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This week was judged by Rols Sperling
I liked Steph Spiers poem best among a very decent crop of poetry. It was tender, bitter sweet and left me with a sad impression of a child who had just grown older in the knowledge of man's inhumanity. Beautifully crafted, lovingly written and chilling in its aftertaste.
Turn Your Face by Steph Spiers
‘Quickly son, turn your face away.’
Don’t look at her bedraggled state
avoid that blanket’s tattered edge, stay
off that accusing begging plate,
with its lonely 2p coin.
Don’t stare with eyes so full of fright.
Oh Lord. Naked where her coat won’t join.
‘Is that the box she slept in last night?’
Please child don’t ask mommy: why?
‘Darling away now. Please don’t start.
Of course that girl won’t soon die.
Don’t be so silly my sweetheart!’
This week was judged by Verona Winn
All the poems were really good with lots of imagery and emotion written in every word; but I choose "Not here" by Mary Merriweather Travis. It was beautiful in form and eloquently written and filled with strong emotions and imagery. I felt her loneliness and her fear of the shadows of the past. It was truly a great piece
Not here (sonnet) by Mary Merryweather Travis
This lonely room is filled with empty air
which drifts in silent breath through hidden hall.
I have no wish to smile, or sample there
the barbed and cunning traps, lest I should fall
and lose what little warmth is left to shed
on sharpened stakes of cunning, cruel conceal
disguised as simple misery but bled
as leaden weights of loneliness I feel.
What heinous word I must indeed have spoke
that softness flees, not lingers near at hand
nor blows one kiss to soothe this harsh invoke,
this vacuum which at last I understand;
that no one really sees these aching tears,
which fall to saddened page as silent fears.
This weeks guest judge was Bobbie
I must admit it gets harder to choose each week. I loved the Leaves of Autumn by Grandneim because it is very descriptive, but I have chosen A Price Too High? (Carers Rap) by Step Spiers as the Poem of the Week. The reason I chose this particular poem is I can feel the despair and loneliness in this work and a life in the shadows. It made me think very deeply – I think the politicians should read this. I think it is a passionate poem, which shows a soul crying out for life – almost a drowning soul pleading for a life line.
A Price Too High (Carers’ Rap?) By Steph Spiers
When the price demanded by love is too high,
long days - short days - years passing by,
Carers holdfast: taking up the slack,
sleeves rolled up, they’re on their jack.
Unqualified nurses’ demanded sacrifice.
‘Try more tea dear, come on be nice!’
Teetering on the edge of personal abyss,
Wailing inside, keening for what they miss.
With no let up on the morrow,
just another day of toil and sorrow.
Slogging hard from early light,
with every frustration and another fight.
Carers always die first, statistics show
worn out, defeated, always on the go.
While unburdened, the ‘cared for one’
happily lives on and on and on and on.
Not ‘Voluntary’ work! Just unpaid.
Bowed and broken: nerves shot and frayed.
Shattered, living on a different planet,
Every sacrificial hour tested to the limit.
Caring isn’t a choice, it’s not a ‘vocation’.
There’s no chance of a fat promotion,
no direct lines of communication.
No-one sane signs up for tribulation.
Without respite, without let up,
day in, day out. Over spilling cup,
losing their own life’s inner beauty,
caught on a spiral of love and duty.
This weeks guest judge was Laura Stephenson
This was very difficult to judge as the quality of writing was high and each poem so different. There was something in A Majority of Silence which struck a chord and that is the one I chose. My favourite line was ‘a rainbow of joyous emotions’ – great image!
A majority of silence by ktarcus
Constant shouting at politicians, rarely creates a dream,
Only thing achieved is sore throats, long after the scream,
We all of us try for each other, each in their own special way,
Best to strive for nirvana, in little steps each night and day.
Love your enemy as much as you’re neighbour,
It’s not his fault the difference comes out,
It is mainly down to the toffs in the suits,
With the laws they continuously flout.
Arms for the oil not Alms for the poor,
Kick all who oppose against those still unsure,
Destruction of trust by the taking of lives,
Keep guns for ourselves, sell them only knives.
All in the end should be better, no hate left behind the man said,
Don’t bother to fight with your neighbour, throw him a party instead,
A rainbow of joyous emotions, will stretch over the world like a charm
If we all agree now and forever, that to others we will do no harm.
This weeks guest judge was Donna Parkinson
I chose this poem because it captivated me from beginning to end. I felt that I had a real insight into the character and the stark contrasts of her life. This piece showed strength and vulnerability and evoked such raw emotion.
‘She waves a wave through the glass that you know took more effort
than any strongman could muster.
You cannot cry, you must be strong.
Does her beauty give you strength?’
These lines were powerful and so very very poignant. I could just picture the whole scene. The imagery was wonderful.
Pretty Girl by Shelley Lofthouse
What makes a pretty girl?
Is it the soft, bouncing curls that cradle that perfect face?
Is it the outline of that cute little butt in those tatty, denim jeans?
Is she pretty when she cries at weepies and looks for solace in your arms?
Is it when she burns your dinner-black,
And you can't help but see her charms?
Is it when she opens up to you about aspects of her past,
Which make you feel so lucky that you have her in your life?
Is it when she wanders around at 11pm at night
Looking for that stinky cat (which you hate),
But you know she'll always do what's right?
Is she pretty when she snaps at you when you're home an hour late?
Or when she can't be 'arsed' to cook and sends you to the chippy?
Is she pretty when she cannot eat and feeds off pills and alcohol?
Is she still pretty when you find her slumped on the bathroom floor,
That heart-shaped face stained with blood and vomit,
Her eyes dead?
Is she pretty as she lies in ICU,
Drips stabbing violently into that delicate arm?
Does her true beauty shine when the Doctor's tell you she has cancer
And there's nothing they can do?
She waves a wave through the glass that you know took more effort
Than any strongman could muster.
You cannot cry, you must be strong.
Does her beauty give you strength?
Tell me-
Is she still pretty to you now?
