Amphibian – Laura Boyle

I’m an amphibian, cold-blooded; I just forget it sometimes.

I am a seventeen-year-old student, journalist, and aspiring poet. I use poetry to explore the full range of colours and sounds of the human experience; I delve into the topics that scare me most. I hope my poem finds a home in each reader.

Amphibian

Healing is a lake, and it’s a cold November day.

I feel the sand part beneath me as I stand on that border,

That static purgatory of liminality makes me shiver

Preemptively; I can’t dive in.

–

I feel the water steal the warmth of my brave toes;

Frightened, I recoil like a grasshopper, springing back onto solid ground.

The perpetual, vast wetness is the stillest whirlpool I’ve ever seen.

Still,

The anchorage of hope tugs me in,

Unwilling.

–
The torso is the worst part;

In feverish anticipation of the icy pain that begets the numbness,

I hesitate, searching for hands to pull me in.

The only hand that grabs back is my reflection.

–
The sky fills my ears and the clouds enter my lungs as I reteach myself how to

Breathe.

I’m an amphibian, cold-blooded; I just forget it sometimes.

–

I’m spinning upside-down in water or air,

Head hit by an asteroid, feet throbbing, disoriented.

Am I flying, or am I simply surrounded by the damp, frosty reflection Of the blotted sky?

–

I wish I could jump in the cerulean water head-first,

But for now, I’m taking tentative steps into the unknown,

Drowning until I believe I can swim.

Healing is a lake, and one day I will be the Loch Ness Monster.

Laura Boyle

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30,000 Steps – Connor O’Sullivan-Day

Boy you’re like a Rubik’s cube – Showing me all you colours and sides

My name is Connor O’Sullivan-Day. I am 22 years old and I love travelling, writing and a combination of city and nature, although I am a city boy at heart.

30,000 Steps

All of the hours fly by
It’s never felt so natural like this time. My night is in your hands –
I wanna get lost with you
Explore every single avenue.

–
We could get lost in Finsbury Park Stay here till the air gets dark.
Boy you’re like a Rubik’s cube – Showing me all you colours and sides, There’s nothing that I want to hide.

–
Found myself smiling at your name Wanna scream it from this train.
You walk me to my stop –
Please keep me out don’t let me go, Don’t make me end this night alone.

–
You quickly pause our conversation
To tell me about your dream in the middle of the station. And it feels like the stars were made just for us
We’re on our way to nowhere
But with you it feels like somewhere.

Connor O’Sullivan-Day

Chameleon – Sophie O’Neill

How similar we are to chameleons

My name is Sophie and im currently studying a performing arts degree which has expanded my passion to write poetry. I go by the basis that I write how I feel without guidelines and hope something resonates with the people reading it.

Chameleon

I used to think to myself on a saddened day

How similar we are to chameleons

How our minds work parallel to their traits

We mold our self into the world

A defense system when we feel at threat

Yet we convince our mind that’s our true self

When the real identity behind us

Is the one who doesn’t change its colors

When approached by the terror

We call society

–

I used to think to myself on a saddened day

Trapped in my mind parallel with society traits

Succumbed to sink into the chameleon way

When I pretend I’m not myself

It stops me feeling this way

Sophie O’Neill

The Truth Illusion – Lisa Winship

I awake, see truth is an illusion

I love creative writing, especially poetry, but I don’t always have the confidence to ‘get them out there’. So, having you read my poem would be amazing! It’s about the illusion of truth we create for ourselves, especially now with social media allowing us to create personas that may not reflect who we really are.

The Truth Illusion

I’m a visionary

Yet I’m sedentary

The richest soul in stolen rags

I’m a wit, don’t fit

As I inhabit

Spheres of influence, I degenerate

I influence, degrade

And agitate

I am beauty in all its fierce repellence

Full to the brim with style and inelegance

My captive audience

Hundreds

Yet none

I sleep, held by contended dreams

That haunt my mind

And steal my streams

Of consciousness

I awake, see truth is an illusion

No one on this earth knows the depth of my intrusion

I can create in my madman’s workshop

A truth for myself

Until the truth is forgot.

Lisa Winship

The Clickety-Clack of Needles – Tracy Davidson

your needles, throughout my childhood and beyond

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies.

The Clickety-Clack of Needles

I’ve kept back from the scores of charity bags

everything you ever knitted.

–

Even the really old stuff

I can’t remember you ever wearing.

–

Even the really naff stuff (sorry mum!)

I can’t believe you knitted in the first place.

–

The aesthetics don’t matter. Whether

I’ll wear things doesn’t matter.

–

What matters is the work you put in

to them, the hours, days, weeks

–

and months you spent sitting

on the sofa, clickety-clacking

–

your needles, throughout

my childhood and beyond.

–

I don’t want strangers rummaging through

your precious woollens, buying them

–

only to unpick them for the wool

or to re-use the buttons elsewhere.

–

I look at them and see you as you were

when they were made, healthy and happy.

–

I will treasure them, along with

those memories of you.

Tracy Davidson, Warwickshire

Virginia Creeper – Laura Turner

a sea of coloration radiated from the dark

It is a homage to my S.A.D. and the necessity to find glimmers of light in the dark during the changing of the seasons.

Virginia Creeper

Weighed down with bags of shopping,

Heavy thoughts and weather grey,

I trudged on like a zombie

through the car-parks empty bays.

–

“Get home” was my drab mantra,

Through the autumn cold I traipsed

When, my footsteps turned a corner,

Changed my mundane worlds landscape.

