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Tag Archives: poetry

Dear Doctor…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

Dear Doctor

What pain do you seek of me,
in screams that can be heard?
How can I make it crystal clear,
with each, and every word?

My medication, poison pills,
upon prescription slip.
Tis all that you will give to me,
T’ help with bumpy trip.

Sodden I do slump in place
in tears that I have cried.
What will the treatment cost me now,
if not the suicide?

My veins should I give to you?
For payment in my blood.
Or would you just inject a drug,
I rather think you would.

You say that I am just unwell,
my mind it needs to heal.
Then medicate me to the hilt,
til nowt there is to feel.

Emotions that’re now suppressed,
always will break free.
Fix the problem at the source,
supply the therapy.

But this thing to me denied,
the reasons are unknown.
And then you go and wonder why,
I feel I stand – alone.


A § M


My First Writing Competition Entry


The sun shined down on the sand of this little cove, seagulls screeched overhead, joyous chatter of children and adults alike mingled with gentle music piped from the carousel as it spun around. The smell of the sea, chips, popcorn and candy floss waft around the rides and stalls of chance. Fond are the memories from when I first arrived.
Now the music is of a blaring kind, each of the rides trying to compete with one another for the attention of the modern youth. The smells wafting around the stalls are still the same, but not – the chips don’t smell as good as they did and the aroma of overdone burgers has been added, along with the odour of sweaty onions; progress smells like grease. The games of chance have been changed to games of luck, tat replacing the goldfish that once did hang from the beams.
The rides themselves have changed from gentle, simple, fun rides for the family, to stomach churning thrills, their sole purpose to bring back up the burgers quickly scoffed before going on. Somehow I missed the transition, or maybe it happened that slowly I failed to notice, but in any case I did not see it till I was old.
Age itself is not to blame for the outlook, it has changed. Greed has set into what was a business for family pleasure. The old rides pushed to the side, or replaced altogether.
One thing that has not changed with the passing of years, that is the season itself. Three quarters of the year the fair stays open, with the rides spinning and blasting out their music for most of the day and all of the evening. Then the holiday makers call it time, too cold, too wet, only the few dare to brave the coast in the latter months, or those of the winters end.
The fair takes on an eerie feel in the season known as closed, the sun oft hidden by huge black clouds, perhaps with the flash of light and rumble of thunder. Even the sea takes on a more menacing look, waves get bigger and carry the sand in the water, making their soul look dark, as they roll and crash against the shore. With these storms come sinister shadows, jumping from whence they hid with each flicker of light from the sky. I look upon them glad to be hidden under this big heavy canvas, sheltering from the whipping wind and driving rain. This is my home for the night, my refuge.
For many a year I have hidden here, out of mind, peaking through the hole in the canvas. My colours have faded, my paint chipped and now cracked; the rain runs like tears down my cheek.


I was pretty once, the star of the show.
With my piped music, small faces would glow.
But now I’m forgotten, cast to the side.
Oh how I would love it, once more, on me ride.


500 words, rather journalistic, Influenced by Bill Bryson? But it was a start. My next story written is more flowing and at 250 words was more of a challenge, it missed the deadline for the competition entry it was written for, so will be saved for another.

This is the start of many one thinks, clunky it may be, but one hopes it will inspire others to give writing competitions a go, especially free ones.

Just have fun.

Reflections…Week Forty Eight

canstockphoto8630797Have I watched that many ‘girly’ flicks and programs that I am, by doing this, copying the very format that the writers have used?

From Carrie (Sex in the City) to Erica (Being Erica) and Marin (Men in Trees) I too seem to be ending an episode (my week) with a monologue. True my very existence may not be the most interesting at this moment of time, but I do feel that the very people that I am meeting on my recovery are.

Sometimes I do not even know if the very people I meet are actually here (supermarket-meeting-poetry/poem), or my mind has created a person to teach me something. But for that moment in time IT IS important and interesting.

As an artist one spends time observing, even here my mind now sees things a little differently now, and then in whatever style chosen, places either a ‘true representation of the scene, OR the heart of it, the emotion, the feeling, the movement, the sound or the serenity. All with the flow of the paint and the movement of the brush, to no longer see what is being created but to just let it flow out onto the canvas.

As a wordsmith in training, one spends time observing, reflecting and creating an artwork of language. To simply place a series of words down for a poem is not simple at all, each word is lovingly placed, replaced or simply repositioned. All I write is done this way. A beat or rhythm of a journey taken with the words lays beyond the shape and form of the very words themselves. A wrongly placed pause can disrupt or even alter the flow, sometimes to the detriment of the wording used, dulling its edge.

A reflective diary is used in some therapies, a way to explore our existence, look for the ‘faults’ and find a better way in dealing with the situation, how then did this therapy get entwined into our TV? Was it intentional to pass on the lesson of reflection to improve our life, or was it just placed there by accident? A concept that outgrew the original pitch once the ratings came in? Or was it just a writer being honest about not having the perfect life and trying to work things out?

And thus the question leads back to me. Am I just doing what I am told, or am I part of a solution by doing the reflective monologue of my life?

And will you someday, in some form, be the ‘interest’, the focus, of my artwork?

The Old Men … #Poem#Poetry#Prose

The Old Men

The old men in this isle will stop,
when they’re on their weekly shop.
Magazines they read, for a while,
as one by one – stand single file.

A trolley they have with nowt within,
appears their shopping, yet to begin.
Partners will come and take it away,
glance up they will – with nothing to say.

They make no move, their partners to chase,
’tis not yet read, may loose their place.
When finished they will dawdle on,
’tis then they think – where have they gone?

A § M

A Stokie Thanksgiving… #Poem#Poetry#Prose

A Stokie Thanksgiving


The American flag flaps with a vigour in strong gusts,
gently retuning to rest in the sparse lulls of the Stoke wind.
Thanksgiving the celebration, for the Clubhouse Network.

As burgers are flipped and ‘dogs’ are turned,
fat drips and lands with a sizzle.
Flames from the hot coals lick the burgers edge.
The smell is carried on plumes of smoke.

Joyful chatter is carried also with the wind as spirits are high,
but few stay outside, braving the nip in the air of winters approach.
I sit on the bench, taking the one dry section left,
covered it seems from the rain of the morn.

Downwind of it all I sit, watching, observing.
Being part of it all, yet ever so separate.
Until, unnoticed, I slip away.


A § M


Black buckled boots that old ladies wear, polished, clean and smart,
walk with the brown leather shoes that old men wear, with pride in their heart.
Tan lines of stress marble the surface.

Tassels on toes, with every step jiggle and sway,
child with soles flashing, around checkout will play.
Exhaustion on the mothers voice.

Sandals paired with socks are made to walk alone!

Trainers are common, rarely are clean.
Except fro the old folk, who keep them pristine.
Even the soles show no dirt.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Doc Martin’s on mans feet are worn,
paired with ladies battered pink Converse, looking lovelorn.
Neither look happy.

Then there are walking boots, my choice of footwear,
from supermarket to hilltop, they go anywhere.
— But here they do sit.



A § M

Blank Blank Blank…#Poetry#Poem#Prose

There is nothing to write,
I’ve been at it all night.
Here is pen, and pa-per,
and there’s notes, to re-fere.

But with no inspiration,
there is just desperation.
I scratch head for a thought,
brings forth nothing, nada — nought.

I stare unto the page,
for what seems like an age.
But nothing will come,
and nothing is done.

I scribble at the top of the page.

A § M