Writing from 2008
oasis of hope
tall trees cling to summer with tanned leaves
sporadically flecking the green leftovers
and beyond the horizon
are warehouses
dark and morose in their old and dirty bricks
vivid blue jackets, wool coats and berets
a bundle of talent whipped by the wind
we huddle against the cold
grey men pass by looking at us
unanswered thoughts in their minds
and no guts to ask us what we we’re up to
on the other side of the road
a red mail box stands
forlornly on the corner behind some railings
like a prisoner, its mouth gaping emptily
how many people use it each day?
a row of little shops
(some shuttered and some with dull eyed windows)
go from meat to medicine
standing salutes to the boulders
that the hometime children climb
the long roof is covered
with clumps of green and brown moss
and populated by scaggy pigeons
above houses with balconies but no movement
a bird flies and sings
so happy
as an empty cigarette box
dances below
people bustling, walking and talking
busy shoppers, wrapped up warm
boys in hoods on mobiles
chatting, huddled close
while litter and leaves
blow around the feet of
shivering mothers with chubby
overdressed babies in buggies
the wind catches my eye
and tears well up
at the sudden cold
and so I turn to the open door
an oasis of hope
- a collective poem by members of the Writing Lives group
I am invisible
I am invisible
tall trees cling to summer with tanned leaves
sporadically flecking the green leftovers
and beyond the horizon
are warehouses
dark and morose in their old and dirty bricks
vivid blue jackets, wool coats and berets
a bundle of talent whipped by the wind
we huddle against the cold
grey men pass by looking at us
unanswered thoughts in their minds
and no guts to ask us what we we’re up to
on the other side of the road
a red mail box stands
forlornly on the corner behind some railings
like a prisoner, its mouth gaping emptily
how many people use it each day?
a row of little shops
(some shuttered and some with dull eyed windows)
go from meat to medicine
standing salutes to the boulders
that the hometime children climb
the long roof is covered
with clumps of green and brown moss
and populated by scaggy pigeons
above houses with balconies but no movement
a bird flies and sings
so happy
as an empty cigarette box
dances below
people bustling, walking and talking
busy shoppers, wrapped up warm
boys in hoods on mobiles
chatting, huddled close
while litter and leaves
blow around the feet of
shivering mothers with chubby
overdressed babies in buggies
the wind catches my eye
and tears well up
at the sudden cold
and so I turn to the open door
an oasis of hope
- a collective poem by members of the Writing Lives group
I am invisible
I am invisible
Yet I can see everything you do
I can hear the lies slipping from your tongue
As you leave me a voice mail
This is second nature to you
Trapping the naïve requires no effort whatsoever
I’m not surprised or shocked by this.
How dare you tell me I’m paranoid
That I’m making false accusations
How dare you mess with my mind.
I am invisible
I watch as you spin your web of deceit
I’m not upset or angry
I have no animosity towards you
I feel a sense of calmness and strength
Now I can walk away from you
I am free.
Goodbye.
- Callie
To Fear
Right, Fear, today is the 22nd of September 2008
and I have come up with a strong decision
about what to do with you. For all these years
I have accommodated you in my life,
but today it is all going to end.
I am taking you to a place where I will disgrace you
in front of everyone. I will tell them that you are
a destroyer, tormentor, you are everything
that is bad, everything that I can’t even name.
Those who are going to be there will know
who you are and they will never accommodate
you because I will tell them the signs
and how you love to control.
For your own information, Fear, in your place
I have replaced you with Confidence.
It feels good to have Confidence.
- Christine
Born Again
I'm a survivor - one of the lucky ones.I've made it here and I've come out strong!A second chance I have been givenAll thoughts of doom have now been riven!
I take each moment, each hour, each dayAnd on my knees I daily pray.Thank you for this gift of lifeI will not waste it come what may!
No more misery, pain or sorrowI'll take with both hands another tomorrow.
RetirementSo life begins at forty I think to myself!My life began at sixty and wasn't due to wealthWork is now a forgotten wordAnd in my life is never heard!I laugh, have fun and time to playPerhaps I'll visit a friend today!I can stay at home and do what I likeOr get my boots on and go for a hike!I wake up each day feeling inspired!Oh what joy since I retired!
- Von
Writing from 2006
The Mirror
The mirror hangs above the fireplace
It's a bit too high to see my face
Then I don't want to stand and stare
That's not the reason the mirror's there
It reflects the light and
Makes the room nice and bright
But that's not the reasons the mirror's there
It's a focal point for all to see
It's clear and round, it means a lot to me
It's a bit of old, a bit of new
A story I would like to tell to you:
The frame you see isn't new
When my parents wed in '22
Their wedding picture was in there
The bride and groom without a care
A wedding gift, a rosewood frame
For Fred and Mary there's none the same
The picture hung upon the wall
In the parlour down the hall
The family grew, a happy crew
but laughed at the style of year '22
The bombs and the blitz caused disaster
The picture fell with all the plaster
The glass was broke, the picture damaged
To restore it we could not manage
So the mirror replaced the picture
My reflection I care to see
I have a mental picture
of Fred and Mary smiling at me.
