Burdensome Expectations – Saule Zemgulyte

No one else seems bothered

A human being with a name of Saule Zemgulyte. I identify as non-binary and am currently in Yr11. I enjoy writing and drawing. Not sure what else to say.

Burdensome Expectations

Dresses, Doll, Skirts
All feel so restrictive,
They choke me.
No one else seems bothered.
Everyone else looks fine and happy
While I wonder how they can possibly be satisfied Dragging…those…rocks…attached…by chains.
I only struggle, wishing to

discard

it.
My name–
All feminine and pink- Presses down on me.
It only gets worse
As I get older and discover more of myself.

I hate it.
it suppresses me.

A breath of fresh air.
No rules. No restrictions. No expectations. At home. Alone.
A name that’s comfortable.
In clothes I like.
Away from accusatory eyes.
Safe with a pen
That creates words
Expressing my emotions,
Allowing me to be myself.
Finally.

Saule Zemgulyte

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Fears – Emma Hewston

Fear isn’t my boss anymore

My name is Emma Hewston. I am a Geography Teacher from Birmingham. Until 2 years ago I hadn’t really written (or read) any poetry since I was at school myself! I have written 2 books of poetry and am passionate about reading the inspirational poetry of others too. After welcoming our first child into our lives this summer I find myself thinking there’s a first time for everything so thought it time to share my own poetry with others too.

Fears

I am a thought machine.
I can think up disasters so big even dinosaurs scamper.
My thought disasters are quick off the mark,
Faster than me, faster than cheaters.

I am a thought machine.
The dinosaurs know my footprints
Each one pressed in beauty,
A pathway leading everywhere but to disaster.

I am a thought machine.
The cheaters know my spots
They kindly dot-to-dot in magnificent constellations
Lockets of love, no disaster here.

I am a thought machine and I think for myself.
Fear isn’t my boss anymore,
Sure I get afraid but I am more afraid of
not being true.
Being a thought machine is amazing, I thought myself here didn’t I?

Emma Hewston

Adult – Ruth McLeod

Every ‘Adult’ has not developed yet into who they are supposed to be

I’m originally from the midlands, Leicestershire & Nottingham way, but moved further south a few years ago with my husband for work. I’ve been writing creatively since I was a teenager, I’ve always been good a coming up with ideas, but never very good at finishing them, so much so that I have several novels on the go. Writing is my way of expressing how I feel and processing my emotions, sometimes I write with no intention of ever showing anyone the elaborate stories I create. Recently I have been trying to push myself to write more short-form stories and poems so that I can share my thoughts to others.

Adult

Written by Ruth Macleod

The definition of an adult is a person who is fully formed, fully grown…developed.

It has little thought or description for those who, although may seem an adult in every way may still see themselves as lost as when they were children.

Still searching.

Still hopeful.

Still entirely not ‘put together’.

–

But then perhaps this is because every adult secretly thinks like this,

Every ‘Adult’ has not developed yet into who they are supposed to be,

Or who they could be,

And I guess that is the question.

–

Who they are.

Is it who they are RIGHT NOW, this very second?

Because that person will not be the same in a week.

A month, a year, three years.

They might feel like an adult tomorrow,

But in two weeks, they may feel as lost as they did when their parents dropped them off at university for the first night.

–

A definition of an adult then becomes somewhat impossible to ever live up to.

Because to be ‘fully formed’, ‘developed’… ‘grown’.

Is to be done, baked and ready to take out of the oven.

To be all those things means that you are over,

That life is over,

And I don’t want life to be over.

I don’t want to be an adult.

Ruth McLeod

Silly Girls – Eleanor Moss

You altered my own reputation

Silly Girls

Tell tale signs you’ve got a good story to play Lay audience is lay
So come on whisper it all;
words like the morning bird’s call.
Musical Lyrical
Followed you like it was biblical
wrong interpretation: un-pieus if there’s flirtation

You altered my own reputation
Left me jolted, though presented as oblation

Take your words, you can be the tortured artist.

I’ll always be the girl that stopped you to flourish.

Eleanor Moss

A Body on its Knees – Ffion Cartwright

A heart that beats is dying

Poem entitled: ‘A Body on its Knees’ written on the London underground.

A Body on its Knees

The city is just a body on its knees, Even the snow isn’t white.
In summer when I freeze,
I kiss the morning sky;
but it is always night.
I gasped when I saw you on the street, I gave up my free seat
for you,
A heart that beats is dying,
dying for you,
And sleeping for me
The city is just a body on its knees.

Ffion Cartwright

We Are Women – Abi Morgan

Dreams of fame and silver screens

My name is Abi Morgan and I’m a 25 year old writer from Essex. I have recently started performing poetry and posting my work on Instagram abimorgan_poetry.

