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)

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.

To What End – Elen Hughes

a shadow of a memory

To What End

Chop me up and share out the pieces

My flesh is the giver of life;

it was selfish of me to cling to it for all these years.

Of what remains

Burn it. Bury it. Chuck it in the bin.

Leave it to waste and

Remain

only so long as time

In a form

of sorts.

And all the rest means more

(or less?)

To whom it may concern

To whom it may provide

a shadow of a memory,

a ripple of what once was,

a comfort in the remembrance of fondness.

A sham.

The next is not to be dealt with

Or dished out or examined.

It is to be

pure and unfiltered in its falsehood,

naturally poisoned and distorted,

in that way –

Time’s specialty.

Hovering in your mind, interrupting your stories,

somehow more prominent now

Skirting at the edges of your vision,

Buzzing at the window,

not quite me

more than I am

(or less?)

Until

you

too

Elen Hughes

Neuroplasticity – Amy Ndubeze

The trees snake their roots around your waist

Neuroplasticity

Instead of of rose-tinted glasses, you had them swapped out for a thin permanent film

I’m not sure when you got it fitted

But I know no child should excuse what you excused

Cheeks stinging and you whisper

I love you, I love you

Nose bloody

Forgive me, forgive me

The trees snake their roots around your waist

Keeping you stable

(keeping you from running)

Snake their way into your brain, and you rot, as expected

Decaying wood used to keep the fire going

Flames become you, for being alight is the only life you know

If dulled out who are you?

What is a life without pain?

Pain is a mother and she nurtures you

Pain is a sister who playfully belittles you

Pain is a father who gaslights you

So of course it was always your fault

Neuroplasticity

A neat word you learnt in class that made you realize that no matter how many tablets you take

No matter how many therapists you see

It will always be you

The feral child will bark until she dies

And so shall you

Amy Ndubeze

That Day – Jackie Kirman

From the back of the church, it might be a normal service,

Special thanks to Jackie Kirman who is a Creative Writing Teacher with a passion for producing both poems and short fiction. Jackie has had some of her work published in the past and we really appreciate her kind decision to share ‘That day…’ with us.

That day…

we left in a hurry.

The rest in our wake,

break neck speed.

Holding hands, our three;

fingers enclosing fingers,

enclosing fingers.

Past the three

storey flats with

names scrawled

on dim-lit doorbells.

Past the long haired

cat, with its hanging

tail who circled

three times.

And our three

flowers, bruised

stems, bleeding.

From the back of the

church, it might

be a normal service,

but the congregation

slowly turned.

That morning…

I woke early,

the noise in my

head like a loose

storm door in a gale.

I dreamt

I had no legs,

just an old board

with wheels.

I thought I would

make a sign to hang

around my neck.

Jackie Kirman

Come Home to the Hearth – Judith Bristow

Bathe in fire’s glow

We really appreciate Judith Bristow’s fantastic submission to Voices. Judith is an amateur musician and Early Years Practitioner living in Helston, Cornwall. She loves writing poetry ‘inspired by the sea, the art and gift of storytelling, and human compassion.’ Thank you Judith.

Come Home to the Hearth

Come home to the hearth

Where your ancestors wait

To embrace you in

bearskin, wool, cotton and lace

The twilight seeks in

The day is all won

By you, or some other

No matter – it’s done

Sit down by the warmth

Bathe in fire’s glow

Tell your stories – or not;

No matter, they know

Rest your head on old shoulders

Feel your hearts beat in time

Trust in the wisdom

Of your constant guides

Open your hands

Let the love come back in

You are safe and beloved

Next the hearth with your kin

Judith Bristow

Sonnet – Atmosphere Hayden Van Zeil

At the edge, space is drawing near

Hayden Van Zeil is from Hayling Island and enjoys sport and reading. As part of his Duke of Edinburgh award, Hayden has decided to create poetry. He enjoys experimenting with different styles and genres. Thank you very much Hayden for sharing your work with us!

Sonnet– Atmosphere

The atmosphere contains many layers,

Closest to life is the troposphere,

The sight of it can answer people’s prayers,

Blue as the ocean, shining like a chandelier.

Next to come is the stratosphere,

12 to 50 Km from the earth’s brittle crust,

If you voyage there, you’ll require space gear,

And one immense spaceship thrust.

3rd out of the 5 is the mesosphere,

Its purpose is to burn up the deadly meteorites,

Thank god were safe! Hand us a beer,

Shooting stars! What a stunning sight.

The Thermosphere is where the northern lights arise,

It is the largest layer of the earth’s atmosphere,

Thermo means heat, its Greek, that’s a surprise!

The distance from earth is 1.0570008 x 10-10 of a light year.

The last layer, furthest from earth,

At the edge, space is drawing near,

This layer has many uses and lots of worth,

Its name?… Exosphere.

Hayden Van Zeil, 14, Hayling Island

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.