Fugitives – Dominic James

below a tall, stark sky

Dominic James lives in the Cotswolds and attends poetry meetings along the Thames Valley. His collection, Pilgrim Station, was published by SPM Publications in 2016.

Fugitives

With elder bloom and hawthorn sheaves
a better place found to grieve,
fresh in the morning sun:
let blossom shed by apple trees
bathe my eyes, let tears come.

Troubles have I known. Move on.
I still believe warm drops, dissolved
can separate the single soul
from a wounded heart – a sleight of hand
bruising to the fragile ribs,

pinches at soft tissue, muscle –
I could win back my willing half
but after so much shared and lost,
to find another’s turned away,
shrugged me off: I’m hollow.

Blue-finned, the magpie struts and hops
his vine-entangled, fence’s row
much as he skips from love to love,
merciless, our native crow
contrasts zip to sorrow.

If charity lacks value then
the fugitive’s well understood:
once stolen off and gone for good
seeks brazen reassurances.
I offered those as well.

Cock robin on a limb
pipe up and sing Poor Me, in shade
below a tall, stark sky
no sign of rain to prick my eyes,
make tears come, not me.

Dominic James

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.

Ashdown Forest to Oakhill – Ruth Gilchrist

I love the birth of an autumn day

Ruth Gilchrist is an award-winning poet who has lived in many beautiful places, but it was becoming a parent that made her write. Too tired to sleep poetry was the only voice she could find in the dark. Fortunately, as her children have grown so has her writing success, now it’s the poetry that keeps her awake. Ruth writes on a variety of subjects and experiments with different poetry forms. Her joint pamphlet “The Weather Looks Promising” is published by Black Agnes Press.

https://www.scottishbooktrust.com/authors/ruth-gilchrist

https://ruthgilchristpoet.blogspot.com/

Ashdown forest to Oakhill

I love the birth of an autumn day that kicks dew from your heels and plants gossamer webs on your face. The only time my fingers welcome the cold is when scooped beneath a field mushroom to pluck it with its damp umbilical. I tell the boys;“note in your mind this spot, there will be more here tomorrow.” But their thoughts are fireworks and their hunt will be just as wide every day they are here in Oakhill. I know they will come every morning, not just for the novelty of the velvet nosed foal eating my jumper, but because they cannot believe the flavour. I think there is something about the oak tree, that you taste in a field mushroom that they will never forget.

I remember my first taste, my sister and I gathered them in Ashdown forest. There wild mushrooms mine rich tones from the earth beneath the autumn leaves. There was a youth there I tasted too. He was fresh cologned with saddle soap, hands calloused from the reigns. Lips the flavour of rosehip, hawthorn, plum and elderberry. That season I was painted; all the fiery colours of autumn.

Ruth Gilchrist

Grey Sky Morning – David Woods

Without raindrops, clouds without tears

Grey Sky Morning

By David Woods

Above, beating down, the deluge

Without raindrops, clouds without tears

A sense of falling, distinctive

Rhythm sounds on skin pulled tight like

Animal skin over a drum

–

Below, a road, quiet, running

Grey down a slope, stagnant and stale

The smell, of grey, that gets to me

Sticks in my throat, chokes tears, I mean

Real tears. Does the sky shed them.

–

This all happens inside a house

With too many rooms, a spiral

Staircase going down, down, down low

To no basement so it keeps on

Going down below the carpets

–

The floor is grey beneath the sky

The sky is the ceiling that cracks

That lets the rain in, the torrent

You can’t see but will get you wet

This drench sets in for the long haul

David Woods

Made Up – Sally Hamilton

Fantastically shaped, beautifully hued

Hi there, my name is Sally; I am drawn to things left unsaid, to snapshot moments in time and to emotions and events which leave a mark.

Made Up

The purple extends outwards from my eye, dark and lurid,

yellowing extensions of a sulphurous lake.
It’s a perfect egg. A perfect ex-ample.

Fantastically shaped, beautifully hued;
if it weren’t right there for all to see
(and turn away from)

and coming from nowhere.

No-one saw it,
there is no story to tell,
no tall-tale of heroism or a drunken fall.
Just another prosaic ending to the blackness which came before
and which no-one was there to witness
(except maybe the cat).

I look him deep in his emerald eyes and he stares back at mine, as it turns from pewter to maroon, from ochre to ash.

He’s not telling what he saw, or heard.

I run my finger along it, I feel ashamed, though of what I am not sure;
the universal embarrassment of such an outward display of drama, maybe.
At the unsaid untruths which accompany such a mutli-coloured lie.

And that’s the thing – as I look at you, eye to eye after so long,
I will never know
and you will never comprehend what it feels like:

Not to know.

Sally Hamilton

Ode To A Forgotten Poem – Arthur Roberts

I wonder at your mysterious origins

I’m 60 years old and have enjoyed writing poetry most of my life.