This weeks guest judge was Jin
I thought that Donna's poem really hit a spot in my heart. After reading it I felt a great sadness and particularly like the words Still I fall, Still I call. I could feel her words and thought that she really expressed the whole poem with great feeling.
I fall by Donna Parkinson
Insipid memories that attack me as I fall
The spiral I take against a luminous wall
Visions of the past that I’d prefer to forget
Every last solitary one shrouded in regret
Still I fall
Still I call
No one can hear my voice
My life has been my own choice
I see vibrant colours that dazzle my eyes
As I fly through the darkened skies
My life flashes before me
And I look at death through the eyes of misery
I hear my Requiem loud and clear
I feel a burning sensation sear
Still I fall
Still I call
Pagan images pound at my consciousness
And they penetrate my sub consciousness
Suddenly, my fall slows to a stop in mid air
I am actually floating without a care
Multi coloured bubbles are passing me by
This weeks guest judge was Bobbie
I have considered the poems on the website for Poem of the Week and the standard is so high, I have to pick a joint winner
White Beauty by Verona Winn
I loved White beauty because I hate snow! However, this poem has given me a different insight into it's beauty I have never considered before, plus it is very descriptive: a very good piece of writing.
Dancing swirling snow flakes,
dazzling diamonds of white.
Multi-colored prisms it makes,
highlighted in the streets warm light.
Flashing colored crystal shards;
fresh mantle of new fallen snow,
twinkling stars, heaven’s rewards;
blanket the ground in a silvery glow.
Brilliant threads of sparkling flowers,
stream down on my upturned face;
caressing me with frozen fingers;
icy lips kissing in quiet grace.
Rivers of reflective snow at night,
showering upon uncovered hair.
Standing enshrouded in soft white,
admiring this wintry landscape so rare.
Minus twenty degree temps spars;
alchemically changing virgin snow,
into brilliantly colored crystal stars,
enthralling one in it's simple beauty.
Fragrant Petals by Donna Parkinson
I picked Fragrant Flowers, again because of the description, but it's a bit more than that. For me it's empathy, and particularly the description of the feelings when the flowers were fresh and dying. The petals scattered on the bed was like a sort of funeral for the partnership
Fragrant petals on our bed,
Reminiscent memories in my head,
Taking me back to a place in our youth,
One where we both discovered the truth,
The soul searching we had done was over,
We had found more than a four leafed clover,
Together we had experienced a love so vast,
A bond that we thought would forever last,
The fragrant petals on our bed now jog a thought,
This time reminiscent of the bouquet you bought,
The one that I threw at you in total despair,
The same bouquet you thought could atone for an affair,
So the fragrant petals were not placed here out of love,
They fell from grace, flown away with a white dove,
Oh how I wish we were back in the day,
Before this happened before I sent you away,
Fragrant petals on our bed,
Reminiscent memories in my head,
Thoughts no longer full of happiness and joy,
Tarnished by the knowledge that I was just a toy,
The tears flow freely, they just won’t end,
You’ve killed me inside I wont pretend,
I loved you unconditionally and you took my all,
Now it’s finished we were riding for a fall,
Fragrant petals on MY bed,
Now scattered by me instead,
I sit alone and watch their shapes,
Then I slowly close the drapes,
I slump across my bed upon the petals now,
I pick them up and breath in their scent somehow,
Fragrant petals on my bed,
Indicative of my new life ahead.
This weeks guest judge was Angee Edgar
This was a tough one for me as two stood out more than the rest and both appealed for different reasons.
Echoes of Life by Grandniem
Echoes – This was very visual and I like how the author seemed to embed emotions and memories of forgotten times into inanimate objects.
“The fireplace
stones are embedded with
years of family gatherings
huddled by the hearth, not only
for warmth, but the sharing of
generations that created
implicit unity.”
It is long since thought in some circles , that objects retain charged memories of the past which are said to be the cause of hauntings e.g. tragedies or events of heightened emotions and this is what this poem raises in me. Overall Grandniem writes quite a sad poem about loss and the emptiness of a home no longer lived in.
Abandoned and deserted,
only the faint echoes of life
reverberate within these walls.
Whispers of children, vaguely
coherent, have in time, melded
into oneness of being upon these
floors so worn by tiny feet.
Window sashes
hold the memory of young love,
staring through the now broken glass,
infatuated with love itself.
The fireplace
stones are embedded with
years of family gatherings
huddled by the hearth, not only
for warmth, but the sharing of
generations that created
implicit unity. Complete, from
an infant swaddled in a hand hewn
cradle, to an elder, seated in a
crafted rocker nestled close to
the glowing embers and
crackling fire.
On
the outside
resides only decay and decline,
where children once frolicked. A
family picnic was held under the shade
trees, as they sipped lemonade,. on a
sultry, hot summer's day.
No one lives there anymore,
there is no one,.....
and
all that remains,
.....are.....
echoes of life.
Murders most foul…… by Donna Parkinson
Murders – This is something that I’ve always wondered about - the life of an assassin. How detached they must become to do what they do.
“The others were not my friends,
They didn’t even know me,
I didn’t know them,
But this one is different,
She is special,
She will finally give me total liberty”
Donna’s makes me believe this person has reached the point of no return where the last hit they can no longer bear because they are killing someone they know and perhaps the person that is another part of them deep inside them. It’s a poem that raises many questions in me about how we see ourselves and how we assimilate into the world around us.
I have tagged my next victim for 4 days now,
I am learning how they live,
I know what they eat and where they go,
I have watched them sleep,
And have fallen in line with their breathing,
I am becoming them,
It’s been cold in my world alone,
But the voices are now my company,
They tell me how to face myself afterwards,
I feed on their friendship constantly,
They have taught that me to kill is to set myself free,
I am almost liberated,
The others were not my friends,
They didn’t even know me,
I didn’t know them,
But this one is different,
She is special,
She will finally give me total liberty,
So today is the day,
She will feel my emptiness,
And I will feel hers as we become one again,
I have been detached from my self,
Torn away by my alto ego,
But today we both die.