–

At the library’s rear pathway

There, my breath caught at a sight,

Which swiftly helped to lift me from

My peevish, sorry plight…

–

….as a sea of coloration

radiated from the dark,

draped lavishly emblazoned

across the library wall’s car-park.

–

Golds, yellows, ambers, reds

And other warm, rich flames,

Shone brightly from a leafy bed

Of Virginia’s full flushed veins.

–

I saw a bench fortune had placed

Across from my sweet treasure found,

As though it knew, this sweet spot graced

To stun spectators homeward bound.

–

I do not know how long I sat there,

Drinking in your beauties bliss

The grey and cold of my prior mood

Replaced, instead with your warm kiss.

–

I thought of you again that night,

Resolved the next day to return.

But, When I did to my soul’s plight

I found your beauty had fast burned.

–

The winds had stripped most of your splendor

All scattered below where you’d plumed.

Car wheels and rain had turned your tender

leaves to mush, which once so bloomed.

–

But, for a moment I did mourn

The transience of nature’s way.

As I knew, your flames would be re-bourn:

Ignited in next year’s display!

Laura Turner

Keep on Fighting – Claire Gee

this is a war I’ll win

I’m a seventeen year old student from Archway School who aspires to be a poet.

Keep on Fighting

Fight, they say, like a battle arena,
Keep trying, hold on, don’t let go.
I’m a fighter. I’m a trier
but this is my civil war.
Cells rage against saviors: my own lungs drag me
Down.
Tubes sustain and masks buy time
which is now a priceless gift.

Flowers of red, blue and yellow.
Hope, love and a funeral parlor.
I’m a fighter. I’m a trier
but this is a war I’m loosing.
Blood burns and lungs drown in airless nothing.
Screams.
My screams of pain,
my child’s weep at time.

Fight, they say, like they understand.
Keep trying, I’ll hold on, never letting go.
I’m a fighter. I’m a trier
and this is a war I’ll win.
Hope.
My family and friends hold it
so I let it glow in me.
by Claire Gee (17) Archway School

Agro-Culture – Gary Hitching

A family man with Victorian values

My name is Gary Hitching. I’ve been writing poetry since I was 16. I served 24 years in the RAF, of which ten of these were on the Royal squadron, four in service at Chequers, Prime Minister’s retreat. I have been to every warzone from 1991 to 2014 and now currently run a pub in Devon.

Agro-Culture

Farming how I see it

Its all a waiting game with no remit

It seems that everybody knows whats best

And everybody is wrong and the weather will test

Tractors are always going wrong

Farmers are proud, proactive and strong

Not very literate though

Terrible people skills will always show

But always have a kind heart

A willing hand always keen to take part

A family man with Victorian values

Gleaming wrong information from the daily news

Always moaning about money and cashflow

But driving a new range rover with a new trailer in tow

Hates change and all that it brings with it

And Londoners with the money and huge cars that don’t fit

Would be happy just sat there with his cow

No airs and graces with no need to bow

But will always stay stood in the same place

With dirty boots a shirt a tie and a red face

Talking about the good old days

And farming in the traditional ways

Knowing though deep inside

A brand new automated tractor in the shed there lies

Obstinate, rude, inconsiderate and bitter

Welcome to our village its not covered in glitter

Friendly and welcoming happy and fun

Tourists are here the theatre has begun !!

Gary Hitching, Devon

Darkening Winter Day – Sue Gerrard

Trees bowed low with winter flakes

Multi award winning poet SUE GERRARD has published nine collections of poetry and one spoken word compilation called ‘Word of Mouth.’ She has also written four local history books, a collection of ghost stories and two novellas.

Her latest book ‘St. Helens Now and Then’, is a celebration of this milestone birthday for her hometown. It was the bestselling book in Wardleworths Bookshop over the festive period beating David Attenborough’s ‘Blue Planet’ and Jamie Oliver’s ‘Five Ingredients’ into third place.

She has recently been commissioned by Amberley Press to write two books.

Sue has had more than 200 poems published in national anthologies and has won numerous national poetry and short story competitions.

Sue has read her own work at numerous venues throughout the country including The Edinburgh Fringe Festival (with The National Poetry Society), The Warrington Festival, The Edinburgh Folk Festival and The Bolton Festival. She has also appeared at The Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester. Full details available on http://www.surgerrard.com

DARKENING WINTER DAY

Crisp snow crunches underfoot

Christmas joy now broken;

Trees bowed low with winter flakes

No words are spoken;

Mute birds fly overhead

While our hearts are broken.

Soft, soft snow now starts to fall

Cold flakes blend with tears

And thoughts of joyous times

Are in our minds right here,

Darkness spreads across the day

The shortest of the year.

–

Thoughts now turn to tomorrow

Lessened by your loss

For here, today, this winter day

Is now our winter sorrow.

Sue Gerrard

Not another Poem called ‘Snow’ – Peter Donnelly

there were snowballs and sledging, scarves and woolly hats

I live in York. I have a degree in English and a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Wales Lampeter. I have been writing poetry on and off since I was at school.

Not another Poem called ‘Snow’

As children it delighted us when it came,

never at Christmas but often at New Year.

School could not re-open,

there were snowballs and sledging,

scarves and woolly hats.

–

It brought us heartbreak too,

when aunts and grandmas couldn’t come to stay,

nor we go to them. We always knew

the snowman would melt in a few days.

–

Once we shovelled the driveway 

for old Bill next-door, expecting pay

not a hated mug of Bovril we could hardly refuse.

–

Now it only looks pretty. We feel the cold

and worry about damage to the garden.

But imagine a world without snow,

the memories we wouldn’t have,

the words we wouldn’t write.

Peter Donnelly, York