‘We Are Women’

Idly flicking through magazines

Wishing we were still in our teens,

Mulling over might-have-beens

School, in-crowds and beauty queens,

Dreams of fame and silver screens

Smashed and smattered to smithereens,

We are the lost ones, the in-betweens;

We are women.

Wake up, worry about how we look,

The chances which we never took,

The last time we actually read a book,

Why he doesn’t like the way we cook;

We are women.

Belonging to the ‘Modern Age’,

Still stuck on a smaller wage

Internalizing ugly rage,

Glass celing, invisible cage,

Tired of being magnolia, beige;

We are women.

Attempting to fit other’s ideals,

An idea that never quite appeals,

We pretend this should be how it feels

To be women.

Abi Morgan

Sharks – Sophie Bishop

Sharks are waiting

My name is Sophie Bishop and I am 15 years old. I live in Windsor and have always liked writing poetry, I’ve always found it easier to express myself in writing. This poem was inspired by an experience I had a year ago.

Sharks

Little fish, big pond

Play a game: 3,2,1.

Eyes closed,

But he can see,

Swim away

through coral reefs.

Wide smile, sharks teeth

Water clear, but very deep

Surrounded and yet still alone.

Thinking back now

Who could’ve known?

Not him, not her, not they

Sharks meat, Sharks prey.

Try to be Optimistic

Not another

silent statistic.

Though.

Sometimes I swim

alone at night.

Nightmares more vivid

In daylight.

Because all around,

Around me still,

Sharks are waiting,

Waiting until

The day that I embrace my shame,

The day that I speak out his name.

Sophie Bishop, Windsor

Remembrance – Natalia Maciejewska

Keep every remembrance, hide ’em in a drawer

I am a 3rd year student of Journalism and Spanish and Latin American Studies at the University of Stirling. I have lived in Scotland for over two years now and I am still catching myself being amused by how green the fields and how grey the days here are. Both so very different than the ones I am used to back home in Poland.
I graduated International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme and I am lucky to say I’ll experiance another type of weather – the sunniest to live in – in Spain during my semster abroad studies.
I am submitting my poem entitled ‘Remembrance’. I wrote it having my grandmother in mind.
Thank you!

Remembrance

You can be left with videos and photos

You can be left with letters and clothes

You can be left with many mementos

But you will miss the person the most

You can hear laugh which sounds from the video

You can see eyes which hang on the wall

You can smell scent while hugging the sweater

Their owner’s a leaf and there has been fall

Keep every remembrance, hide ’em in a drawer

In heart, though, hide parents, friends and your lover

And do not forget their touch and their kisses

Those are the things that everyone misses

And keep in mind to show love to all

You never know when you will be gone

Natalia Maciejewska

Of a Feather – Liz Verlander

The beaches are the birthright of gulls to comb

I live in Worthing and work in a homelessness hostel.

Over the years I have had some success in the Indie press including Pen Pusher , HQ and Pulsar . I also had a poem on the radio.

More recently I have been performing and was pleased to support Alan Evans and Jenny Éclair when they visited the local theatre. This was part of ‘Hotbed’ a scheme to encourage local performers.

Of a Feather

Charlie is a seagull.

He lives off Worthing pier

Charlie is a common gull ,

he doesn’t interfere with others.

Charlie says he is not featherist .

Some of Charlie’s best friends are grey

Some have pinkish feet – they

are all the same to Charlie , Charlie insists.

But Charlie is disturbed by screeching

about an issue so far reaching

that even Charlie has had to stamp his feet.

There is pressure

on the prom concrete

from Pigeons .

Charlie says he has nothing against pigeons

Indeed he is tolerant of all religions.

But the point is the prom is full .

These days a common gull

Can hardly find a chip wrapper

not already pecked by some grey flapper .

Charlie says go back to Trafalgar square.

Not in a nasty way you mind

but that is their place of origin . There

they can be with their own kind .

In Charlie’s opinion

Pigeons won’t be happy until

they are taking gulls jobs in land fill.

The beaches are the birthright of gulls to comb

If pigeons are so flipping good at it

They should get the message and go home !

Charlie is right

He is a right Charlie

Liz Verlander, Worthing

The March Gale – Alan Taylor

Jagged shafts of air slam against my face

Just discovered this poem which I composed several years ago when I retired and I briefly joined a poetry writing group.

The March Gale

The harsh wind drives dancing reeds to frenzy

Steaming hills cascade clouds over rocky crags

Down in the valley

Shards of sunlight are scattered to distant horizon

Each exposing a litter of glittery debris

Which flickers briefly

Then is covered by the shadow of raging clouds

Jagged shafts of air slam against my face as

I struggle upwards onto flat moorland

Where a spinning, screaming maelstrom batters my senses

And leaves me clinging to the edge of the world

Alan Taylor