The Wheel of Time – Alex Kashko

Pan is alive again and his pipes sound

Edinburgh based poet Alex Kashko has been an engineer, Scientist, Mathematician, Academic, translator and Nomadic Software developer. His work has most recently bee accepted for Abyss and Apex.

The wheel of time

Alex Kashko

The year turns slowly and the green king

of oak feels his strength wane. The winter king

of holly stirs, his strength growing. Soon it will be

the season of wind and wet and a festival of folly

–

The people note the longer nights

the darkness and the cold.

Shiver and put on the lights

Scared they are getting old

–

The green king of oak rises to wrestle with the winter king of holly,

ponders the folly of a fight he knows he will lose and another

he knows he will win.

–

The people in their boxes put on the light

turn up the heat ignore the darker hours.

They don’t care about the fight

Their enemies are humans who took power.

–

In the dusky wolf light the fey, the elves and goblins play.

Pan is alive again and his pipes sound

through the streets, take over the buskers who stay

to enjoy his music, past the rush hour and the end of day

–

The cycle must go on. Once the holly king has

won the two kings with a single crown shake hands and drink together

Rejoicing in the change of weather

that lets one sleep, the other sing.

–

The humans, still blind, who missed the fight,

shiver and, afraid of getting old, switch on another light.

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.

Fugitives – Dominic James

below a tall, stark sky

Dominic James lives in the Cotswolds and attends poetry meetings along the Thames Valley. His collection, Pilgrim Station, was published by SPM Publications in 2016.

Fugitives

With elder bloom and hawthorn sheaves
a better place found to grieve,
fresh in the morning sun:
let blossom shed by apple trees
bathe my eyes, let tears come.

Troubles have I known. Move on.
I still believe warm drops, dissolved
can separate the single soul
from a wounded heart – a sleight of hand
bruising to the fragile ribs,

pinches at soft tissue, muscle –
I could win back my willing half
but after so much shared and lost,
to find another’s turned away,
shrugged me off: I’m hollow.

Blue-finned, the magpie struts and hops
his vine-entangled, fence’s row
much as he skips from love to love,
merciless, our native crow
contrasts zip to sorrow.

If charity lacks value then
the fugitive’s well understood:
once stolen off and gone for good
seeks brazen reassurances.
I offered those as well.

Cock robin on a limb
pipe up and sing Poor Me, in shade
below a tall, stark sky
no sign of rain to prick my eyes,
make tears come, not me.

Dominic James

Ashdown Forest to Oakhill – Ruth Gilchrist

I love the birth of an autumn day

Ruth Gilchrist is an award-winning poet who has lived in many beautiful places, but it was becoming a parent that made her write. Too tired to sleep poetry was the only voice she could find in the dark. Fortunately, as her children have grown so has her writing success, now it’s the poetry that keeps her awake. Ruth writes on a variety of subjects and experiments with different poetry forms. Her joint pamphlet “The Weather Looks Promising” is published by Black Agnes Press.

https://www.scottishbooktrust.com/authors/ruth-gilchrist

https://ruthgilchristpoet.blogspot.com/

Ashdown forest to Oakhill

I love the birth of an autumn day that kicks dew from your heels and plants gossamer webs on your face. The only time my fingers welcome the cold is when scooped beneath a field mushroom to pluck it with its damp umbilical. I tell the boys;“note in your mind this spot, there will be more here tomorrow.” But their thoughts are fireworks and their hunt will be just as wide every day they are here in Oakhill. I know they will come every morning, not just for the novelty of the velvet nosed foal eating my jumper, but because they cannot believe the flavour. I think there is something about the oak tree, that you taste in a field mushroom that they will never forget.

I remember my first taste, my sister and I gathered them in Ashdown forest. There wild mushrooms mine rich tones from the earth beneath the autumn leaves. There was a youth there I tasted too. He was fresh cologned with saddle soap, hands calloused from the reigns. Lips the flavour of rosehip, hawthorn, plum and elderberry. That season I was painted; all the fiery colours of autumn.

Ruth Gilchrist

Made Up – Sally Hamilton

Fantastically shaped, beautifully hued

Hi there, my name is Sally; I am drawn to things left unsaid, to snapshot moments in time and to emotions and events which leave a mark.

