Spot – Stephen Holloway

Some hours later the spot is still present

I’ve been writing a mixture of things for some ten years and been thinking about writing these things for a lot longer. I wrote a lot as a child and then life blocked my way. The construction industry sapped my creativity, although as a plasterer (which I believe is the only creative trade there is) I had time to think as the wicked stuff began to set. I continue to be set in my ways.

Spot

Taking everything into account, it marred the face

Whichever way you looked

Holding the mirror to one side, or the other

Fixing the angle below the chin

One slight squeeze wouldn’t hurt

It should be ignored, as the experts say,

It could take weeks to go away

More slight squeezing to the region

Blighted the area to a shade of crimson

It now resembled an active volcano

Infected with a molten puss

That spat and sprayed and stayed for days

Don’t keep touching – it may spread

If it gets worse, take to your bed

Firstly – wash the area thoroughly

Then moisturise with a well known product

Apply the face pack to an inch thickness

Look in the mirror

Cry

Some hours later the spot is still present

Its presence is resented

Staying indoors for a month is an option

Or finding out where the balaclava is hiding

Shopping online is, of course, the way forward

Make friends with a neighbour

Remove the mask

Look at the mirror from a distance

Futility and resistance

Call a friend who has acute acne

Ask what they’d do in such desperate circumstances

The long tone of being cut off

Look out of the window, but catch a reflection

Of the offending appendage

Turn on the wireless – more bombs in Syria

Always more trivia

Stephen Holloway

Did you enjoy this poem? Why not visit Maggie’s website at: Maggie’s Centre Nottingham to find out more about their exceptional work and/or make a donation. Do you have a poem you would like to submit to Voices? Feel free to do so by email at: voicespoetry@outlook.com or via the ‘Contact’ page on this site.

Quality of Life – Sarah Ellen Macdonald

the song of coming Autumn

I am Sarah Ellen Macdonald, I am a grandmother, mature graduate and performance artist, I was also a long term carer for my late husband. In 2010 I joined Meldreth Tavern Gallery Writers to explore my inner voice and make a little time in a demanding and difficult life. Some of my work has been published in their anthology (Blurb Books 2012) More recently I have returned to live in Scotland where I still write.
The verse I have chosen to send is called Quality of Life was written in 2014.

QUALITY OF LIFE

Daily, my herculean task,

To liberate you from

the prison of yourself,

whilst accepting with love

your body as it fails,

denying it the gaolers key.

Freeing your mind

to plan our days;

In meadows beside the river.

Of sunshine sand and sea.

Or under dappling canopies

of gossiping Beech trees,

Whose fluttering leaves whisper

the song of coming Autumn,

on a soft Westerly breeze.

I can bring you the sweetest scent

of newly opened tulips,

redder than the sunset.

I can give you the gold

Of the freshly mown straw,

drying in the sun.

The gift of Autumn leaves,

falling gently earthwards.

The sharp sweet taste

of homemade jam,

fruit of the village orchard

and the wild bordering wood.

The nip of snowflakes on the tongue.

The laughter, carols and bells

of an icy Christmas eve.

Sarah Ellen Macdonald

Where There’s Flame There’s the Rocks and the Sea – Benjamin Heinig

Gannets chattering like a full orchestral ensemble

I write poetry for a hobby and write about the land, the environment, travel, places, spirituality etc. As a Self Employed Gardener, a keen walker and enjoy cooking and baking, I have been writing poems for about 15 years.Previously had a poem of mine “To Be Usually Green” printed in the Kindred Spirit Magazine January/February 2019 issue.

Where There’s Flame There’s the Rocks and the Sea

Written By Benjamin Heinig 31st August2019

Where there’s flame there’s fire

Where there’s fire there’s fury

Whether wintry cold with frost and snow

Candles burning 12 of Advent Show

Whether friends or family

Work or joy

To the Bass Rock I GO

Gannets chattering like a full orchestral ensemble

Yet a storm at sea with heavy rain, haar mist and a gale force wind

At The Rocks Hotel Dunbar Scotland

A family evening meal sat in the Medieval Dining Room with red painted walls

Sat around a long dark varnished wooden table

With a large blazing bright fire in the long and old stone fireplace

With Scottish landscape and pictorial paintings on the walls

Candles and candlesticks dotted about

Chasing shadows into the night

Looking out of the rustic windows

At the sea only a hundred metres away

It seems so nostalgic

A magical experience

There’s a Kindling Kindred Spirit of Saint Nickolas coming down the fireplace chimney

It must be Christmas Eve Night

To be woken up the next morning with delight

A blanket of snow sparkles in the morning sunlight

Benjamin Heinig

Tough Love or Love is Tough? – Jada Leigh

I refuse to give up on us, as it is well worth the fight

My name is Jada and I am a third year student at The University of York. I am currently studying social work, although I hold a passion for English literature.

