;
I use my hands to get about.
Piles of fresh manure and bullshit,
My wheels can gladly do without!

So keep your words of condescension
About the fate of chair-bound kids,
Give us wheelchair access as our right
And tell it like it is!!!

Peter Smith, Leigh-on-Sea, Essex

DISABILITY

Smile not upon me,
You, the perfect-born,
And spare me your pity,
For its comfort be forlorn.

Your eyes slide off me sideways,
As you search for words to say.
Don't bother; there are none to ease
The curse of life this way.

Think you that my affliction,
Is one I stoically bear?
Hah! Could I somehow swap with you,
I'd leave you in this chair.

We'd see how well you took it,
See how you adapt.
To being stuck and helpless,
And labelled handicapped.

I wish you'd see inside my dreams,
Where I’m as I should be.
A magnificent colossus,
Fearful, wild and free.

Yet in quiet corners of my soul,
I silently rage and rail.
Invisibly, beneath my shell,
I scream and weep and wail.

The real world is shitty,
With people like you there.
So I spurn your trite compassion,
And your condescending care.

No, spare me your pity,
For its comfort be forlorn.
Interminable days I still must face,
As I have since I was born.

Tom Jea

80 ELEPHANTS WALKING BY

I lie on my back on a warm summer's day
the green grass sweet-smelling
and ready for hay.
Strange shapes and conformations slid by
and I thought of castles and such
in the sky.
I'd heard on the radio that bright summer morn
in a voice so compelling
trying to warn
that one grey cloud weighed an enormous amount.
It was certainly worth knowing,
in fact paramount.
One fat, fluffy, cuddly white cloud weighed as much as
eighty elephants,
a number intimidating, a thing to stun;
"Who weighed them?", was the thought that worried.
Did they shoot those elephants
or the clouds - with a gun?

Lynda Day Bidston, Bootle, Merseyside

YE GODS WHAT A SKY

A flood of yellow illumines the garden and all the trees of past-love-and-happiness glow and I cannot cannot go.
But must wait see the sadness that
settles on the earth before dark and nightfall: the pink that stripes the blue, the purple that colours the azure,
the bronze that transforms the dull.

After this morning when a divine blue ultamarine sky greeted my weary eyes and bade me return to see the sheep in the field with one's sweet face turned to the sun for the time to come when all sheep would be into heaven.

Frances Turner, Haslemere, Surrey

APPRECIATING LIFE

Give yourself a moment
every day
to be a child once more:
time to play.
You must relax. No guilt.
Live today!
Past and future? Dear, just
what are they?
Your life is here and now:
this fine day.
Know it came from God and
Later pray.
Give things. No more required.
Only pray

Paula Puddephatt

ARTS COUNCILS

To get Arts Council funding for something most worthwhile,
You need to think up something bloody daft.
If you cut a cow in half and put it on display
They’ll chuck cash at you incredibly fast.

Or make a sculpture of a woman from Trafalgar Square,
So that her tits are pointing down Whitehall,
The Arts Council will be there throwing all the cash you want.
You’ll find that there is no problem at all.

But try to get some funding for a worthwhile magazine
To give disabled poets a chance to write,
They’ll throw your claim back at you with terrifying speed.
For funding, you are going to have to fight.

But where does the Arts Council get this money
That it is loath to spend on something good?
It gets it from the Government, to spend promoting art.
Don’t laugh! They don’t know art from bits of wood!

Mick Nash

FALLEN FLOWER

So young, she drooped and fell
And killed the stony path,
My golden daffodil of Spring;
O that I’d bound her stem
To stand eret, my lovely
Maiden flower! Now not to meet
Again ‘til next Spring’s joyous hour.

Michael Rowson

NOTHING'S FAIR

Can we believe that life is fair?
It doesn’t seem to be that way.
Do we get our proper share?
We don’t even have a chance to say.

Why do we get unlucky breaks,
When others always seem to win?
We often have no choice, and take
The punishment without the sin.

To some it’s no sweat to learn,
Mastering what seems so plain.
What others can Oh! So easily earn,
We just squirm, and seek in vain.

Is life, as it seems, so unjust,
Are we often so badly treated?
Is it a case that we really must
Try our best, not be defeated?

Monty Levy

MY POEM

Well I walk with a little limp, And get tired as I go,
My feet and back begin to ache,
As I walk along the road.

My hips and my legs are wonky,
My knees aren't paralell,
But the way I walk doesn't bother me,
I don't have a sob story to tell.

They think it was self inflicted,
Some people ask me if I was drunk,
So when I explain my crutches properly,
They're often sorry that they've spoke.

My disability doesn't bother me,
So I don't want people to have sympathy,
I want them to see past my crutches
And for them to see me for me.