This weeks guest judge was Shelley Lofthouse
When A Fae Moon Is Riding High by Steph Spiers
I chose Steph's 'When a Fae Moon is riding High' as the winner. The imagery in this poem is fantastic, it's so vivid. It's almost like a 'twisted' lullaby or fairy story, full of hocus pocus/folklore. I liked the newborn/moon/feminine motif that runs through this poem as well, giving it a wiccan theme.
I also really liked 'Did You Even Think' by Donna Parkinson, the Poet's frustration and pain are brilliantly juxtaposed in this poem and it flows so well.
I liked the fact that Steph tackled interesting subjects and ideas, very different and unique.
When a full blood moon rides across the night sky
and puking newborn in their cribs do cry,
and keening wolves take up the howl,
Happenstance and Queen Mab begin a trawl.
When elves and sprits dance in wanton flight
and their innocent sacrifice bleats out in fright;
while sinful folk in a powerful dread stare on
and all around darkling shadows merge into one.
When the trickster wind begins to bluster
those wicked souls, who tremble all a fluster,
rush pell-mell, screaming, towards a bolted door; laughing, accomplice storm adds a downpour.
Evermore the thirsty waiting moon arises higher, its pinkish glimmer out-picking the sins of the liar,
souring the milk, poison-tainting the wine, sending blood shivers down a goblin’s spine.
This weeks guest judge was Steph Spiers
The Crystal Rainbow by Grandniem
A poem should provoke an emotional response. A well written poem should remain in the mind's eye of the reader long after it has been read. A properly constructed poem can be produced in many formats: all are challenging. One of the least used, and most powerful, formats is the 'prose poem'. In my opinion 'The Crystal Rainbow' by Grandniem comes very close to being a 'prose poem'. Vocabulary is very well used . . . 'saturated in red' . . . 'rotate again into a deep indigo' . . . . are phrases other poets could well be wishing they had written themselves. Thus 'The Crystal Rainbow' is my first choice. Honourable mentions also go to 'Swan Lake' by Bobbie and 'Mistress of Dreamers' by Olivia Green for intelligent imagery.
The earth is soaked from falling
rain, where shrouded ebony skies prevail.
Intently watching, I see an opening in
the clouds, allowing the sun's brilliant
rays to ebb through. The effervescence
of the ground's heavy dew has begun to
shimmer as it lifts into a prism of
iridescent splendor. I am in awe, as
it is only an arm's length away. Slowly,
I step towards the radiating colors and
begin to immerse myself into a kaleidoscope
of dazzling hues. It is as though I am
swirling in perpetual motion within a
vortex of crystalizing colors.
Saturated in red, it generates an intensity
of warmth, that quickly turns into orange
with a mellowing feel about it. A quarter
turn reveals radiant yellow that seems to
be as bright as the gleaming sun, shining
upon my face and I am unable to open my
eyes. Still squinting I detect a cooler
ambiance as green bathes me completely,
propelling me into a blue bastion of ethereal
beauty, where I slowly rotate again into a
deep indigo, that brings with it a peaceful
calm. Seeming as though it has been forever,
I come to a violet presence that envelopes
me into a centrifugal force that catapults me
headlong into what I perceive as heaven.
Colors are in motion about me, with stardust
and small crystalline bursts.
Finally,
as I come to a stop,
I am at the apex of the arch.
Looking down, there is a faceted
stairway of spectacularly luminous color.
There is no pot of gold at the end,
..... but a place where
you can take a magnificent
journey to find,
The crystal rainbow.
This weeks guest judge was Donna Parkinson
‘I have been unable to pick a clear winner this week. The standard has been unbelievably high, however I have picked 2 poems as joint winners'
Behind Locked Doors by Angee Edgar
This piece, for me, captured the sheer desperation of situations that children find themselves in all too often in today’s society. It pulled at my heartstrings completely and left me thinking about it hours after I had read it.
‘You clutch your baby sister as you both live your life in fear’
These 2 lines conjure up such imagery of a young, confused girl who knows little about why she is in the firing line but clearly understands the need to protect her sister at all costs. This was a powerful yet poignant write that left me angry and sad all at the same time.
Behind the locked door
You wish you owned
You wish a bad seed had never been sown
Late at night
The travesty comes walking in
You scream out silently
Mum please don’t let him come in
But mummy doesn’t care
She’s either passed out drunk or not even there
You clutch your baby sister
As you both live your life in fear…
Behind the locked door
You wish you owned
You can’t escape
Even now after you are grown
The mental abuse has you locked in
To try and escape you let yourself go, became so thin
Hoping your emaciated form would turn him off
But Daddy still came to you
Like a thirsty horse to a full drinking trough.
Behind the locked door
You wish you owned
You back yourself into a corner to avoid his touch
You cry out to him ‘Why do you have to hurt me so much?
You don’t need to do this
You have Mummy for THAT
Do you want to see me buried?
Do you want to walk behind a man in a black top hat?’
You make me hate myself and it’s not my fault
Why can’t you stop?
Why can’t you be caught?
Behind the locked door
You wish you owned
There lies the gauntlet you haven’t yet thrown.
My Lost Baby by Bobbie
This poem, again pulled a few chords for me and left me feeling so sad at a loss so immense. The feelings of torment and loneliness come across so well yet are quietly understated creating a nice undertone to the piece. It is written in simple language and is uncomplicated so nothing is taken away from the poem.
‘Inside a painful cry echoes down the years’
This line says it all for me, a woman who had very little choice now living the pain and the consequence of said decision.’
I was young and very, very green
Not knowing what could have been
The two of us, swore undying love
As we both gazed at the stars above
Reality came on that fateful day
The price that only I would pay.
My pregnancy couldn't be concealed
My lover took to his heels
At seventeen I was alone and in disgrace
Not daring even to show my face
In a cold institution my baby was born
On a lovely summer's morn.