- Fay Wall
The Pawnshop Window
What a fascination the window holds for me.
It attracts my attention, oh the things I do see.
There are brooches and rings of silver and gold
Alarm clocks and watches, some very old
A Westminster chime with a shiny face
Placed high on a shelf in pride of place.
People's possessions once treasures of theirs
End up among the pawnbroker's wares.
A picture framed, a stag at bay
The Scottish hills look out on decay.
Silver spoons all tarnished and brown
The box inlaid with blue velvet
Says silver crown.
Three brass balls
Companions of poverty
That sum up bad days
Of pick pockets and squalor.
Fagin, Shylock, and others that follow
Humiliation and distress, when bad luck calls
One never knows which side the coin falls.
There's clothing made of satin and laces
Ladies stays with very long laces
All faded with age. Well I'm not amazed
They will have seen much better days.
Slippers for dancing from some happy feet
They are red and sparkle, still very neat.
Carpets and rugs rolled and tied with string
Stand like soldiers awaiting the king.
A genuine flying carpet with long tassels and fringe
Conjures up Arabian nights, oh no! It's been singed.
In the corner there's a fly in the dust, on its back
With its legs held high. It's buzzed its last buzz
In this mausoleum
Gone to a great place in the sky
Where no one will see him.
I am curious to know who would pledge
A hammer, a drill, and a thing for a ledge
Tools of a tradesman down on his luck.
Was there no work? To make a quick buck
What a sin
If he'd no money to redeem them again.
Every thing has a story to tell.
Open the door and ring that bell.
Humbled by circumstances
Beyond their control
There's not much money when you're on the dole.
To sell their treasures, they had but few
But such is must when the rent is due.
In this window, what do I see?
Mill girls and miners, I'm glad it's not me.
Shawls and clogs
It's the school of hard knocks.
- Fay Wall
It's a bit too high to see my face
Then I don't want to stand and stare
That's not the reason the mirror's there
It reflects the light and
Makes the room nice and bright
But that's not the reasons the mirror's there
It's a focal point for all to see
It's clear and round, it means a lot to me
It's a bit of old, a bit of new
A story I would like to tell to you:
The frame you see isn't new
When my parents wed in '22
Their wedding picture was in there
The bride and groom without a care
A wedding gift, a rosewood frame
For Fred and Mary there's none the same
The picture hung upon the wall
In the parlour down the hall
The family grew, a happy crew
but laughed at the style of year '22
The bombs and the blitz caused disaster
The picture fell with all the plaster
The glass was broke, the picture damaged
To restore it we could not manage
So the mirror replaced the picture
My reflection I care to see
I have a mental picture
of Fred and Mary smiling at me.
- Fay Wall
The Pawnshop Window
What a fascination the window holds for me.
It attracts my attention, oh the things I do see.
There are brooches and rings of silver and gold
Alarm clocks and watches, some very old
A Westminster chime with a shiny face
Placed high on a shelf in pride of place.
People's possessions once treasures of theirs
End up among the pawnbroker's wares.
A picture framed, a stag at bay
The Scottish hills look out on decay.
Silver spoons all tarnished and brown
The box inlaid with blue velvet
Says silver crown.
Three brass balls
Companions of poverty
That sum up bad days
Of pick pockets and squalor.
Fagin, Shylock, and others that follow
Humiliation and distress, when bad luck calls
One never knows which side the coin falls.
There's clothing made of satin and laces
Ladies stays with very long laces
All faded with age. Well I'm not amazed
They will have seen much better days.
Slippers for dancing from some happy feet
They are red and sparkle, still very neat.
Carpets and rugs rolled and tied with string
Stand like soldiers awaiting the king.
A genuine flying carpet with long tassels and fringe
Conjures up Arabian nights, oh no! It's been singed.
In the corner there's a fly in the dust, on its back
With its legs held high. It's buzzed its last buzz
In this mausoleum
Gone to a great place in the sky
Where no one will see him.
I am curious to know who would pledge
A hammer, a drill, and a thing for a ledge
Tools of a tradesman down on his luck.
Was there no work? To make a quick buck
What a sin
If he'd no money to redeem them again.
Every thing has a story to tell.
Open the door and ring that bell.
Humbled by circumstances
Beyond their control
There's not much money when you're on the dole.
To sell their treasures, they had but few
But such is must when the rent is due.
In this window, what do I see?
Mill girls and miners, I'm glad it's not me.
Shawls and clogs
It's the school of hard knocks.
- Fay Wall
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