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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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)

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.