Vicki Wroe

THE BENEFICIAL BATTLE

Advised to keep fighting and one day I'd beat it,
Constantly telling myself to strive on and defeat it.
Dark clouds are parting, the sun's trying to shine.
Break out of these walls and discover what's mine.
I am improving; life's seeming worthwhile,
Head lighter to lift, find it easier to smile.
Constructing my confidence, fight all my fights,
Accept all my wrongs and stand up for my rights.
Progressively managing to meet a few mates,
Inaugurate trusting, which others appreciate.
Able to have feelings and chance of affection,
Actually look in the mirror and see my reflection.

Stephen Wiseman

CHILD OF THE SAME MOTHER

When I enter your room I feel a draught
As though someone has departed
And the devil has laughed
Because the someone is me.
I put no thoughts into words
Lest they become my reality.
You are my brother
Child of the same mother,
And in your eyes I see the volcano
Errupting within your damaged mind.
I too feel the scalding lava
Flowing into your physical world
Bringing you into steaming conflict
With other humankind.
But as the fire receeds
And your eyes glaze in the embers
Of your torment,
My mind perceives your desire to find
A world of calm beyond
The volatile one that is yours
Where your weeping flesh can find healing,
For linked by blood is the pain
Of child to child of the same mother.
Yet still I would deny the reality
And leave my thoughts unspoken,
Even into the night of unbroken darkness,
Denying the draught, denying the devil laugh
Pretending yours is a world of normality.

Pat Bidmead

LIFE’S BLESSING

I've been unwell for quite a while,
I walk a yard, it's like a mile
But then I stop and see
There's lots of people worse than me.

I count my blessings every day
And hope good health will come my way.
Feeling sad and feeling blue,
I must cheer up, this will not do.

I stop and think that, at this stage,
I'm sure it's got to be my age.
I thank the Lord for those who care.
I know there's always someone there.

The care that they have given me is
I love them and they love me.

God Bless

Margaret Bell

WALLASEY BREATHING

I have been bound
by the gravity of water
"It is a blessing" my mother said
deceived by the solidarity of waves
"One day you turned
your face to the sea
then looked back and there it came" -
a child's green hymn
to the golden kindness of the sun
each day saying good morning to people,
my first poem
uttered in the fifth summer
of my life there
on the blue border of the black sea
a mirror to sunrise
a mirror only to sunrise
In time
body and mind surfed
shallow waters, cheaters,
that promised to take me back
but tempted me
with handsome oceans
the wealth of far-off seas
as a story framed
on painted manuscripts
tempts the dreamer
with wakefulness
only to feed him sleep,
only to wash me out
here, on the edge of the crust
on this dam of sunset
this wall by the sea

Felicia Dobre

BOTTOM OF MY SHOES

Looking at the bottom of my shoes the other day, I saw an entire
world, which had encountered dirt, grime and filth

Walked upon different parts of the globe, on every kind of surface, I
saw life, character and truth on the sole of my shoe

I had used my shoes, as a means to an end, to conveniently carry me around

Ignorantly enough, the bottom of my shoe had seen it all.

Rahim Moledina

SET MY SPIRIT FREE

My spirit is, oh so willing
If only my body could show some response,
I will never stop yearning for freedom til the day I die
Then I pray for a different kind of freedom
Without the obstacles of chronic disease
Without the need for batteries, sticks or wheels
Where I am trapped in this living hell,
A healthy spirit in a useless shell
When that day comes I shall soar forever and a day
To meet again with loved ones and absent friends
Never to feel lonely ever again
I pray for the liberation of my soul
And to bathe in god’s light of unconditional love
Oh the exhilaration I will experience when I visit
All those places I have never seen,
The places I have loved and been, they shall be my oyster,
I shall soak up the vitas, mountains, rivers and streams
Swim beneath the coral reefs
Befriend the creatures of the deep
Feel exhilaration and never more weep
Or float within the beauty of the calmest waters
To the most vibrant of stormy seas
Become the sparkle in the spray
I shall rise with the sun, bathe in her shine
After I shall rest awhile on the back of the rising moon
Or shimmer amidst the ice crystals of the Aurora Borealis
When the stars beckon me into their midst
How could I ever tire from the freedom of this!
I shall never get enough of their celestial sparkle
Rejoicing, I shall be there, a part of it all!
So the next time you see a shooting star
Just think of me with that divine right to be totally free.

Denise Manning

THE HOSPITAL CHAPEL

Her face averted from
The stranger’s gaze,
She sat so still in the
Hospital chapel …

Sad heavy thoughts
Bowed her shoulders down,
Dark tired hair hid
Her cheek.

Now she lifts a hand
To brush her cheek.
Did a tear fall there?
Dear God, I hope not!

Michael Rowson

THE WEATHER

On a fresh summer’s day
Children like to go out and play
To the park or to the zoo
Anywhere you like best, that will do
On a skateboard or on a bike
You can even go on a hike.

But when it’s raining
And the sky is grey
Children don’t go out and play
They keep inside dry and warm
From the rain and from the storm
Mums and Dads like to say
You can’t go out and play today.