I was frightened when my labour pains came
No one there to ease my pain
She was so lovely, I named her Mary Jane,
When she was put in my arms I felt such love
My emotions were on a cloud above
I knew one day we had to part
It very nearly broke my heart
A couple took her away to a loving home
I gave her up and left alone
I wish I could have seen her grow
Inside a painful cry echoes down the years
My thoughts of her bring me to tears
I wonder if she looks like me
My life's dream would be to see
What a beautiful woman she had grown to be
I would love to find my girl
Nothing would part us, not in this world.
Hug by Angee Edgar
Chosen by guest judge Rols Sperling
Rols Said: I particularly like the style shifts throughout the poem that add echoes of a reflection of the roller coaster ride this bully come victim has ridden. It sent shivers to my spine to show how his renaissance came about from a victim's hug. Easy to read, a delight in poetic organisation and a strong moral truth. Well done Angee, you go from strength to strength!
All he ever wanted was a hug
Just some form of affection to show he was loved
All he ever wanted was a hug
Maybe that would’ve stopped him from becoming a thug
All he ever wanted was a hug
So he could know his father really did care
All he ever wanted was a hug
Maybe he wouldn’t have got caught up in a gang life snare
All he ever wanted was a hug
Maybe that would have told him someone was there
When his father died
His anger took hold
Made him so fierce
Made him act so bold
Hitting out at the nearest person
Damaging the nearest thing
Blind rage and no consequence
Like boxing invisible enemies in an empty ring
Made him hunger for a different life
All he ever wanted was a hug
All he wanted to do was live without strife
A downward spiral, a trip to hell
Unless someone can step in
Tell him, ‘Trust me and all will be well.’
But why did it take him going to jail
Whilst inside to meet victims of crime
To learn that his actions have consequences
That taking a life means losing yours doing time.
But it took a victim to show him
All he ever needed was a hug
He got that from a stranger
Who showed him there is such a thing as love.
If such a simple act of compassion
Is all it can take…
Then let’s talk and let me give you a hug
See what a difference, together we can make.
Gentle Mists of Childhood by Sheridan Whitehead
Chosen by guest judge Carl Harris
Carl said: Although it was difficult to judge one poem as superior to the others in this week's contest, the one that seemed to have the most sustained intensity and made the deepest impression on me was this poem. As it is often said of a boxer who loses a close decision in the ring, all of these interesting poems "had their moments." It was not easy to chose one over the others, since all had their merits and were interesting reads. It was pleasing to observe such an equal level of competition among this week's contestants
My fair-haired angel, you lie asleep,
With your head nestled in my lap.
I touch your soft pink cheek and I feel the strong jaw beneath the baby skin.
A jaw made strong by life's cruel tricks.
You are a man within the body of a child.
Trauma, loss and heartache you've borne on those slim shoulders.
Yet still you remain standing and smiling.
Where did you find the strength?
I grieve for your lost innocence.
You deserve a good and happy future, my child.
You have struggled with the demons of pain and anguish, yet you hold no grudges.
You still smile with hope at the break of each new day.
You are a tower of steel covered by the gentle mists of childhood.
I admire you in a way you do not yet understand.
The Sunflower Wreath by Steph Spiers
Chosen by guest judge Keith Bickerstaffe
‘The rhyming scheme was very good and I was captured by the emotion and the imagery…. The gloom of death offset by the beauty of the flowers. Well done Steph.’
They’d put sunflowers on her coffin, as they wheeled it into church,
I hadn’t expected sunflowers and my stomach gave a lurch.
I hadn’t expected anything so befitting I suppose,
not from those left behind to manage as they chose.
Nothing so suitably relevant, nothing so close to home,
as that circle of golden happy faces smiling in the gloom.
Click by Shelley Lofthouse
Chosen by guest judge Mary Merryweather-Travis
I chose 'Click' by Shelley Lofthouse. This is a very unusual poem, with so much realistic imagery, and a fantastic delivery. I can almost imagine myself there, can almost see those anorexic looking waifs with their bones showing, and all the flashes of camera. This one really did it for me, but it was a close run thing with 'Mother's ruin' which brought me to tears. They are all so good this week and I am honoured to be asked to give my thoughts.
Click. Click. Click.
The catwalk, crash lights call.
The Limo arrived around 7-
Fashionably late.
Chauffeurs dressed in green and white,
Angry they clashed with my faded blue and beige.
This pale, fine couture wins critical acclaim.
Pale really does suit me.
Aaaaaah
I have arrived.
“Seventeen inches.”
A picture of porcelain beauty.
Gold gunge flows away me.
Magic.
I catch my reflection on the cold, silver mirror
That I sprawl across.
This is my greatest accomplishment,
My most envied shoot.
They lust after me.
Click. Click. Click.
The only time I have seen this skeletal frame
Is now.
“That will not be heavy, Sir.”
Gentle and delicate.
Please take care with this Goddess.
They nip and tuck.
My heart, liver and eye-lids.
My nose, slightly up-ward turning, a quick lift.
So fragile.
Wrists as fine as thread,
They all take time to admire.
I can finally relax as they wrap it up.
“18:53.”
That’s a wrap!
No Myron, bulky Olympian here.
I am beyond.
I am God herself.
A Return To The Garden of Perfect Tranquility by Alan Peat
Chosen by guest judge Sandra Sperling
Sandra commented that this wonderful poem conveyed the peace, tranquility and warm familiarity of re-aquaintance after a long period. It touched me well before the end. From title to last line the poem oozed with affection.
In many ways returning to his Zen-inspired garden
was what he had looked forward to most.
More than the beauty of his young wife;
More than the oft-sought wisdom of his ageing father;
Maybe even more than the first sight of his only child.
Two years of inconclusive warfare
had stolen time away from the family home,
and though a temporary peace
now permeated this gentle landscape
of low hills and mist stained forests,
it was only an illusion perpetuated by forlorn hope.
