 Graeme Sandford - poet, writer.
Escape From The Country
“I know the way,“ you say; but soon are lost.
We came along this path an hour ago;
And so we end the day alone, adrift,
The same as once before, when we were young.
I blow upon our hands to keep them warm;
Your shame is such that you to silence hold.
We sleep the night under the mocking sky
Until we wake to try our way again.
“Just keep the sun to left and we’ll be fine,”
But still we roam the land in loss divine.
And steep the climb, and wide the flow we cross,
From hill to moor, past lake and forest new.
We tire and fade, no more our step in time,
And sun, grown high, does now decline and drop.
Expire and halt, we share our lot, and then…
Undone, we call for help; and wait for son.
Seeking Asylum
The sound of children’s laughter; hating, spiteful.
The smell of roses; rotting, festered.
Is it right that I should want; ask for; need
To breathe ‘fresh’ air, and hear
‘faint callings from far away?’
Rather than this! This! With its noise;
Its smell; its rancid taste.
What language! What noise! The smell!
For what seems an age of ages
I have to stay and endure the pain.
But endure I do, and, job done, I leave the madness,
And sanity regain.
And am I glad to get out of there?
Am I?
Graeme Sandford c.1994
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Flat Broke
My legs they hurt,
My arms they hurt,
My head it hurts,
My nose it hurts,
And, another thing…
I don’t like steamrollers, anymore.
Graeme Sandford 2006
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 Myra Metcalfe - poet, artist.
Not For The Ears Of Children
They used her like a plastic doll
Poor dana (and all like her)
Abused as if she'd no feelings at all
Colluded, her own family, to break her.
The warning came on the radio,
"Don't let your children hear."
Heart-breaking and gut-wrenching to know
That those who should protect her,
Parent and family, stooped so low
To treat defenceless girlhood so.
Obscenity in my ear!
Myra Metcalfe July '07
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Poem Puzzles
Words are loaded in poems
With more meaning than just one.
Untwist them and nravel
Meanings appear when undone.
There's lots of satisfaction
For the questing, inquiring mind
Not just reading the words themselves
But inbetween the lines
And just when you think you've grasped it
So you go back and reread it
Find out what it really has to say.
Myra Metcalfe July '07
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 John Moore - poet, retired marketing manager.
Chaos on a Cretan Pool
Instead of musing under English trees
His roaming mind more wayward than his feet
Had Newton journeyed to the Cyclades
Or to the wind-brushed paradise of Crete
And there beside some kidney-contoured pool
Measured the movement of a blossom blown
Without purpose and by no known rule
Of surface currents or gusts free flown.
Would he have seen the road his theories lead,
The curious complexities beyond
And in a different experience found
More gentle than an apple on his head
A broken blossom floating on a pond,
A pointer to a theory more profound ?
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Nineteen Ninety Six
That was the year of the World Cup
The year we moved to Solihull
The Saxon pig-sty on the hill,
Its Rover shadow factory
Still in the shadow of the countryside,
Its population industrial but smug
On Birmingham’s gin-and-jag belt
We did not know
How soon our lives would change
And we moved on
Leaving Solihull
To be enmeshed in motorways.
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 Glen Jayson - poet, writer, writing workshop coordinator.
Is Love So Great?
Love can drive you nuts
Cause hyper-activity in the gut
Yes, love can make you feel so ill
Physical attraction brews a bitter-sweet pill
Love can make you lose your sleep
Cause hurt enough to make you weep
Love creates daydreams when you’re busy at work
"Wakey, wakey," they say, and you feel such a burk.
Yet love is a cliché that makes the world go round
A feeling so high, your feet lift off the ground
The magic of melting when two lips kiss
Oh, love, love, love,
What is all this?
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Food For Flowers
Flowers on the cliff path
Bouquet wrapped in rustling cellophane
Vertical still, tied tight on low railing.
Someone’s Samantha.
Mum and the family are missing her smile
Remembering her hearty laugh.
The view of Torbay is breathtaking
The English Channel royal blue and relaxing
But someone’s left flowers for Samantha
Leaving us chilled as we wonder.
At a table, somewhere, there is a spare place
No knife and fork laid out for Samantha.
A mother often weeps, empty for her daughter.
A stranger who’s made a holiday-maker cry.
What happened when they lost her five years ago?
Gone forever
But always in their hearts.
Gone.
For even this memoriam bouquet
Has browned and withered and died
Yet a purple sachet glistens, plastic fresh as ever.
"Flower Food"
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 Con Connell - poet, Southampton "The Saints" Football Club Poet Laureate.
6.15 am: “How’s my driving…..?”
Awoken by my bedside alarm, quietly cursing
Its monotonous beep.
But it’s really just my signal that I’m reversing.
I’m going back …….. to sleep.
For more of Con's work visit his website, it can be found at: www.conconnell.co.uk
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 Anthony Fairweather - poet, performer.
Uncool and Proud of It
I'm uncool and proud of it,
I believe that’s the way.
I’m uncool and proud of it,
And that’s how I’ll stay,
For in coolness there’s sneering
And pressure to conform,
To be things you don’t want to be,
And that is the norm.
To be cool at school,
You have to act like your peers,
Or endure their taunting,
Like I did for years.
But they were the cool ones,
And they caused all the trouble,
And as I wouldn’t conform,
They reduced me to rubble.
But they didn’t succeed
In making me live life their way.
“I’m uncool” I shouted,
“And that’s how I’ll stay.
I’ll do the things I want to,
Not just what’s cool.
I’ll live life my own way,
And not to your rule.
So please say I’m an anorak,
I really don’t care,
If I want to stare at trains,
I’ll do it, SO THERE.
I’m not hurting your lives,
By doing what I do,
So why do you bully me?
What’s in it for you?
And you’re not going to break me,
No matter how hard you try.
I do the things I want
While you live a lie.
You might make me feel sad,
But I won’t give in,
And no matter how you try,
You will not win.”
So I’m uncool and proud of it,
And will be forever,
While those who want cool
Are at the end of their tether,
Trying to keep up
With whatever’s in fashion,
Even though deep down
They hate it with a passion.
I say,
“Join the uncool army,
We do what we please.
We don’t taunt all others,
To bring them to their knees.
We just get on with what we want,
And so could you.”
And if we all did that,
We’d all be happier too.
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