Touch – Hannah Esplin

I wonder if ever I’ll feel again

A special thanks to Hannah Esplin for her fine contribution to Voices and the competition. Hannah is a keen poet who is based in Dereham, and ‘Touch’ is a thoughtful and profound offering we are sure everyone will appreciate. Thank you Hannah and keep up the excellent work.

Touch

I don’t feel like I used to.

I’ve lost touch with myself.
My fingertips spread forwards,
Towards the sea of memories
And nothing comes back.

I wonder if ever I’ll feel again,
Feel silk stretch under me,
See a new world of colour,
Let me go back

But as my fingers touch ,
It’s not the same anymore.
Sore eyes are a common sight,
Sleepless in Seattle.

A generation of roses arise,
Surround me all around
But thorns scorn the soul
And I’m back here.

Awake in the bed.
Woken in a daze by the same
Looping coup d’etat
Inside of my head.

Hannah Esplin, 16, Dereham, Norfolk

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.

Deep Dreams – William Reavill

how magical the diamond coloured water is

In the words of his mum, William Reavill is ‘an amazing, imaginative young man who sees the world in a wonderful way’. We are sure you will agree when you read ‘Deep Dreams’ – and we are very proud indeed to include such a magnificent poem in the blog and competition. William loves skimming stones and enjoys watching ‘The 1900 Island’ on BBC 1 I-player. Thank you William for such a fantastic contribution and keep creating magical poetry!

Deep dreams

Shimmering,

in blue-sapphire waters

a fish lay sleeping underneath the waves,

while people up top went skimming for days.

–

On the other side of the water

no one knows what lies.

Just the fish that sits and waits for a surprise.

–

Some people go fishing just to test which fish is the best.

But some are glorious in their quest,

and come home triumphant with fish for every mouth.

But still do not know how magical the diamond coloured water is with its magnificent waves.

–

The brave silver fish,

that still sleep

know,

and keep their secret

carefully.

William Reavill, 9

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.

The Last Day of June – Molly Nash

Feel her warmth, one last time

We thank Molly Nash for this powerful and vivid offering. Molly is a talented poet and writer – and in her own words – being creative is ‘a way to convey emotions I otherwise never knew I could’. Molly is also very grateful to her school for encouraging her to write and participate in poetry competitions. We are sure Molly’s school is very proud of her, and we are extremely fortunate to be able to share her excellent work with you. Thank you Molly.

The Last Day of June

June’s canvas sits upon her easel,
Palette and brush off to the side,
Her husband looks up at the self portrait,
And ignores the tears that cloud his eyes.

He reaches out a hand to touch it,
Feel her warmth, just one last time,
The house is cold and empty without her,
And scenes begin to play out in Carl’s mind.

He was sent back to that fateful day,
On the day that marked their marriage,
It was their 6th anniversary,
When June was told of her miscarriage.

She was heartbroken, a simple shell,
But Carl gave her a new meaning,
She learned to paint and sculpt,
And June was slowly healing.

June was happy, so Carl was too,
But when she did surprise him,
A birthday picnic ended in disaster,
And the cause of that, was driving.

Carl’s heart hurts at the memory,
Head filled with a dark gloom.
For they had crashed, in the rain,
Her time had come too soon.

It was the worst day Carl would ever know,
For it was the very last day of June…

Molly Nash, 14, The Wirral

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.

Just Another Street Encounter – John Cooper

a dance of comfortable acquaintance begins

John Cooper masterfully brings to life a chance meeting between two friends. John is a talented poet who has a gift for conveying observations vividly through the medium of carefully crafted verse. We are very thankful that John has decided to share his excellent work.

Just Another Street Encounter

Two old friends, perhaps neighbours,
greeting each other,
stand in the street below,
passing time in gossip and pleasantries.

A temporary meeting,
evolves to a longer dialogue,
as warming to their respective tasks,
laughter grows loudly.

During short pauses,
a dance of comfortable acquaintance begins,
led by each partner in turn,
prolonging this life interlude.

Then, once all chatter seems exhausted,
there is a cheery, but hesitant parting,
with expressions of mild reluctance,
to take up more mundane daily routines.

Oh me…

I am just the ‘net curtain observer’ of this scene,
not part or involved,
a voyeur of others connections,
returning to a private observance of a solitary role .

John Cooper

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.

Dancing Queen – Elizabeth Train-Brown

the world is a stage and the speakers are on

It is very special to celebrate the life someone special through the medium of poetry, and Elizabeth Train-Brown remembers her Nana, who ‘spent her century-long life dancing and teaching others’, in a magical way. We are very proud to present ‘Dancing Queen’ in the blog. Having had experience working with cancer charities, she was very keen to support this project. Elizabeth followed her parents into a life of performance, becoming the ‘fire breathing Phoenix on stage’ and has also pursued a career in writing. Find out more about Elizabeth at: Dancing on the Knife Point. Thanks again Elizabeth for sharing your exceptional poetry.

