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

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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

Sharks – Sophie Bishop

Sharks are waiting

My name is Sophie Bishop and I am 15 years old. I live in Windsor and have always liked writing poetry, I’ve always found it easier to express myself in writing. This poem was inspired by an experience I had a year ago.

Sharks

Little fish, big pond

Play a game: 3,2,1.

Eyes closed,

But he can see,

Swim away

through coral reefs.

Wide smile, sharks teeth

Water clear, but very deep

Surrounded and yet still alone.

Thinking back now

Who could’ve known?

Not him, not her, not they

Sharks meat, Sharks prey.

Try to be Optimistic

Not another

silent statistic.

Though.

Sometimes I swim

alone at night.

Nightmares more vivid

In daylight.

Because all around,

Around me still,

Sharks are waiting,

Waiting until

The day that I embrace my shame,

The day that I speak out his name.

Sophie Bishop, Windsor

Remembrance – Natalia Maciejewska

Keep every remembrance, hide ’em in a drawer

I am a 3rd year student of Journalism and Spanish and Latin American Studies at the University of Stirling. I have lived in Scotland for over two years now and I am still catching myself being amused by how green the fields and how grey the days here are. Both so very different than the ones I am used to back home in Poland.
I graduated International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme and I am lucky to say I’ll experiance another type of weather – the sunniest to live in – in Spain during my semster abroad studies.
I am submitting my poem entitled ‘Remembrance’. I wrote it having my grandmother in mind.
Thank you!

Remembrance

You can be left with videos and photos

You can be left with letters and clothes

You can be left with many mementos

But you will miss the person the most

You can hear laugh which sounds from the video

You can see eyes which hang on the wall

You can smell scent while hugging the sweater

Their owner’s a leaf and there has been fall

Keep every remembrance, hide ’em in a drawer

In heart, though, hide parents, friends and your lover

And do not forget their touch and their kisses

Those are the things that everyone misses

And keep in mind to show love to all

You never know when you will be gone

Natalia Maciejewska

Of a Feather – Liz Verlander

The beaches are the birthright of gulls to comb

I live in Worthing and work in a homelessness hostel.

Over the years I have had some success in the Indie press including Pen Pusher , HQ and Pulsar . I also had a poem on the radio.

More recently I have been performing and was pleased to support Alan Evans and Jenny Éclair when they visited the local theatre. This was part of ‘Hotbed’ a scheme to encourage local performers.

Of a Feather

Charlie is a seagull.

He lives off Worthing pier

Charlie is a common gull ,

he doesn’t interfere with others.

Charlie says he is not featherist .

Some of Charlie’s best friends are grey

Some have pinkish feet – they

are all the same to Charlie , Charlie insists.

But Charlie is disturbed by screeching

about an issue so far reaching

that even Charlie has had to stamp his feet.

There is pressure

on the prom concrete

from Pigeons .

Charlie says he has nothing against pigeons

Indeed he is tolerant of all religions.

But the point is the prom is full .

These days a common gull

Can hardly find a chip wrapper

not already pecked by some grey flapper .

Charlie says go back to Trafalgar square.

Not in a nasty way you mind

but that is their place of origin . There

they can be with their own kind .

In Charlie’s opinion

Pigeons won’t be happy until

they are taking gulls jobs in land fill.

The beaches are the birthright of gulls to comb

If pigeons are so flipping good at it

They should get the message and go home !

Charlie is right

He is a right Charlie

Liz Verlander, Worthing

The March Gale – Alan Taylor

Jagged shafts of air slam against my face

Just discovered this poem which I composed several years ago when I retired and I briefly joined a poetry writing group.

The March Gale

The harsh wind drives dancing reeds to frenzy

Steaming hills cascade clouds over rocky crags

Down in the valley

Shards of sunlight are scattered to distant horizon

Each exposing a litter of glittery debris

Which flickers briefly

Then is covered by the shadow of raging clouds

Jagged shafts of air slam against my face as

I struggle upwards onto flat moorland

Where a spinning, screaming maelstrom batters my senses

And leaves me clinging to the edge of the world

Alan Taylor

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

Quality of Life – Sarah Ellen Macdonald

the song of coming Autumn

I am Sarah Ellen Macdonald, I am a grandmother, mature graduate and performance artist, I was also a long term carer for my late husband. In 2010 I joined Meldreth Tavern Gallery Writers to explore my inner voice and make a little time in a demanding and difficult life. Some of my work has been published in their anthology (Blurb Books 2012) More recently I have returned to live in Scotland where I still write.
The verse I have chosen to send is called Quality of Life was written in 2014.

QUALITY OF LIFE

Daily, my herculean task,

To liberate you from

the prison of yourself,

whilst accepting with love

your body as it fails,

denying it the gaolers key.

Freeing your mind

to plan our days;

In meadows beside the river.

Of sunshine sand and sea.

Or under dappling canopies

of gossiping Beech trees,

Whose fluttering leaves whisper

the song of coming Autumn,

on a soft Westerly breeze.

I can bring you the sweetest scent

of newly opened tulips,

redder than the sunset.

I can give you the gold

Of the freshly mown straw,

drying in the sun.

The gift of Autumn leaves,

falling gently earthwards.

The sharp sweet taste

of homemade jam,

fruit of the village orchard

and the wild bordering wood.

The nip of snowflakes on the tongue.

The laughter, carols and bells

of an icy Christmas eve.

Sarah Ellen Macdonald

Where There’s Flame There’s the Rocks and the Sea – Benjamin Heinig

Gannets chattering like a full orchestral ensemble

I write poetry for a hobby and write about the land, the environment, travel, places, spirituality etc. As a Self Employed Gardener, a keen walker and enjoy cooking and baking, I have been writing poems for about 15 years.Previously had a poem of mine “To Be Usually Green” printed in the Kindred Spirit Magazine January/February 2019 issue.

Where There’s Flame There’s the Rocks and the Sea

Written By Benjamin Heinig 31st August2019

Where there’s flame there’s fire

Where there’s fire there’s fury

Whether wintry cold with frost and snow

Candles burning 12 of Advent Show

Whether friends or family

Work or joy

To the Bass Rock I GO

Gannets chattering like a full orchestral ensemble

Yet a storm at sea with heavy rain, haar mist and a gale force wind

At The Rocks Hotel Dunbar Scotland

A family evening meal sat in the Medieval Dining Room with red painted walls

Sat around a long dark varnished wooden table

With a large blazing bright fire in the long and old stone fireplace

With Scottish landscape and pictorial paintings on the walls

Candles and candlesticks dotted about

Chasing shadows into the night

Looking out of the rustic windows

At the sea only a hundred metres away

It seems so nostalgic

A magical experience

There’s a Kindling Kindred Spirit of Saint Nickolas coming down the fireplace chimney

It must be Christmas Eve Night

To be woken up the next morning with delight

A blanket of snow sparkles in the morning sunlight

Benjamin Heinig

Love Corner – John Rabenheimer

Today we will paint violet and orange

LOVE CORNER

A scurry of quiet voices.

We are on board the morning train.

Leafless trees and brambles

brush the sky.

Today we will paint violet and orange.

The horizon revolves slowly

its opposing way,

It’s like the rim of an artist’s palette;

that tower is his thumb poking through.

How awesome is our Artist supreme.

Far more beauty in this world

than the sum of ugliness.

I’m heading for the hospital;

a small matter, but not for my family.

Went into a little shop

to buy pen, notebook,

so I could write this down.

The man behind the counter hunted

every corner. Sorry, he said,

take mine.

John Raubenheimer, Settle, North Yorkshire