Tough Love or Love is Tough?

Jada Leigh

It is inevitable that all relationships tend to blossom at the start.
Then instantaneously things just begin to fall apart.
Accepting the temporary feeling of being abandoned all in the dark.
I have acknowledged that love is not easy and clearly not a walk in the park.
If he expresses that he loves me and I am of significance to his life.
Then may I ask why a plethora of tears have streamed down my face this night.
Recollecting my thoughts and evaluating my emotions, how can this despairing feeling be classified as right?
I hope our relationship is not a façade, although things appear to be coming to light.
I guess it is normal for the spark to sporadically disappear, meaning the relationship may not seem as bright.
It is time for us to put our pride aside, therefore put your shining armor back on and begin to be my knight.
I refuse to give up on us, as it is well worth the fight.
I am a true believer that time is a healer, maybe years on we will experience baby fever.

cannot wait for the day that we feel our blessing start to kick.
Knowing that you’ll be the father of our kid is of pure bliss.

Jada Leigh, York

Love Corner – John Rabenheimer

Today we will paint violet and orange

LOVE CORNER

A scurry of quiet voices.

We are on board the morning train.

Leafless trees and brambles

brush the sky.

Today we will paint violet and orange.

The horizon revolves slowly

its opposing way,

It’s like the rim of an artist’s palette;

that tower is his thumb poking through.

How awesome is our Artist supreme.

Far more beauty in this world

than the sum of ugliness.

I’m heading for the hospital;

a small matter, but not for my family.

Went into a little shop

to buy pen, notebook,

so I could write this down.

The man behind the counter hunted

every corner. Sorry, he said,

take mine.

John Raubenheimer, Settle, North Yorkshire

Miskeen Madraiwiwi -153 Evelyn Grove

How can I be sure of a thing I never see?

I am based in West London and the name of my poem is ‘153 Evelyn Grove’.

Thank you Evelyn for your support and entry to Voices!

153 Evelyn Grove

Rejection can be such a bitter word.

I sometimes wish to forget what I heard.

But alas, things are never that simple.

If you saw my eyes, you’d find a twinkle.

Those would be the tears, too afraid to shed.

Lest I become overwhelmed by the dread.

They say that, “The love will always remain.”

Nothing lost, nothing gained.

That’s what I always hear, what i’m told.

It can neither be bought, nor sold.

But what if it was never meant to be?

How can I be sure of a thing I never see?

They say, have faith! Have hope!

Trust in God, to help you cope!

But I need more, I need proof, to see and feel!

Without experiencing it, how can I live with zeal!?
Regret, a word with much too great a power. Regret.

I wish it held no power over me. Live and let.

But no! Wishful thinking is all that it happens to be.

The forest for the trees, I can not see.

For my tongue is tied, and my eyes blind.

My brain sluggish, my heart…most unkind.
Dull blades cut deep.

Make me cry.

Tears of joy!

The past, has passed.

Can’t stand still.

Must move on.

So, go. Just….go.

By Miskeen Madraiwiwi (pen name)

Blink Once For Yes – Jane Burn

I am glad to hear their music – rejoice that they are not afraid to sing.

Jane Burn is a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominated poet. Her poems have appeared in many magazines, including The Rialto, Under The Radar, Iota Poetry and previous issues of Butcher’s Dog. Her work has also been included in anthologies from Seren, Smokestack, Fairacre Press and Emma Press. Her most recent successes include placing/shortlisting in The Wirral Festival, The Lord Whisky Sanctuary, Segora International and Yorkmix 2019 poetry competitions. She is associate editor at Culture Matters Press and is looking forward this year to the publication of her eighth book.

Blink once for yes

The geese are returning. Winter through, I have waited
to hear the discord of their song. They are the foundation
of my days – each morning the thread of their flight
is pulled across my eyes. Each night shuttles them back.
I feel re-woven. I crave the sight of their bodies, plump

against a thin sky. When I see them, the creases of me settle,
re-find their folds. I have missed them – hankered for the length
of their throats. Goose Girl, watching her flock descending,
splash of white upon their chins, feathers following the spring.
I hook my fingers through my breeze-snarled crop –

no tumbled locks to offer them, no Conrad to ask
for the strands. I am glad to hear their music – rejoice
that they are not afraid to sing. New growth has broken
the cold earth – the ice-melt has drained. It’s looking less
as if an apocalypse visited wrath on the land. The pyres

of deadwood, stacked by floods still lurk like trolls –
wild garlic tongues their feet and soon, leaves will soothe
the jagged gaps. The geese keep to the opposite side
of the river, safe from the road, spending time squabbling
over turf, renewing their vows, making their love.

