Return to the Lost Planet – by Andrew Bell

Return to the lost planet

First time out, we arrived on a shaft of light;
falling into your troubled world, weeping tears of gold.

Cast into the Underworld, we saw how Lucifer
and his legions had infested the Earth.

Saved from a plague of serpents, we witnessed
the heavenly hosts do battle with the forces of darkness. Continue reading

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This week’s Trigger

There was some lovely work produced by our members inspired by the last trigger/prompt ‘Test’.  If you’re stuck for a theme this week why not try using this week’s suggestion:

‘Train’

Use it any way you like, any meaning you can think of, and any style! Be creative and think outside the box.  If you’re stuck, try some freewriting around the subject and see where it takes you – ten minutes writing anything that comes into your head – no punctuation, no worrying about spelling or grammer, just write and have fun, then you can use the ideas to create something great!

All the Write Pieces

All the write pieces cover imageWe are all getting very excited about the upcoming launch of our super dooper anthology which is taking place this Thursday (9th May, 2019) 18:00 at Retford Library.

To give you a taster of the contents, members will be reading some of their contributions to the publication, and there will be time for a chat, some celebratory drinks and of course, to buy a copy (or two!) of the book.

It’s our first joint publication, so a very special occasion for Retford Writers.  Hope to see you there!

‘I Remember’ by Pete Brammer

I remember what they said,
At the outbreak of the war,
‘It will be all over come Christmas’
Yet I can recall with such horror,
How our lads were slaughtered,
Thousands and thousands, en mass.

I remember signing on, with workmates,
All eager to do our bit.
“Your country needs you.” old Kitchener said.
I remember we proudly marched through town,
People cheered, waving Union flags,
For they could not envisage, most would end up dead.

I remember the years in sludgy trenches,
As we struggled, to keep our sanity,
Suffering trench foot, fleas and mites,
Waiting for the shout, “Over the top.”
With the accompanying shrilled whistles,
Instantly obeying, we set off to fight.

I remember too, mustard gas clouds,
Drifting across ‘No Man’s Land’
Donning the life saving gas masks,
As shells whistled over our heads,
All wondering where they would land,
To be followed, by deafening blasts.

I remember the mud, changing colour,
As it clung to out boots and putties,
A nerve tingling scarlet red,
Skin and bone flying everywhere,
With life blood from innocent lads,
Some wounded, but most of them dead.

I remember thinking, about my wife,
Upset, to be missing my child,
You see, I had walked away from the conflict,
Now I stand before the firing squad,
Their rifles, pointing at my heart,

Please God, forgive me…

‘Blue Chair’ by Angela O’Connor

The unloved armchair still rests on the verge.
Discarded. Left at a rusty farmyard gate.

Mock velvet once a proud cornflower blue
faded to a dulled unfashionable hue.

Torn back exposes wooden bones and polyester muscle.
Unsullied yet worn human rubble.

Who now sits disengaged gazing east?
Ghosts of your former self watching Morecambe n’ Wise
or London Palladium with its revolving stage?

A raven perches on the arm. Blue black feathers
complementing forsaken charm.

THE PROBLEM WITH WORDS by Barrie Purnell

THE PROBLEM WITH WORDS

I met her in the long hot summer of sixty three
On a surfing beach in south-western France
I wanted to grab her attention with my poetry
I just hoped it would give me a chance

The words I needed were there in my head
But were cryptically concealed in my mind
They were words that I’d heard or words I’d read
But those damn words were so hard to find

I needed to write some lines to give to Nicole
That would tell her I wasn’t a naive hanger on
Words to pick the lock letting me into her soul
I needed to strike before the moment was gone

Words those lyrical poets seemed always to find
Words to tempt her away from the glitz
To persuade her my love was worth leaving behind
Her hedonist friends on the beach at Biarritz

Why is it when you try to write what you’re feeling
The words are never what you want and you know it
It was never an ace that I seemed to be dealing
But the joker mocking a wannabee poet

Like drunks my words staggered and fell off of the line
Forming a jumbled lexicon piled at my feet
My pen itself appeared to be hostile and malign
Leaving me staring at a pristine white sheet

Too late I found the words that I wanted to say
Another troubadour had enraptured her heart
My love turned to malice when I heard her say
That I was not in the race from the start

So in place of verses that were full of love and desire
The words were those of resentment and spite
I ignored her contrition and appeal for a ceasefire
Because I was totally absorbed in the fight

I dealt out my words like sharp stainless blades
Each syllable became a barbed arrow of pain
Each sentence simply one more heartbreak repaid
For that love lost down in Aquitaine

It was so much easier to find words for my malice
Fired like bullets from a gun onto the page
My jealousy proving a willing accomplice
For my humiliation, frustration and rage

Too late I realized some of the words that you write
Can fatally wound without leaving a trace
Each word is forever and lies there in plain sight
You cannot recall them or have them replaced

I wish I hadn’t wasted my words on anger
But then what is life without any regret
For a poet each word they write is a failure
There are so many failures I need to forget

This poet sees life as a glass that’s half empty
I don’t look for the silver linings on clouds
Life’s disappointments and tears I find aplenty
You’ll find me hiding at the edge of the crowd

So if you are trying to win yourself a new lover
Don’t try ensnaring her with eloquence and rhyme
When you find her just tell her simply that you love her
Using poetry will be just a waste of your time