Another approach to Poetry writing from Pete
PETE’S LIME TANG TART
Ingredients: lpkt ginger biscuits
1 pot double cream
1 tin condensed milk
Crush the biscuits into crumbs,
You could use a rolling pin,
After mixing with the melted marg.,
Place in a loose bottomed tin.
Add the juice of five green limes,
To a tin of condensed milk,
Whisk together with double cream,
Until as smooth as silk.
Now spread this on the biscuit base,
Then leave it if you will,
On any shelf inside the fridge,
As it must have time to chill.
The resulting tang is heavenly,
A taste that’s really great,
Sod the thoughts of calories,
And putting on of weight.
Something profound by Faymarie Morris
Sometimes a poem just seems to arrive.
Sometimes it gets dragged from your psyche
and chews at your insides, driving you mad,
like a bad dream that visits nightly.
Why do I put myself through this torment
sitting for hours in front of a screen,
struggling to find a more meaningful word?
Something profound, instead of just green.
How did they manage, those poets of old
with quill pens and rough sheets of paper,
scratching away in some garret or shed,
to create something worthy of favour?
I suppose that was all they had to do,
those offspring of the social elite.
But their talent, foresight and use of words,
were absolute, and still hard to beat.
So, why do I write the same kind of stuff
that I store in the depths of my brain,
then churn out in similar ways, each time?
The same format, again and again.
Will I ever write something of value,
something forceful or significant?
A sonnet, haiku or lyrical ode
that a reader might find eloquent?
But I’m not the one writing the poem,
it’s the poem that’s writing itself.
It waits in the darkness beside my desk,
a fanciful muse or irksome elf.
And whenever I feel like giving up,
because nothing I write seems to fit,
I remember something Tennyson wrote
about poets needing a fruitful wit…
By Faymarie Morris
A Pair of Faerie Tales written for ‘rival siblings’ by Chris South
Molly (Faerie Tales)
Happy endings are for children
Molly likes them real
Three little pigs are in the pot
Can’t you hear them squeal?
Cinderella’s slippers smashed
Before she ever reached the ball
She cut herself on the broken glass
And bled to death by her recall.
Molly killed her dolly
By ripping off its head
Molly wants a motorbike
And guns and knives instead
Molly hates the world outside
For leaving her behind
And if the world hates Molly too
Well! Molly doesn’t mind.
Faerie tales are folly
Molly hates them all
Should a prince climb up her hair
She hopes he’ll bloody fall
Should she sleep a hundred years
Waiting to be kissed
She’d keep one eye half open
And make sure the bugger missed.
Molly’s made from slugs and snails
And puppy dogs tails
And things which wouldn’t rhyme
Sugar and spice
Would’ve been nice
But they’re a waste of time
Molly wants to be a boy
’Cause boys have all the fun
But all boys want are faerie tales
When all is said and done!
Alice (more Faerie Tales)
Ring o’ Roses
All fall down
I will miss you
When the piper comes to town
Cut the laces from her shoes
Cut the ribbons from her hair
See her face as white as snow
Watch her stand and stare
In the middle of the Blackwood
Children hide behind the trees
Round and round
The candy house
Playing touch and freeze.
The piper’s tune is calling
All the children of the Rhine
Like a regimental marching band
They’re falling into line
Hand in hand
And heel to toe
Across the fields and hills they go
Heading for their Underland
Their eyes are wide
And fail to understand.
“Alice can you hear me?
Alice are you there?”
Alice in her wonderland
She could be anywhere
Alice sees the children
Marching to their death
Alice has been here before
“Alice take a breath!”
Alice in her dream world
Reliving childhood memories
Alice in a faerie tail
Running through the trees
Ring o’ Roses
Powerless to help the children
When the piper calls.
An empty stage (Country) by Pete Brammer
I dreamed about some dear, dear friends,
Whose fame will never wane,
Performing on that mighty stage,
In the Country Hall of Fame.
Patsy Cline looked somewhat sad,
Whereas, Big ‘O’ he looked shy,
‘The Blizzard’ by the great Jim Reeves,
Brought a tear to my eye.
Johnny Cash, he sang San Quentin,
In a makeshift ball and chain,
On next came Boxcar Willie,
Doing whistles like a train.
Gene Autrey with his round-up songs,
Roy Rogers sang the same,
Whilst old Hank Williams, bless his heart,
Said. “Boy I’m glad I came.”
Marty held my full attention,
With a love song so sincere,
That’s when I grabbed my camera,
To secure a souvenir.
The flash, it woke me from my sleep,
Like lightning in the rain,
I knew I’d been with country friends,
Who I’d love to meet again.
Weeks later, came a big surprise,
No bigger one I’ll wage,
For when I picked my photo’s up,
On one … an empty stage!
She had always loved this time of year, Autumn. From her window, she enjoyed the changing panorama of the trees as they turned gold, russet and red. They reminded her of other Autumns, long ago; collecting chestnuts with her father; marvelling at The Fall colours in New England, on holiday with her husband.
The next day there were fewer leaves on the trees, more on the ground. She recalled running through fallen leaves as a child and the unique, crunchy sound they made. She wished she had someone to share the colours and run through the leaves with now. But she was alone, and housebound.
The woman continued sitting looking out of the window, as she did much of the day. She liked to watch the birds as they hurried about their business, and if a cat appeared her heart was in her mouth in case it caught one. She loved the squirrels, sitting up eating nuts or chasing each other. They always brought a little smile to her face.
It had been a windy night and next day there were not many leaves left on the trees, just a few stubborn ones clinging to the lower branches. The weather was turning cold and her pain felt worse. The autumnal colours were gradually fading to greys and browns. But the woman remains in her chair in front of the window. She does not move. She will never move again. Pale golden light slants through the trees as the sun sinks slowly towards the horizon, a crimson orb heralding the end of daylight. Soon the naked trees are silhouetted against the darkening sky.
The woman in the chair will not see Spring; but she is no longer suffering. She has moved into that soft, dreamless sleep that lasts for ever.
Autumn leaves. And Winter takes its place.
Cynthia Smith 31. 3. 15
(Photo – Falling Leaves on the Foss – Littlebeck, Whitby by Kevin Murphy.)