My Role Model – Julie Shackman

Your shoes and spikey heels

I am a romantic comedy author from Scotland, who also writes verses and captions for greetings card companies.

My first traditionally published novel, A Room at the Manor, was released last year in Australia & New Zealand, and this year in Germany and the UK.

My next novel, The McKerron Castle, is out in audio book on 1 November.

When I’m not writing, I’m trying to wade through my growing To Be Read pile of books – and I am a stationery obsessive!

My Role Model

Powder brushes,

Glinting bottle,

Of her favourite scent,

The ghost of all her wisest words,

–

And what they truly meant.

“Chase your dreams, no matter what,”

She would often say,

With her white and dazzling smile,

–

And eyes of pearly grey.

Her amber, scratched sunglasses,

The swinging coats she wore,

As though they’re waiting for her,

–

Inside my wardrobe door.

Albums of dear photos,

Your shoes and spikey heels,

Those who suffer such a loss,

–

Know just how all this feels.

My gazing admiration,

Snuggled by your side,

Even as a little girl,

–

You filled my heart with pride.

The day you left,

Was like the final setting of the sun,

But nothing can erase the love I have for you,

……My Mum.

–

The End.

Julie Shackman, Milngavie

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.

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.

Adult – Ruth McLeod

Every ‘Adult’ has not developed yet into who they are supposed to be

I’m originally from the midlands, Leicestershire & Nottingham way, but moved further south a few years ago with my husband for work. I’ve been writing creatively since I was a teenager, I’ve always been good a coming up with ideas, but never very good at finishing them, so much so that I have several novels on the go. Writing is my way of expressing how I feel and processing my emotions, sometimes I write with no intention of ever showing anyone the elaborate stories I create. Recently I have been trying to push myself to write more short-form stories and poems so that I can share my thoughts to others.

Adult

Written by Ruth Macleod

The definition of an adult is a person who is fully formed, fully grown…developed.

It has little thought or description for those who, although may seem an adult in every way may still see themselves as lost as when they were children.

Still searching.

Still hopeful.

Still entirely not ‘put together’.

–

But then perhaps this is because every adult secretly thinks like this,

Every ‘Adult’ has not developed yet into who they are supposed to be,

Or who they could be,

And I guess that is the question.

–

Who they are.

Is it who they are RIGHT NOW, this very second?

Because that person will not be the same in a week.

A month, a year, three years.

They might feel like an adult tomorrow,

But in two weeks, they may feel as lost as they did when their parents dropped them off at university for the first night.

–

A definition of an adult then becomes somewhat impossible to ever live up to.

Because to be ‘fully formed’, ‘developed’… ‘grown’.

Is to be done, baked and ready to take out of the oven.

To be all those things means that you are over,

That life is over,

And I don’t want life to be over.

I don’t want to be an adult.

Ruth McLeod

Silly Girls – Eleanor Moss

You altered my own reputation

Silly Girls

Tell tale signs you’ve got a good story to play Lay audience is lay
So come on whisper it all;
words like the morning bird’s call.
Musical Lyrical
Followed you like it was biblical
wrong interpretation: un-pieus if there’s flirtation

You altered my own reputation
Left me jolted, though presented as oblation

Take your words, you can be the tortured artist.

I’ll always be the girl that stopped you to flourish.

Eleanor Moss

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

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

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

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