Counting Stars – Brian Wake

we went outside and gazed at stars

Brian Wake

Born in Liverpool. Published in the UK and abroad. Work broadcast

On BBC TV (BBC 2), Radio 4 and local radio (Merseyside). Books published

By Headland Publications, England and Driftwood Publication (UK)

Counting Stars

In the early hours then, sometime between

not wanting to get up and needing to,

expectant silences, the visual discrepancy

between gunmetal blues of fading night

and gorgeous morning, my father walked

the landing half asleep.

He asked me if… do I, he said, still work,

and should I shave, and if his bus was due.

I turned him back and closed his bedroom

door, and wondered if, at some god-help-me time,

I too would walk the landing half asleep

and if my children might be near

to keep me from unutterable despair.

Against conditions such as these, to question

how and why we live and breathe is somehow

quite absurd. That night, a little time ago,

we went outside and gazed at stars.

My father counting them, my children asking

what they mean and me caught somewhere

in between what matters everyday

and what is meaningless.

Brian Wake

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

Nimbus – Luke Nutt

bright like an idea or a movement in dance

Luke Nutt is a university graduate with a passion for English and creative writing. He often draws upon personal experiences but decided to create ‘Nimbus’ in honour of a friend’s sister who was recently diagnosed with cancer. Thank you so much Luke for sharing your talents with Voices and entering the competition.

NIMBUS

a hair becomes ash
for fingers to play
to write a play.
crespucular in mood
but bright like an idea
or a movement in dance.
there is no snuffing you
no forcing you from the sky –
your cloud is as I say

your cloud.

mammoth of nimbus
you are no dowager
you live, sky blue,
sky and blue,
light hue on a damaged canvas.
and like the cloud’s tears feed
foliage;
it, too, feeds the stream
next to which we build cities,
churches, homes. keeping hope
remaining
hopeful
for the droplets
that contain
you.

Luke Nutt

The Grief in my Mind – Macee Grace Atkins

Like a broken mother, I mourned for someone

Macee Grace Atkins has had a love of reading, writing short stories and poetry from an early age. A tragic accident which resulted in the loss of a fellow student at Macee’s school inspired ‘The Grief in my Mind’. We really appreciate Macee taking the time to share her talents, and address a very difficult so topic eloquently through the medium of poetic verse.

I didn’t quite know you and you didn’t quite know me,

but somehow. The silence of the crowds,

and the parting of the clouds, made me wish you peace.

For it wasn’t meant to be.

Like a broken mother,

I mourned for someone I had not loved but somehow lost.

Trickling droplets of grief

cleansed me of the purity of happiness. Until

a single angelic sign settled on my right shoulder.

Reminding me of hope,

that of which I have for you, Aamer.

Macee Grace Atkins, 15

Stephanie Hewitt – Hope

give things time..we’ll heal…we’ll smile..

Many thanks to Stephanie Hewitt for her entry to Voices. Stephanie’s mum, who is sadly unwell at present, provided the inspiration to the poem – and she loves her very much. The poem reminds us of how quickly life can change for better or for worse. We appreciate Stephanie’s kind decision to share.

Hope

Our lives are full of wonder..of how each day will be..

we hope it’s full of love..good health..but we have to wait and see..

Our lives can take a tumble..when we’re sure it’s turned out right..

It can turn our lives upside down..and darkness hides the light..

But don’t despair..be sad..or weep..It’s just a passing day..

give things time..we’ll heal…we’ll smile..Everything will be Ok..

Stephanie Hewitt, Great Ayton, North Yorkshire

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

Senses of Music – Steve Fordington

Music harmonises the universe

Steve Fordington is a North Norfolk poet, lyricist, musician and teacher. He has written poetry all his life as well as playing and teaching several instruments. He is an active member of a Norfolk poetry circle and regularly performs in bands, groups and orchestras. He has published many compositions and was a schoolteacher and manager for nearly forty years.

Senses Of Music by Steve Fordington

Music – you can’t touch.

Yet music lets you feel.

It’s from imagination.

Yet music is so real.

Music – you can’t taste.

And yet it stirs your soul.

One note, one chord, a passing phrase

Brings back what memory stole.

It helps recall the sights,

The smells and raw regrets.

It fixes a moment frozen –

A diary point time forgets.

For music is our backdrop,

Our wallpaper of being.

Our collective inspiration

Of loving, knowing, seeing.

Its entity exists alone,

Away from instruments and scores.

No crowded media imposed,

Nor locked away indoors.

And like an everlasting strain

Of all life meant and more,

Music harmonises the universe

For futures gone before.

Steve Fordington, North Norfolk

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.