During his long absence
the garden had been kept in perfect order;
and in acknowledgement he bowed from the waist,
while a sense of inner contentment,
tempered with belonging uplifted his soul.
Before him,
bathed in the inspiring light of a full moon,
lines of finely raked gravel
receded in almost gently pulsating waves;
While interspersed within this silent theatre of perfect symmetry,
four rocks of varying size lay in abstract forms of separation,
like cloud engulfed mountain-tops viewed from Heaven.
After a period of detached contemplation
the Samurai adjusted his priceless sword, the Katana,
pressed both sets of fingertips together,
and in tones of humble benediction
gave thanks to his ancestors for a safe deliverance.
Underfoot cold flagstones stretched,
enclosing the perimeter of his garden,
like a mothers love for her child;
while to one side a length of bamboo fencing,
absorbed, then exaggerated shadows,
as if in imitation of his careful strides,
which brought him to the tranquil setting
of an ancient water basin.
Here, the tired warrior
ladled a measure of the seductive water
and drank a copious draft,
shaking droplets of tiny diamonds
from the sleeve of his leather fronted tunic.
Overhead a solitary lantern
cast its feeble light in the breeze,
and with a sense of beckoning familiarity,
he traced characters carved into the mottled surface of the basin,
as he had a thousand times since childhood.
“I know just enough”, read the brief inscription;
and he smiled to himself,
with a sense of irony only he would understand.
“I don’t know anything” he whispered to the stars;
before with rising expectations he moved away,
to find and wake his other love;
the beautiful Lady Takinawa.
“Bring Them Back” by Angee Edgar
Chosen by guest judge Mick Blamire
Mick thought this poem was well written and told a sad and poignant story which captured and aroused the emotions of the reader. Although a long poem, it compels you to keep reading by clever use of conversation/interaction between characters, poet and reader. Mick chose several lines which used interesting and imaginative vocabulary/imagery. Here is one example…
‘Shouting through watery eyes and speaking through tears’.
As a teacher, one aspect he would like poets to consider is the use of numbers in writing. He prefers ‘three’ to ‘3’.
If I could do one thing for you
It would be to bring them back
Your 3 angelic offspring
Who were ripped from you
Torn away in their pre-teen prime
Whisked secretly away under pretence
Taken to another country
Another life away from you.
If I could do one thing for you
It would be to bring them back
So at the start of every morning
You could hear their hustle and bustle
As they ready themselves for school
Who’s going in the bathroom first
Argue over their lunch
And who was having what.
If I could do one thing for you
It would be to bring them back
So for birthdays and holidays to come
You could be a family again
So they could open presents and cards
Be surrounded by their family
And say “Oh that’s’ exactly what I wanted!”
If I could do one thing for you
It would be to would bring them back
That you’re 6th Easter apart
Wouldn’t be so hard
That you wouldn’t have to endure
This feeling of extreme loss only you feel
In your howls of grief
Primal… terrifying… maternal
When we hear it, it chills us to the bone
And we can’t even imagine
How you’ve survived this despair.
If I could do one thing for you
It would be to bring them back
I would arrive one day
With a knock on your door
I’d say “Hey Cuz, I’ve got a surprise!”
And your lost young one ones now all grown
Would rush from behind me to your arms
Shouting through watery eyes and speaking through tears
“Mum, we never ever forgot you!
We felt your hope from a world away
We knew you didn’t send us away
We loved you more and more each day
We were young but we weren’t blind
We knew you were gentle, loved us dearly, never unkind
We never believed the lies we were told
We knew the truth and light we would finally unfold
We knew when we grew up and grew bold
We’d come find you again and you’d no longer be alone or cold
Without our love to keep you warm and strong
Not knowing what happened to us
Perhaps thinking it was something you did wrong
Not knowing how without us you would survive
We love you Mum, we always have
We’re back for good, with you we want to thrive
But we know our lives have been stripped apart
Years gone by, precious memories missed
Oh how we longed for your hugs and a big kiss.
We can’t restart from where we left off but we can begin again from now…”
If I could do one thing for you Cuz
I would bring them back
So you could be whole again.
Journey of a Magdalen by Laura Davey
Chosen by guest judge Laura Stephenson
Laura Stephenson commented that she enjoyed reading the poem and she was eager to know how the events would progress. The poem held her attention all the way through but she felt that it could be redrafted and edited. A shortened version would not detract from the storyline and attention to powerful words to extend the imagery and the effect of the poem would be a way to achieve this.
The poems for this week were of a very good standard and it was difficult to choose. Each one had particular strengths which could have produced 'the winner', but in the end - Laura Davey's was selected and we hope she will encouraged to write more poetry bearing in mind a redrafting policy to search for the most expressive vocabulary available.
The voice of a woman,
a wonderful thing, her body, her looks
and the way that she sings. The shine of her
eyes and the diligent look – just like an
angel, a goddess from book.
However, the noise of a woman
it has to be said, Drowns the
rhythmical moaning of rumpus
in bed, her virtue is lost with
her maiden-head.
She’s feeling fatigued, in need
of a rest but he’s pounding on top
with eyes fixed to her chest!
Alas! He’s noticed!
she stays on the berth
just for a second, his hands on her girth.
She composes herself and fixes her hair
All the time watching – meticulous stare.
“Excuse me? What’s wrong? Why do you run?”
“I just can’t continue – I’m well overdone.”
“Now that will not do –
you are not paid to be done!”
He walks to the hearth
and reaches his gun –
She’s screaming hysterically
All sounds become dead
Lay where she sat, white sheets
are now red.
His face becomes pale
but his eyes are still angry –
“O goodness” he cries “For they’re certain to hang me!”
He gathers his treasures
including the gun
“I must make haste before rise of the sun,” –
He speeds through the hallway and
stands on the stairs
“She’s only a hooker, Sure nobody cares?”
He knows that’s not true so he
Sneaks to the door –
“We have to arrest you,
you murdered a whore.”