Their cacophony travels across in needles and pins,
in rips and rends. Lir’s children glide past in quietdignity,
hiss at the busy delight of Goosetown’s messy nests,
turn their nostrils away from its paddled stink and raucous din.
This is no place for angels. The geese will sit on chalky eggs,

wait for hairline cracks, for the hatching of yellow goslings,
tender as heartbreak, light as breath. They stitch their minds
to their mothers, follow down the bank to ride theslipstream
as the water slips a V-shaped wave from her breast.
I’ll ask, next time their long-span opens overhead.

Are you glad to see me too? Blink once for yes.
They mate for life, so ought to understand my faithful wait.
When I found some snow-bleached bones, littered stiff
among a pair of wasted wings I said a prayer for them.
Did you miss me? Blink twice for no.

Jane Burn, Consett, County Durham

A Brush With Death, A Gust of Life – Abigail Chetham

distant planets writhed without reason

Many thanks to Abigail Chetham for her entry and support of our project. Abigail is a passionate poet and ‘she is inspired by darkness, light, tragedy, the romantic era, and the age of concrete and plastic.’ Her voice is her own as she writes of her own demons and deaths, angels and hopes, which come in many forms throughout her poetry.

A Brush With Death, A Gust of Life

a child wanders in the distance

And greets me with a name I once recognised

All i saw was anguish reflected

As I looked into its eyes

a city that once burned,

left its power in its dust

stared back through the heavy air

Of the forest of the dead at dusk

but silent promises wept

for they shattered at the break of dawn

but still one hope was kept

for their soul hadn’t been out-torn

its gaze grasped at my breath

its eyes tugged at my lungs

I could wonder how it is we met

when the harps had been unstrung

distant planets writhed without reason

And the song was sang to signal day

I let out one final tear, exhaled

As the child walked away

i had held that breath for just one moment As i lay down my heavy load

and it sank into the forest

Into the crypt which lay below

As i retreat i am reminded

of the way a forest does grow

a seed lingers in the darkness

An unconquerable city is sown
at last on the edge of silence

I find myself sink into new light

much like the crypt yet full of life

forever separate yet intertwined

Abigail Chetham, 18

Still Life – Holly Milne

I felt you hanging me on your wall

Still Life

I closed my eyes
And I felt myself drifting
lazily downward,
the product of bottom-shelf vodka.

Your beard scratched at my face
hands smoothing my hair.
‘you look like a painting’

I tried to focus
staring at the outdated wallpaper.
I imagined peeling it back,
exposing the rough wall underneath.

I dreamt of being trapped
a girl sat behind glass.
Stuck in one attitude
smiling blandly out
my wide eyes staring at one spot.

I saw you gazing at me
your wedged nose
cracked lips
creased forehead
writing your rambling short stories
about spaghetti and talking dogs.

I felt you hanging me on your wall
talking to me about your day.
Coming home smelling of Jamesons,
reading Ulysses while commenting on its ‘extensive lexicon’.

‘you look pretty when you sleep’
I smiled as sweetly as I could
listening to your stories about stoners called Jaffa.

The chemical taste of vodka
lingered in my tense little mouth.
My skin felt like canvas
I wanted to peel it away.

Holly Milne

Goodbye – Freya Turton

We did not know what to do with this black day

My name is Freya Turton, and I’d like to submit an original poem into the “Voices” competition. I’m fourteen years old and have always loved reading and writing, but have only recently found a new passion for poetry.

Goodbye

Twenty-four hours of darkness passed

As the sombre sun decided at last

That his rays were not as bright, as vast

As they once had cast

–

He took it upon himself to not ask

Whether we wanted nor needed to bask

He tried to hide, he tried to mask

And at last, he completed his task

–

We humans

We withered away

We did not know what to do with this black day

–

Some tried to carry on

Some did

And some were far gone

–

It was the hopers

Who hung and clung

Onto the new morning sun

To remind them of what was to come

And to which the morning birds sung

–

It was the hopers

Who went first

The just-couldn’t-copers;

They were left unquenched of their thirst

–

It was the families

Who looked forward

To cozy nights indoors

Who gave the kids rewards

Every time they managed and scored

–

It was the families

Who tried

for their daughters and sons

But once the little ones died

The parents—

They let down their lungs

–

It was the teenagers

So careless and free

Whose brains were not yet developed enough to see

Or to understand the fee

–

It was the teenagers

Who had to take responsibility;

Drew war paint across their faces and fought

Who dug themselves up into war

And survived through the impossibility

–

But now that was history

And the Earth was choked on mystery

For the sun had died

There was no light

And the world was devoid of simplicity

–

Despite the extinction of humanity.

Freya Turton