Dancing Queen

(for Violet)

Her legs are stiff with age; it’s been so long since she danced,

Twirled and chartered the floor, chanced

Each night with a new man on her arm

Now, she’s stuck in a chair, blanket warm

Over her knees and the sky went dark hours ago.

She’s been dreaming with her eyes open, you know,

Gazing at the wall with a smile on her face as music drifts

Through the air and partners fly around her like swifts

In the sky. There’s a band in the corner, playing louder and louder:

Sax and bass and drums and voices shower

The dancefloor in streams of light, bathe the room in

Tangible ribbons of sheet music. Her lips part to sing

And somewhere, in another life, her voice echoes

Through the room and not a soul dare go

When their ears catch those fluttering notes.

Here, the air circles with lazy dust motes

But there, the world is a stage and the speakers are on:

I’m here! She cries into the mic. Did you think I was gone?

Their whoops and cheers carry her like stretchers

Through the crowd, each brush of skin electric with embers

Of song and dance and excitement in her veins again.

She’s dancing the foxtrot through torrents of champagne,

The waltz, the jive, the rumba, the salsa,

The tango, the jitterbug, the cha cha cha—

Her legs are alive after an age of rest,

Awake and electrified and the best

You will ever see from all around. She’s whirling and spinning

Across the dancefloor as if she never stopped; she’s finally winning.

They’ll cry, she knows, in that other life

Damp on their cheeks, hearts of strife.

But one or two will smile, spare a grateful thought

That up there above, heaven has a dance floor.

Elizabeth Train-Brown

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.

When T Meets B – Erin Keeble

On a beach somewhere on a summer’s day…

We really appreciate Erin Keeble’s excellent submission to Voices and entry to the competition. This poem carries a very important message which comes as no surprise as Erin aims to move audiences and ‘capture their minds and hearts’. A student at the University of East Anglia, one of her poems was published in the prestigious ‘Armistice for Schools 100’ poetry competition (judged by Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy) and her work has also appeared in UEA’s Art-History Magazine. Erin is a passionate and talented lyricist who often takes part in poetry slams too.

When T Meets B

When T meets B there are firework sparks

T’s eyes dilate, above his beating heart

As he gets closer he begins to see How glamorous B is,

floating free

–

Her tall, slim body bathes with grace

The radiant sunlight upon her face

T can feel his body begin to shake

His mind is spinning, he feels wide awake

–

B stretches in the water and turns around

That’s it, T’s heart is bound

As B reaches and beckons with her slim white hand

T swims closer to the sand

–

He’s nearly there

It’s all too much to bear

As he sees the sunlight coat her cheeks

He shivers and buckles, his knees feel weak

–

As B reaches out her slender arm

T is overcome by her charm

He is sure her expression is one of love

Her pale body floating like a dove

–

But when their hands lock her nails are sharp

Like the small jagged teeth of a carp

He struggles but now it is too late

The carp has won, it has its bait

–

Pain encircles him and he is overcome

His head is hurting, his legs feel numb

He looks once at the ocean before glancing with dread

At the white entrapper spinning her web.

–

On a beach somewhere on a summer’s day

Fate dropped B the bag and she washed away

There to stay

And not decay

–

Didn’t think of T the turtle swimming by

In the ocean, under the azure sky

It was dawn when he suddenly wondered why

There was something so beautiful floating by

But he had to die

Why?

–

Because this love he thought he’d felt so strong

He’d actually got it all very wrong

For B the bag was a web of lies

She had got T the turtle mystified

–

Her beautiful exterior and fantastic shape

Hid what lay under her pretty white cape

T the turtle had made a mistake

But he hadn’t realised until too late

–

But if B the bag had found B the bin

T wouldn’t have suffered what fate chose for him

And then T would still be swimming, and free

This was the story of when T met B.

Erin Keeble, University of East Anglia, Norwich

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.

An Angry Old Lady – Rob Lowe

I battle every day

Rob Lowe is a keen and dedicated poet who has been crafting lyrics and prose for many years. We really appreciate his moving contribution which addresses the challenging issue of old age. Many of Rob’s poems have a ‘political thrust’ and have also been published. We thank him very much for ‘An Angry Old Lady’ and we are sure it will leave a lasting impression on you.

AN ANGRY OLD LADY

Two years in this Home

Where I do not want to be;

I had my own home once

But it got too much for me –

Though I was happy there.

–

Here, I am angry and sad:

I change my moods.

They say this is not good;

My son feels I am rude,

And thinks I am confused.

The things I say, though,

I do not always mean;

Yet say them anyway,

To keep them guessing.

–

It is only Polly:

That is what they say.

And I get to know

Items they would rather

Not put on show;

I am good at eavesdropping.

I battle every day,

While the others watch TV –

Get ready my retorts.

God knows what they enter

In their shift reports.

–

“How old are you?” they ask.