The following morning
he’s locked in a cell,
with two other men who
inhabit the gaol –
They both know each other –
And one picks the lock,
he cracks at the bars with a bone
and a rock –
He’s grabbed from behind
and then cracked in the jaw,
“listen up scum, you’re in hands of the law”.
Two days or so later
On trial in court
“For you’re heinous murder I have to deport –
- You to an Island where nobody goes”
“But what should happen?”
The judge, he then froze.
He’s put on a ship
to sail in the ocean,
An exporter of rum –
Keeper of potion!
When he awakens
he’s lay on the sand,
A parcel beside him and
bullets in hand
“Keep this gun safe” the scruffy note reads
“Ha!” Laughs the man, discards it and leaves
A few moments later
he’s back to the place
his brow is now furrowed,
with hand on his face
The gun was no more,
It simply had vanished,
like sinful spectres in
heaven are banished.
The moon has come out,
The weather is weeping,
everywhere’s wet –
There’s no place for sleeping
He loiters along,
Tired and inactive,
when through the trees
spots a rather attractive
Dwelling, where no droplets did seep
As well as a smoky log fire
to keep.
He bundles together old sacks
That are there, to act as
a pillow
he rests in the lair.
Already in dreamland –
(or that’s what he thinks)
he looks at the ocean
And then his heart sinks,
Everything’s changed
from all that he knew,
the ocean’s now red –
not lusciously blue
He instantly rises
and out through the mist,
a luminous shade
is something he wist
Nearer
And
Nearer
And
Closer
yet still, the man cannot run and vomits his meal.
The shade stares
straight through him,
its face is pure white –
it then disappears into the night.
The weather is heated
Just the day after,
he lays in the sea
from beneath he hears laughter,
He’s up in a flash! And
swims to the shore.
But the sea remains peaceful,
there’s laughter no more.
It’s now been a month
since the man was deported,
but luck has arrived!
He’s being escorted –
- to a part of the island
He never has seen
“I’m ever so sorry,
to you I’ve been mean…”
Quoth a voice he’s not heard
but who cares? It’s seductive,
“Please take a seat,” it says
rather instructive.
A sudden spring in his step!
He leaps to the chair
loosens his shirt,
Something tousles his hair
He feels so relaxed and
his eyes are now shut,
his fists punch the air, for
he’s shagging a slut!
“That was amazing, dear lady your cost?”
She doesn’t reply, and the scene is then lost.
He’s alone and confused
“What was that vision?”
Remembering it with
detail and precision.
The following evening
he tracks down the place
but nothing is there,
a grim look on his face –
“What is this magic?”
He’s starting to sweat,
Who was that woman?
And where had they met?
He asks himself this
everyday, but gets: No answers, no rest, and no play.
The day is now dead and
the moon is in view, all
through the trees, an eerie
wind blew,
The man moves along
wary and cautious,
a few minutes later
he feels tired and nauseous
His chest then tightens
and eyes are popping,
“PLEASE!” He cries,
but nothing is stopping
His breath is restricted,
he’s forced to walk,
attempting to scream, but
he cannot talk -
- Under the water
he’s lost in a wave
he sinks to the depths
of a watery grave.
He’s fading away,
his vision is black,
but he is not dead,
on the sand he is back!
“Who are you Spirit!?”
He yells out with passion, whilst
gulping down air, now free and not
rationed.
A further two months
Since then have crept by
the man is unstable
and wanting to die,
A power unknown
doth unkindly prevent
him from completing his
sinful event so he
staggers along, muttering rhyme
with nothing to eat except for some chime.
He no longer remembers
the things he loved most,
he mumbles and shakes now
because of the ghost.
He is now fearful and always alert
unlike his innocent, poor bit of skirt.
She’s driven him crazy
won’t rest till he’s dead
She’ll make him lye
in his own pool of red.
While he is sleeping
she could easily kill him
but first she wants more fear
to instil him.
The very next day
it’s scorching and hazy
he walks to the shore
“Come ghost, amaze me!”
Pleased with his yell
he returns to his base,
while he’s asleep
something falls on his face,
it burrows down deep into his skin
he wakes up with pain, as if struck
with venin.
Fingers touch skin and his heart
skips a beat, directly above him
wood poles act as cleat. He’s
thrusted towards them and ropes
become tightened,
blood drains his body,
again he is frightened.
She loves every moment to
torture and tear him, she’ll
go beyond any point to repair
him.
With a click of her fingers
his body is broken, but there’s
one more thing for, to
take as a token,
She slides straight
inside him,
he’s fighting her out – where
is his voice? He no longer can shout!
Deep, down his throat,
ghostly fingers did weave,
she rips out his heart, smiles, and leaves.
There lies the man
Who had murdered the whore
Why hadn’t he let the girl
Run through the door?
There lays his body to rot
in the sun, if only he hadn’t discarded
the gun,
There lays the body, strung up each day,
Slowly, Unsurely, Wilting away.
Now it is over,
her past life of Sin,
her journey of re-birth now
doth begin…
Chosen by guest judge Bob Kirke
Who Switched off the Lights before the Last Dance? by Laura Stephenson
I don’t belong here anymore.
No!
Communication has been lost,
The wires are crossed
And the transmitter
Is broken.
How did we connect
All of those years?
Charged with energy.
Static but secure.
The light I saw in their eyes
Has dimmed.
They shine,
But not on
Me.
The candle’s flame
Dances in solitude.
I don’t belong here
Anymore.
Chosen by guest judge Jeff Howe
A night for my own by Doherty
Gutless is this sick underbelly
Into the tempest, decadent town
I venture from a chrysalis,
A noxious smog of noise and people,
The wayward kids, all spew and spunk,
The goners and their brawn and funk
And jazz and jizz, viscous, vicious
Gather, tremulous with verbal
Sync, to laugh, live, smoke and drink.
Nowt to link the next kite sky high
But time. Turn that tide. That tumult.
