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Lives in Lancaster and is co-founder / co-organiser of Lancaster's monthly Spotlight Club. Writes poetry and prose.


0 yrs 0 mths Birth

She could bear me no more
and gurning
birthed me.

Bore me no malice
but spurning
cursed me
as an aunt slapped my arse
and nursed me,
an errant spawn
born of infidelity.

While she fed the beestings
we bonded
in a misaligned alliance
to the comforting drone
of the shipping forecast.

Partly relieved she claimed me.
At storms over Ronaldsway,
named me,
half abjuring premonitions
but tremoring
at a sudden call.

First footsteps.
Coming judgement.

1 yr 6 mths Yearling

In the beginning I was
broth of a boy
breath of his life
light of his loins
his own gossoon
to be nappied and happied
and what a good chappied
the apple seed of his fatherly mien
to be horsey-dandled
on a booted ankle
and baby-buntin’d
to sleep in his arms.

to work calloused palms
fingers nicotined to leather
a circular scar disfiguring a thumb.

A winter’s worth of cold
freezes the moment
in sullen silence
and words dissolve.
What remains is.

I am a bubble forming in a sea of air,
the grain of sand inside the rock,
the splinter at the heart of the tree.

Was. I am becoming now
brat of a boy
bane of his life
leach of his loins
a cuckoo child
to be snapped at and rapped at
increasingly slapped at
hapless mote of his faltering eye
to be coarsely bundled
from a booting ankle
and blah blah black sheeped
right out of his line.

Defined now
by what I was in the beginning
we have endured

2 yrs 4 mths Sudden Movements

...displaced from Biggleswade
the menage has been packed,
all our possessions perplexingly stacked,
on a Bedford three-tonner -
good runner
machine-gun turret in the roof of the cab.

Our dad’ll find somewhere,
he’s the gift of the gab.

We are the mobilised
of demobilisation
homeless debris
from a disparate Nation
heading Upnorth on the Great North Road
to an airfield in Lincolnshire
where we’ll stop
and squatting
make abode from
The Nissen Huts.

Corrugated, pitch-painted,
concrete-floored tunnels.
Were we’ll live just like gypsies.
Stone rats in the runnels.

Giving rise to a misconceived,
family adage:
You won’t remember
you only came with
the baggage.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.



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melanie coady

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Sun 30th Jan 2011 17:47

aw wow i really got sucked into ur sample

Winston (Admin)

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Sun 9th Jan 2011 10:28

Hi Ron, Welcome to Write out Loud, Lots to explore on here. Have fun. Winston

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