Ceri Astill

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

Solitary confinement. Is it real or in my head
At night I watch videos and spend my days in bed.
Visitors are few and far between
Am I awake or asleep? Is this all a bad dream?
Places that I used to go are now out of reach
Friendships that I used to have, all of them are breached.

In a world on my own I am left to play
No longer really caring whether it’s night or day,
For in solitary confinement things are always black
Dreams of things that once were good can never be
Brought back.

So in the darkness I sit alone, waiting for release
As bit by bit I lose my sanity and my pride
Piece by piece.

So if anyone can hear me or will listen to my plea
Slowly I am dying. Please come and rescue me.

D. T. W

SUMMER LOVE

Come be with me
And be my love
In cool green woods
This midsummer day.

Moss for your pillow,
Your fragrant hair
Will frame your cheek
For kisses fair.

Birdsong to hear
Larks in the air
Blossom confetti,
Free from care.

Now we are as one
On this midsummer day
In the cool green woods
A world's width away.

Michael Rowson

THE KINDNESS OF CHRISTMAS

It is our third Christmas
Together, and nothing can stop
The fury of black water
Which claws at my dam of
Reason like a sin;
Not even this light
Blinding, over flooding your eyes
Which crowns your head
Which drowns my breath,
Not even this ecclesiastical
Tinkle of bells
Or the colourful cherubs
Fattening your serene books
The shelter of ribs
Will not hold,
Wings grow inwardly
Black and block your sun
Your rays reach me like spear tops
Burning, love sometimes floats
Upon a wisp of smoke
And I no longer comprehend
If this is it
Or if I have to offer
My throbbing neck to a scaffold.
My mind spins
In the changing cheerless winds -
A fickle weathervane as useless
As the quickening of footsteps
Taking a heart away
Scrambled thoughts
Dance wild dervishes
And from the seedbed
Grows nothing – blood drops
Onto a field of snow
Specks of life or death.
They only bring back
A frame on a sunrise wall
In my mother's house:
A holy birth, a miraculous virgin?
I remember asking still.
This wonder birth
Could not have been yours -
Long pain is never godly,
Maybe a price to pay
From the raw age of flesh
Prayers rise from the body pit,
An orgy of unholy hymns
Whirling out through sounds and signs
As I am trying to tell you
About the kindness of Christmas.
Your fresh mind handles these stories
With hasty ease
Ignoring time's strain
To bear them into history,
They flow and melt
Into the light of your mind
You ask me to sing to you
And yes, out of absence
My mouth could dress this Christscape
With the mask of blasphemous sounds,
Flesh made words,
So
Let us lower our eyes
Onto the glitter of the page,
Follow the footprints of letters
This path of ink, of stardust
Could life us high
Above this purple and orange house,
Its gravity of stone,
We could listen to quiet angels
Flapping ethereal wings
Of forgiveness.

Felicia Dobre

JANITOR OF DREAMS

I shake the dust
from the years -
Our years,
and I file them,
carefully
in my dreams
where you are janitor.

Forever there will be
unfinished business -
Pain unspoken
with a promise broken.

You hold fast
in my torrent of tears,
and gently sweep them out,
through the courtyard
Then you carry me
from the silent halls of pain -
where you were plucked
from this world.

Now many mournful years have passed,
and countless dreams
They climb
through my window
to the stars in the night
and hang there -
suspended in space,
waiting

where you are.

Tracie Ellis

BATTLE SCARS

In a crowded booth at the Fair,
a handsome man selling baskets
gives me an understanding smile.
There was a time in my life,
I might have assumed but not anymore.
I've learned what looks fragile
can be a warrior in disguise,
one who has known suffering,
fallen to their knees more than once,
crawled around for a while before
making the upward climb.
One who has been brave enough
to stare pain in the face
and feel its fury before
letting it go.
One who has learned acceptance,
and a quiet joy and peace
indestructible in any circumstance.
I look back at the man and smile
before driving away on my scooter.

Glenda Barrett.

LIVING WITH DISABILITY

God has taken away my ability to hear,
To what purpose He hasn’t made clear.
I used to feel angry at what He had done,
But what has happened can’t be undone.

For the most part I cope pretty well,
Though in some situations you can tell
I haven’t heard what’s been said,
So people think I’m off my head.

When in my heart I have an ache,
I need to give myself a good shake.
In reality I should be walking tall,
Being alive is the best feeling of all!

Rosemary Davies

A CRUEL ACT

I’m certain
that
this time
will be
your undoing –
the absolute end
of the gossamer line.

As you hammer blows
I sleep serenely
’mid the bruising
of my soul.

I won’t cry out
in pain or fear –
won’t fight tooth and nail
to quench your bloodlust.

Your fists seem tireless
as I am
tameless
in Life’s Jungle
running wild………

Tracie M. Jones

© Terry Thornton - 2006-2008 United Press Ltd