But not forget the kicks and whims
Then we will swim this whiskey Styx
Living on arterial love
Why sip deep from life’s silver cup
To spit it back, to extinguish
The hellish flames of your conscience?
Let us slit our wrists for the drain,
Mirror ourselves. Here, now, this night,
As the sickle moon reaps the stars,
As oblique beauty is fathomed
As osmotic sense permeate
Autumn Already? by Laura Stephenson
Moonlight stroked the grass
Casting eerie shadows through aged branches
Of heavily laden apple trees.
Smoke from a long abandoned garden fire
Still drifted aimlessly, embers glowed,
But no hands reached out for warmth.
The woman stood alone.
Uninterrupted solitude,
Touched only by fingers of darkness
Which jabbed and mocked and laughed.
Moonlight streamed over the lawn
Casting disturbing shadows over carefully clipped borders,
Highlighting order but hinting at chaos.
The woman stood alone
Staring at the moon.
Defiant or desolate?
Thoughtful or forlorn?
As the fingers of darkness
Caressed,
Tears
Fell
on
Moon-soaked grass.
Song Of The Wheelies by Steph Spiers
The wheelies came in two by two,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
The green one and the brown one too,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Now there’s a one with a caddy blue
To add to the hullabaloo,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.
The wheelies came in three by three,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
But a change of day adds misery,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
And to the colour blind it’s a mystery
Adding richness to social history,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.
The wheelies came in four by four,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Standing in line outside the door,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Be careful not to break the law
Don’t leave any scraps upon the floor,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.
The wheelies came in five by five,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Rotting garbage heaves maggot alive,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Seagulls circle and swiftly dive
On old spud peelings see them thrive,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.
The wheelies came in six by six,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Packets of Cornflakes and Weetabix,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Folded and emptied by forty licks
Crushed down smartly with a pile of bricks,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.
The wheelies came in seven by seven,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Lined up all the way to the gates of heaven,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
From cold Aberdeen to sunny Devon
They’re collected by hero, beefy Kevin,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain
The wheelies came in eight by eight,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Out by 7.00am or you’ll be too late,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Be careful don’t confuse the date
If you mix up the colours you’ll be in a state,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain
The wheelies came in nine by nine,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Collected in ones, or two at a time,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Brown and Blue together in a line
But mucky old Green has to bide its time,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.
The wheelies came in ten by ten,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
We’re all truly sick of them by then,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Let’s take all pompous politician
And dump them in a wheelie bin,
And send them all to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.
Lonely Valentine by Ben Shevlin
It’s just another lonely valentine
Not the first and wont be the last
You feel so empty inside
When all love is in the past
But all hope hasn’t died
Be my valentine
You learn as you get old
Lust leaves you bitter, love leaves you cold
I don’t think I’ve ever been in love in the past
One thing’s for sure, it didn’t last
Be my valentine
Happiness only lasts for a short while
When all you can do is smile
You walk round with chest puffed out
Coz she’s all you can think about
Be my valentine
In the end happiness dies
When you see no love in her eyes
You know it won’t be long
When everything you do, seems to be wrong
Be my valentine
Every year it’s the same
I’ve only got myself to blame
It’s just another lonely valentine
Just wish that I could make you mine
Be my valentine
On Different Tracks by Philippa Jane Cooper
Smiling, shy Asians shuffle past us in Leeds,
1973.
I go to Zahra's house for tea
and the meat sets my mouth on fire,
in the bathroom mirror I tip toe up higher searching for flames.
Zahra's Dad was really a doctor I think
or has time mythologized this to the brink
of my imagination, a British Rail guard on the trains
my eccentric dad often met him when his brains
sent him South instead of North.
Three beautiful Asian sisters descending in size
wearing the same winter coats are in my eyes
the most wonderful trio that I know
I am Zahra's best friend at school so
I am proud to boast about this to anyone.
Being with a Muslim makes me behave
And take care not to cave
Into silly temptation. Wondrous Zahra
Whose talents could fill the Sahara
Honours me with her steady friendship.
Thus, how my heart cracks
To remember those Leeds lads, on the wrong side of the tracks
who, one July day, took a train
killing so many with them - sheer, unmitigated pain,my Dad and Guard Ali would not understand.
Winter by Pip Travis
Winter as never before;
grey mists, never ending silence.
As I walk in soft snow
I feel a chilling breeze glow
throughout the forest.
Wolves howl.
A small hibernating animal
opens one sleepy eye
to stare as the last leaf falls,
then curls back up again.
Winter seems forever.
Saving The Planet by Steph Spiers
Forget saving the planet.
The planet will be just fine.
It's those pesky bi-peds on it
who have reached the end of the line.
Forget saving the rain forest
hardwoods will strongly regrow,
once the loggers' bones are dust
and pure waters can again flow.
Forget saving the oceans,
fish shoals will quickly restock,
when rows of whale oil potions
aren't stocking every shop.
Forget saving tigers and lions,
big cats will roam the earth,
long after the fall of pylons
at Gaia's awaited rebirth.
Through The Eyes Of Men by Mary Merryweather
We could not know how good life was, back then,
nor place true worth on that which came for free.
If boys could see things through the eyes of men,
how treasured would those days of childhood be?
I gaze about this room where once I slept,
much smaller now than in that bygone day,
and that forbidden roof where we all crept,
adventurous beyond the close of day.
The view not changed, well not so much, since then,
where distant hills invited us to climb.
Our river, once a vast uncharted glen,
becomes a gentler stream with passing time.
I rub my eyes, still peering down the years,
and watch my children play and laugh with glee,
I smile, as I surprise nostalgic tears,
then hug the boy inside, who once was me.
Coach Trips by Claire Seaman
When you’ve finished up the breakfast
When you’ve eaten all you can
When you’ve drunk more coffee than you should
Will you pack your bags and travel?
On to see the next new place
With a coach, a driver, lunch packed in the boot?
When you’ve chatted to the driver
When you’ve shared a cheerful smile
With Edna who came with you for the trip
Will you settle down beside her?