Made Up

The purple extends outwards from my eye, dark and lurid,

yellowing extensions of a sulphurous lake.
It’s a perfect egg. A perfect ex-ample.

Fantastically shaped, beautifully hued;
if it weren’t right there for all to see
(and turn away from)

and coming from nowhere.

No-one saw it,
there is no story to tell,
no tall-tale of heroism or a drunken fall.
Just another prosaic ending to the blackness which came before
and which no-one was there to witness
(except maybe the cat).

I look him deep in his emerald eyes and he stares back at mine, as it turns from pewter to maroon, from ochre to ash.

He’s not telling what he saw, or heard.

I run my finger along it, I feel ashamed, though of what I am not sure;
the universal embarrassment of such an outward display of drama, maybe.
At the unsaid untruths which accompany such a mutli-coloured lie.

And that’s the thing – as I look at you, eye to eye after so long,
I will never know
and you will never comprehend what it feels like:

Not to know.

Sally Hamilton

Ode To A Forgotten Poem – Arthur Roberts

I wonder at your mysterious origins

I’m 60 years old and have enjoyed writing poetry most of my life.

ODE TO A FORGOTTEN POEM

I revisit you after a decade of neglect.
I am ten full years shorter now
Yet you appear to be longer!
Your sleek lines shine rust free,
Unpolished, I still see my reflection in you.
Your acid tongue sharper than a paper cut.
I take pride in your robust form.
Your truth shocks me anew.
I wonder at your mysterious origins
And can’t remember how I found you.
A sapling of an idea with shallow burrowing roots.
Now I rest in your shade,
You, whom I made.

Arthur Roberts, Tipton

Nashville and Red Lipstick – Sue Burnside

Maybe I’ll get tired of Nashville

I am Sue Burnside. We moved up to the West Coast of Scotland three years ago. Prior to that I was a special school head teacher.I am having a late burst of creativity at the moment, and as well as poetry, I write short stories and am writing a non fiction book about growing up in London in an irish Catholic family. I also write songs and am learning to play the mandolin and banjo.

Nashville and Red Lipstick

Should I decide this will be my last dog?

This one at my feet?

I don’t want to get another one

that has to outlive me,

that has to come to see me in the hospice

Or wear a bandana at the cemetery.

And then go back to the rescue.

–

When should I accept that I won’t go to Nashville

And sing at the Grand Ol’ Opry?

Accept that banjo lessons are a waste of time?

(Not just for me but for everyone.)

And when should I give up the fight with my hair?

Settle for grey steel and not soft gold?

And concede I am not as funny as I think I am.

–

My mother never gave up.

Not like me.

Weeks after she died

the parcels still arrived.

She planted tulips for the next spring,

She never imagined life ended,

Things unmended

She died waiting for batteries for her hearing aid.

–

Maybe I’ll get tired of Nashville,

Of crossword answers slipping out of reach,

Of forgotten words like so much fluff in my mouth,

Then I’ll stop searching for the perfect red lipstick.

I won’t remember the arc

But I will remember the fall,

The arrow coming to land

Somewhere I can’t find.

Sue Burnside

So… – Maxine Emmett

Yet elucidation, I need explanation!

I wrote a lot as a child and as an English tutor, have just started tutoring someone who is showing talent and it’s reignited my passion!

So….

So, I want to know why….

Why, Why, Why?

Rhetorical yet symbolic, it is my addled mind that is determined to spin,

Yet calm, I crave placidity!

–

So, I want to know who….

Who, Who, Who?

Reasoning and sensibility seem in a state of utter complacence,

Yet elucidation, I need explanation!

–

So, I want to know where….

Where, Where, Where?

Locality and Bearings make my brain cells shiver,

Yet logical organisation, I prefer sequentialism!

–

So, I want to know when….

When, When, When?

Continuance and Perpetuity are omnipresent,

Yet finality, I prefer cessation!

Maxine Emmett

Love Always – Colin Ward

to breathe through smiles

Colin is a self-published author and poet who has produced two collections to date. His poetry is varied in theme and form, exploring topics of mental health, war, justice, nature, and many more. Having been writing for over twenty years, Colin enjoys each new challenge of expressing ideas, feelings, and the wider questions our lives present us with.

