How is your 4AM Now? – Charlotte Thomas

Exchanging secrets of our childhoods

My name is Charlotte Thomas and i’m a 25 year old mother to two and an English student who stays up too late writing poetry fueled by coffee. I admire all your hard work and dedication and would love to share a piece of my work with you.

Kind regards,

Charlotte

How is your 4AM now?

–

Exactly one year ago tonight

It was 4AM and we were delirious

In my slightly creaky bed

Creating free highs and

Exchanging secrets of our childhoods –

Our best Pokémon cards

Mum’s worst dinners

Passwords to hidden dens

Awkward first kisses

–

Exactly one year ago tomorrow

As we lay in my bed

You put your hands in mine

And asked me to be yours

Officially.

In return I told you

I would have traded my shiny card,

Ate mum’s worst concoction

And gave all my passwords away

For any kiss with you.

–

Exactly a year later at 4AM

I lay here in that same creaky bed

Remembering the feel of your hands

On the night you became mine

Because you were

You were mine and I was yours

It seemed simple.

I can’t help but wonder

Do you still think of me too?

Charlotte Thomas

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.

That Warm Night in September – Ken Fletcher

I looked into her eyes and she gave me a smile

Hi my name is Ken Fletcher, I’m 52 years old and over the last few years I have been putting some words together and I’ve produced some poetry. My friends and family have been pushing me to send it to someone so that they can have a look at it. I have written about half a dozen up to now and they all come from my life experiences and memories that are personal to me. personally I don’t think that anybody will be interested in them but I would like to have some feedback. I have attached a piece about when I met my wife in 1982 when I was 15 years old and it tells our story.

That Warm Night in September

That warm night in September

Is a time that I will always remember

Sat on the wall with my best mate lee

I asked this girl to take me home for a cup of tea

We chatted for a while but it was getting late

I said Sunday 12th shall we call it a date

The big day arrived and it was time to go

I’m an hour late will she still show

But to my surprise she had waited for me

And we went for a walk to my mums for tea

hand in hand I walked her home

Through birch field gardens she must have known

We sat on the bench for a while

I looked into her eyes and she gave me a smile

That lovely time in the autumn sunset

That’s when our lips they first met

Our first date had gone so fast

But I knew our time together was going to last

The weeks went by and things felt so good

The time was right do you think we should

I took her into my arms and held her tight

That gift she gave me felt so right

I will never forget what she gave to me

And on the radio played ABC

We had found each other on that special day

Our love for one another would always stay

The years have past so very fast

And they all said that it wouldn’t last

But we have proved them all wrong

Because our love for each other is so strong

Three grown up kids and thirty seven years later

Our bond together is even greater

As we continue so much in love

We fit together like hand in glove

As the next part of our journey is about to start

We never ever want to be apart

When I think back I will always remember

That warm autumn night in September.

Ken Fletcher

01.01.19 – Anna O’Boyle

Our world has crashed and burned

My name is Anna O’Boyle and I am 18 years old. Currently I live in Derbyshire with my family as I am on a gap year trying to earn money before studying English Literature at University. Writing is something I have always been very passionate about and, although it is what I have wanted to do as a career all my life, it is something I will always continue to do even if I never get paid for it.

01/01/19

Thomas Hardy reincarnate,

The Darkling Thrush is doomed.

2019, the year began,

A descent, into further gloom.

–

An orange ruler, an alien queen,

Our world has crashed and burned.

You would have thought, that from the past,

Some lessons we’d have learnt

–

Yet no it seems, we cannot see,

The Anger that bubbles away.

Nor climate change, or melting ice,

But feel, warmer, day by day.

–

Lets not forget, despite our flaws

That we have travelled far.

We took control, immigrants out,

Now alone is what we are.

–

2019 the future so bright,

We have little need to fear.

Yes, worry not, it is alright,

Ten years, we won’t be here.

Anna O’Boyle, Derbyshire

Riot of Passage – Philip Burton

shop soiled staff shook sticky hands

I am a family man, born in Fife, raised in Thanet, and I have been a hippie, a laborer, a professional student, and a Catholic head teacher in Lancashire. I came to writing through the OU and also the WEA courses of Copland Smith.

In the last twenty years I have been very widely published in literary magazines – three hundred and sixty three of my poems in total – including editions of PN Review and Stand, as well as in adult anthologies and in ten anthologies for children. I have won many awards, including First prizes in the Teignmouth,The Barn Owl Trust, the Lancaster Litfest, the Sentinel, and also the Star Magazine humorous poetry competition. Indigo Dreams published a collection of thirty of my recent poems in August 2017.

www.philipburton.net

Riot of Passage

Can’t think of Mother, not without

the cut-price colour of January

and the argy-bargy orgy

for price of a penny off.

Doors were bent wide

by excess might and main,

–

but, calm as a ship’s figurehead,

sweet as a sugar mouse,

sexy in war-paint was Mum,

her skirts a scarlet lifeboat.

I once saw a bundle roll

from a capsized pram –

–

an infant, soon obscured

by a bedlam of stilettos.

Mother dipped and gathered

one-handed (her weaker), placed

the bairn in the knitting wool

between Aruns and Lanarks.

–

Near closing, the storm of farthings

spent itself out on Everything Has to Go,

and Ends of Lines. Elbows were holstered,

shop soiled staff shook sticky hands,

sobs were exchanged.

Mrs Bosco wrestled down the blinds.

Philip Burton, Fife

Competition Update

The deadline for the Voices Poetry Competition has now passed. Thank you very much to everyone who has decided to share their poetry with us. We really appreciate your kindness and support.

Please do not worry if your poem has not yet appeared on the Voices Blog. All poems that we have received prior to the deadline, will be considered for the competition.

There was a very large volume of entries during September and we shall continue to display poetry on the blog.

The shortlisting and moderation process will now begin and we shall post another update towards the end of the month.

Thank you again for your interest in the competition.

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

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