In seats thirty-seven, thirty-eight
And sally forth to see the next new bit?
Was it here they said it happened?
Over there? Is that a fact?
Did they know that it would happen as it did?
Did they think of it as history?
As they watched events unfold
Or just the days big fuss, tomorrow’s news?
When the coach moves slowly forward
Towards the motorway and home
As the sun starts to shine week and low
When you stumble from the coach
Towards the lift that came from home
Will you miss them, the people from the trip?
Will you stumble through the front door?
Tired but happy, thirsty, dry
Towards the kettle, the post, a cup of tea?
Will you think of the history as you unpack the bags?
Or the people, or the driver, or the sea?
Her First Doubts by Alan Peat
It was the absence
of his familiar five o’clock shadow,
that first sowed seeds of doubt,
among the hollow,
empty regions of her life.
Now alerted,
to the changes in his habits;
their bathroom,
in conjunction with most men’s lives,
had been a place of hastened transit;
yet now in subtle lengthened spells,
a rising tide of fragrant grooming bloomed.
To ease her mind, but tinged with guilt encrusted apprehension,
she picked the pockets of his well pressed suits; alone.
A restaurant bill. One Friday night. Another town;
and now her doubts
were turned to proof perhaps,
of indiscretions found.
With new found courage in trawling deeper,
through his statements,
bankbooks, other papers;
some letters hidden, careless creases lay,
the sordid scrawls of love betrayed;
and realisation dawned, that his affections maybe,
had been with faceless strangers shared.
Babies.... by Donna Parkinson
Babies just killing other babies, homeys with a piece,
When will this journey end? Will this nightmare ever cease?
Youths with lethal weapons given free rein to eradicate,
Are there really no boundaries for someone to adjudicate?
These kids have nothing to aspire to and no wisdom to relate,
No father figures who will carry any real conventional weight,
No older individuals who are willing to try to make a difference,
And no older brothers with a socially acceptable conscience,
What fitting values have we instilled in the children of today?
Have we taught them the art of keeping temptation at bay?
Or how it’s much better to just turn the other cheek and reflect,
Have we hit home on the importance of having self respect?
We have failed to infuse our offspring with the gift of self worth,
We were morally responsible from the very first day of their birth,
We have botched the job of passing on the meaning of true pride,
Yet some of us didn’t realised this until after
they had actually died,
Take control of their lives and give them some parental direction,
Free them from this endless and worthless death spreading infection,
Don’t let them become another pointless victim of this putrid society,
Try to demonstrate different perspectives and perpetuate variety,
Teach them to nurture and develop a sense of brotherhood and unity,
Make this generation good strong pillars within our local community.
Mrs Twee & The Poetry Competition!
by Kazy
Mrs Twee wanted to get into print,
Often, she had dropped the hint,
But her work had never got an airing,
Until along came along Mr Rols Sperling!
Rols had a Rolls Royce of Poetry Comp's,
Enough to entice Mrs Twee into a poetic romp!
Mrs Twee put pen to paper,
But being Mrs Twee, many mishaps were to befall her....
Mrs Twee liked to use a nib,
Plus old fashioned pot of ink to fill,
But the nib had a mind of its own - no fib,
And the ink over Mrs Twee's new frock did spill!
Mrs Twee was hopping mad,
As mad as 'Mad Jock' in name!
Mrs Twee was just not very lucky it seems,
Never mind sit to write reams and reams!
A ballpoint pen was presented by faithful Mr Twee,
Be like others and save the mess, he said,
A gnarling disgusted look came over she,
As she took the ballpoint and shook her disapproving head!
But is life ever so simple, as to see the words just flow?,
Mrs Twee was so het up, her poems just refused to grow!
Mrs Twee had something called 'poetry writers block',
More so when the cat jumped on her knee and pee'd all over her frock!
Mrs Twee was in a 'MAD' refrain,
She had to change her frock,
And once she tried to write again,
She was disturbed by her cooker's clock!
Mrs Twee had to cook the tea,
No time for poetry,
But maybe she would get inspired,
Once her life had gone, expired?
For someone might start the 'ball' rolling,
By writing a poetic, epitaph,
On her headstone her fate befalling,
Oh you can all scoff and laugh!
Mrs Twee at her age, had one foot in the grave,
Would she manage to write her poems and win reprieve,
A poetic place in history,
Or would more mishaps prevent her, being a literary?
Mrs Twee again sat down, pen poised to write her prose,
But she was sitting in the garden by now,
Seeking inspiration high and low,
A bird flew by and pooed on her paper, what a nasty 'old crow'!
Rols might never receive her entry,
From the doomed Mrs Twee,
But at least she can say she really tried,
Amidst the cruel blows, I can confirm and confide!
Leaving Home by Edward Lundon
I left my Dublin home one morn
With tears in my eyes.
Sailing from Dun Laoghaire Port
Breaking family ties.
Cross over the Irish Sea,
Heading for Liverpool Docks,
To seek my fame and fortune
Of silver and gold crocks.
The ship docked at the landing stage,
The night was dark and cold.
I wandered streets of Liverpool,
A boy just sixteen years old.
I finally lodged in Scotland Road,
Across from the “Morning Star”,
A pub that’s run by Dandy Pat,
Who’s known both near and far.
The “Morning Star” was a music house,
Where the famous used to stay,
The likes of De Valera
In his younger day.
Paddy’s Market up the road
With clothes and bikes to sell.
The “Johnnies” from the Indian boats
Were always there as well.
Seth Davie sitting in Bevington Bush,
Dancing his Marionettes,
Children standing all around,
No shoes and with torn vests.
Work in Liverpool was hard to find,
So I joined a tramping ship,
Sailing to ports around the world,
Signing for trip to trip.
After twenty years of going to sea,
I was rich beyond compare.
Coming home to Dublin Town,
To a Colleen sweet and fair.
Now I’m sitting old and grey,
The memories come flooding back,
To the friendly people of Liverpool,
Their wit and cheerful craic.
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