I take them to task

When they say: “You don’t look it.”

How do they decide

What my age is meant to look?

“Where are you going, Polly?”

Is another frequent question

When I head towards the door.

I wouldn’t mind so much

If “What are you going for?”

Was what they asked.

But they lack the sense for that.

–

The staff do their best, I know.

But they think me silly. And I am not!

“It is my sort of lunatic

Ensures they get their pay.”

Is what I tell my son. I wish he would stay.

Rob Lowe, Colwyn Bay

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.

The Way It Used to Be – Bernie Bickerton

I remember when only spiders had a Web

Special thanks to Bernie Bickerton for this sharp-witted and reflective offering. Can you remember those halcyon days before mobile phones and the internet? Bernie loves reading and writing poetry, and her passion certainly shines through in this brilliant piece – ‘a tongue in cheek view on the evolving use of language.’

The Way It Used To Be

I remember

When tweeting was only for birds,

When Kindle was only firewood,

When Windows were only looked through.

–

I remember

When dating required a meeting,

When Followers walked with Jesus,

When a hundred Friends was a demo.

–

I remember

When only spiders had a Web,

When only churches had an icon,

When only Hitchcock had Angry Birds.

–

I remember

When “to pin” was to prepare a hem,

When to Excel was to do well,

and I remember,

when you had a sunny Outlook.

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.

The Decimation – Xavier Coughlan

under the guise of playing saviours

We are extremely grateful for the talented Xavier Coughlan’s offering to Voices, and we appreciate his support. Xavier is a student who often chooses to address the theme of mental health within his poetry. Eloquent, profound and thought-provoking, we are very fortunate that he has decided to share ‘The Decimation’. Thank you Xavier.

The Decimation

Berkshire. A high-security psychiatric hospital designed by architect Joshua Jebb to accommodate Britain’s most elusive and intuitive.

An assembly of ten,

unburdened by morals,

gathered one fierce night

to float suggestions

of a solution –

to fabricate subtleties

in catastrophe

and solve

what makes you man.

–

These mighty ten

had been convened

by fate and a sectioning law,

and together round a table,

crafted by Joseph’s son himself,

the group disputed your future.

–

The Richest clanged

for an annihilation;

the demolition of a continent

blessed not by wealth,

but by culture,

and all the economics

heritage entails,

under the guise

of playing saviours.

–

One proposed a decimation

and advocated it by tying a noose

and swaying from the hands of

Our strongest

and jiggling to the pain of their

blood-crossed hands.

–

We were subdued by two thoughts

in watching him dangle:

admiration for not being formulaic

in not using the flush of lighting;

and the eulogizing of his manifesto

in watching its flair unfold.

–

He was right.

That night, we shared his Lithium,

grinding the pills

into equal amounts –

complying with the cadaver.

Decimation was the future.

The decision had been made.

They bid farewell and set off

to tackle the execution.

Pax vobiscum

Xavier Coughlan, Pewsey, Wiltshire

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.

Nursery Mares – Stuart Hardy-Taylor

my life was scarred forever and a more

Thanks to Stuart Hardy-Taylor for his humorous and witty contribution to Voices Poetry Blog and the competition. There is indeed a certain darkness in many of the stories and rhymes we are told when we are children. Stuart sums this up in a very clever way, and we are sure his excellent poem will make you smile. We really appreciate his unique offering.

Nursery Mares

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had horrendous nightmares

Because of all the stories and nursery rhymes, like Goldilocks and the three bears

And Hansel and Gretel and red riding hood

witches and granny eating wolves, how could that ever be good

And every night I would worry, unable to sleep

Because I was so emotional and scared, about bow-peep and her sheep

Expecting me sleep and stop crying, parents what were ya thinking, it begs all belief

WHEN ALL I COULD SEE IN MY HEAD, IS A BRIDGE AND THE TROLL UNDERNEATH

Jack and the beanstalk and the goose laying gold eggs

But only thing i can remember, is the giant that wanted Jack for his bread

And the three little pigs, i was petrified the wolf, would blow my house down, just like the one with the sticks

And my life was scarred forever and a more, because Humpy dumpy would never be fixed

And I’m not surprised I took drugs, come on, cows jumping over the moon

The fox ate the poor ginger bread man, and the dish ran away with the spoon

And the little dog laughed because he thought it was fun

But I would cry and I’d weep for the little piggy that had none

And little miss Muffet and that great bloody big spider

Fancy telling me that as a child, that it came and sat down beside-her

I never wanted to hear, about the old duke of York and his ten thousand men

And especially the time that they wasted, just going up and down and again

Putting all these things in my head, I didn’t think it was healthy or fair

Oh the nightmares that I had, about the mouse in his boots, WHERE, there on the stairs

But I’m going to bed now, and going to try and go sleep

And you can do one bow-peep because I don’t care anymore about you or your bloody lost sheep

GOODNIGHT

Stuart Hardy-Taylor, Loughborough

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.