ODE TO A FORGOTTEN POEM

I revisit you after a decade of neglect.
I am ten full years shorter now
Yet you appear to be longer!
Your sleek lines shine rust free,
Unpolished, I still see my reflection in you.
Your acid tongue sharper than a paper cut.
I take pride in your robust form.
Your truth shocks me anew.
I wonder at your mysterious origins
And can’t remember how I found you.
A sapling of an idea with shallow burrowing roots.
Now I rest in your shade,
You, whom I made.

Arthur Roberts, Tipton

Nashville and Red Lipstick – Sue Burnside

Maybe I’ll get tired of Nashville

I am Sue Burnside. We moved up to the West Coast of Scotland three years ago. Prior to that I was a special school head teacher.I am having a late burst of creativity at the moment, and as well as poetry, I write short stories and am writing a non fiction book about growing up in London in an irish Catholic family. I also write songs and am learning to play the mandolin and banjo.

Nashville and Red Lipstick

Should I decide this will be my last dog?

This one at my feet?

I don’t want to get another one

that has to outlive me,

that has to come to see me in the hospice

Or wear a bandana at the cemetery.

And then go back to the rescue.

–

When should I accept that I won’t go to Nashville

And sing at the Grand Ol’ Opry?

Accept that banjo lessons are a waste of time?

(Not just for me but for everyone.)

And when should I give up the fight with my hair?

Settle for grey steel and not soft gold?

And concede I am not as funny as I think I am.

–

My mother never gave up.

Not like me.

Weeks after she died

the parcels still arrived.

She planted tulips for the next spring,

She never imagined life ended,

Things unmended

She died waiting for batteries for her hearing aid.

–

Maybe I’ll get tired of Nashville,

Of crossword answers slipping out of reach,

Of forgotten words like so much fluff in my mouth,

Then I’ll stop searching for the perfect red lipstick.

I won’t remember the arc

But I will remember the fall,

The arrow coming to land

Somewhere I can’t find.

Sue Burnside

Rehabilitate – Dani Burnett

Can we change our deranged

The poem was written about the rehabilitation of prisoners and the struggle to find the right answers in how to do this effectively. The poem does not take a stance on this, merely asks the question, is there a right way to rehabilitate? I am hoping that people will be able to apply these questions to other ethical grey areas in life. Predominantly a writer of short horror stories, I decided to remove the use of horrific metaphors in order to ask questions about the darker aspects of human nature and just get to the point in asking the questions regarding how we advance as human beings, away from our horrific pasts and into a more hopeful, inspirational future.

Rehabilitate

We are told to grow.

To move, to change, to go with the flow.

To endure, to correct, to reap what we sow.

Though to grow is not choice, but demand as we know.

Is hope in the place to which we exile our foe?

Can we change our deranged and allow them to show

That they too have a heart that is destined to glow?

Or are we just too slow?

Have we reached that plateau?

We are told to grow.

To reach beyond reason; where even gods dare not go.

Dani Burnett

So… – Maxine Emmett

Yet elucidation, I need explanation!

I wrote a lot as a child and as an English tutor, have just started tutoring someone who is showing talent and it’s reignited my passion!

So….

So, I want to know why….

Why, Why, Why?

Rhetorical yet symbolic, it is my addled mind that is determined to spin,

Yet calm, I crave placidity!

–

So, I want to know who….

Who, Who, Who?

Reasoning and sensibility seem in a state of utter complacence,

Yet elucidation, I need explanation!

–

So, I want to know where….

Where, Where, Where?

Locality and Bearings make my brain cells shiver,

Yet logical organisation, I prefer sequentialism!

–

So, I want to know when….

When, When, When?

Continuance and Perpetuity are omnipresent,

Yet finality, I prefer cessation!

Maxine Emmett

Hurting – Lauren Hadcroft

Anarchy behind your eyes

Many thanks to Lauren Hadcroft for a deeply personal entry to Voices and the competition. We appreciate her decision to share this poem.

Hurting

I would be your pearlescent shell,

Sunlight illuminating within the gloom.

The brightness of a bulb on tired, sensitive corneas.

–

Disgruntled –

Disoriented.

Anarchy behind your eyes.

–

Longing to be taken from this lifetime.

A thick cloud of gloves save you from hurtling toward your goal.

Holding you, safely, resistant.

–

Until time is darkness.

Hide yourself within me,

Storms swirl, a deep grey cloud descends Acidic and cold.

Lauren Hadcroft

Love Always – Colin Ward

to breathe through smiles

Colin is a self-published author and poet who has produced two collections to date. His poetry is varied in theme and form, exploring topics of mental health, war, justice, nature, and many more. Having been writing for over twenty years, Colin enjoys each new challenge of expressing ideas, feelings, and the wider questions our lives present us with.

Love Always

Scared and tired

in regretful pain

we mocked the madness

put the world to rights

found laughter again.

–

One last time

I broke your tears

like so many hours

spent clearing the fog

of lonely years.

–

Our final chorus

set spirits free

to breathe through smiles

wider than willows weep

their canopies.

–

Quietly embracing

softest solemn sighs

expressing more

than wistful whispers

of any goodbye:

love always.

Colin Ward