Love Always

Scared and tired

in regretful pain

we mocked the madness

put the world to rights

found laughter again.

–

One last time

I broke your tears

like so many hours

spent clearing the fog

of lonely years.

–

Our final chorus

set spirits free

to breathe through smiles

wider than willows weep

their canopies.

–

Quietly embracing

softest solemn sighs

expressing more

than wistful whispers

of any goodbye:

love always.

Colin Ward

The Dog Problem – Dhylan Patel

A bright and bouncy bounding ball

My name is Dhylan Patel, I am 16 years old and I attend The Latymer School, Edmonton. Currently I am studying English Literature A level (alongside triple science). Poetry is one of my biggest passions and the poem I have submitted is intended as comical: the message should not be misinterpreted as provocative or angry. It addresses some of my earliest childhood memories around dogs in which I was chased through parks on numerous occasions. I do not hate dogs but I do believe their owners ought to be more responsible.

The Dog Problem

Eager and excitable,

Endlessly delectable,

Loyal to the very end,

Rightfully a man’s best friend,

–

A bright and bouncy bounding ball,

Attentive to your every call,

Inquisitive, intelligent,

With empathy and sentiment.

–

Dreamy, round and soulful eyes,

A loving heart: tender, wise,

Fur which shimmers as a jewel,

A muzzle glazed in moisture cool.

–

Since this viewpoint was conceived,

Most mankind have been deceived,

The friendliness which you perceive,

Is what they want you to believe.

–

Let’s start again: the honest way,

Ignoring lies that people say,

Tear away the fake facade,

Reveal the truth: cold and hard.

First of all: the antipasti,

Consider all the mess,

Sewage strewn across the street,

A bog of brown no less.

And why excuse our canine ‘friend’,

From cuts to meat intake,

Breeding, feeding animals,

To die for our pet’s sake?

There seems to be a motif,

Double standards if I may,

Dogs pollute and vandalise,

For which they never pay.

For mains we’ll have aggression,

Your pooch is born to hunt,

Only its domestication,

Turned sharpened instincts blunt.

It sees you and thinks caribou,

Its still a wolf inside,

But its too fat to get you,

So it sets that thought aside.

Why does the chihuahua snarl?

Why does the mastiff bite?

You fool! It isn’t friendliness,

This thug just wants to fight.

For dessert we’ll take the owners,

Who must accept some blame,

For releasing sewage monsters,

Whose bowels they cannot tame.

They pick a dog they cannot handle,

Disproportional in size,

Whilst cluelessly they amble,

It starts to terrorise.

When at last they turn around,

They choose to feign surprise,

You don’t like that barking sound,

Or saliva on your thighs?

–

Sure- they make good company,

They run around I grant,

They do a lot like make a mess,

But nothing people can’t.

–

Why must we keep such creatures?

They’re wild after all,

Though tameable and trainable,

They can’t obey your call.

–

Wouldn’t dogs prefer their freedom?

That’s how they have evolved,

Living peacefully and separately,

Helps all parties involved.

Dhylan Patel

100% Human – Jodie Jones

We’re all human regardless of our birthplace

My name is Jodie Jones and I’m 28 years old, I’ve been writing poetry for over a decade and it’s took me until now to get brave enough to send any of it to anyone. I owe this new bravery to my little boy Peter, who’s 2. Because he is fearless and I’m convinced I learn more from him than he does from me. Anyway, peace and love.

100% Human

There’s a little, square piece of fabric

Sewn to a place that makes my skin itch.

100% cotton from my waist up

With a drawn on smile made of makeup.

I hide in a disguise that I’ve created

But I’m still shoved in a category and hated.

Whether I stand out or I blend in

There’s always someone I’m offending.

And I just can’t escape the judgemental

If I had a label it would read “please be gentle”.

Who knew the fabrics of our heart

Form the blocks from where we start?

And the skin that creates our surface

Is the ticket that gets you furthest?

I’m not taking part in that race

We’re all human regardless of our birthplace.

Cut off the labels attached to our skin

We’re the same underneath and we’re the same within.

Yet we all close our eyes and sit in the dark

I can hear society crying of a broken heart.

100% human 100% of people

We’re all best dressed when we’re equal.

Jodie Jones