Poetry Blog by Dorothy Webb

Tags from last 12 months




Ah! there you are then,


small sharp teeth

gripping the tail of another,

forced to eternally play

with sister and brother

in a never ending circle.


Ah! there you are then,


hanging like a necklace of fur

around the neck

of a stylish grandmother,

with overtones of peppermint

and undertones of lavender.


Ah! there you are then,



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I'm just a little toad

and I know that I'm not pretty

but A.A.Milne portrayed me

as being loud and very silly

and it simply isn't true.


So now I live alone

in disgrace,

and hide behind a stone

to hide my face,

so if you should chance to see me

just walk away and leave me

I'm so very very shy

                                            and so ashamed.


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We processed down Dorking Road in pairs,

about thirty of us, wearing our Sunday faces

and walking our best grown up walk.

The boys had slicked down hair

and 'stay up' grey socks,

while we wore fold creased lace veils

and almost white frocks.


We passed by the high Convent wall

(out of respect no one talked)

then brisklly through Roseberry Park

scuffing u...

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What is the point of pretty  words

if they reassemble back to front or inside out?


What is the point of pretty birds

held in cages

where they can see the sky

but are confined and cannot fly?


What is the point

                                  is there a point?

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Beneath these mossy skeletal trees


I have a sense


of light and shade


soft air and mist


deep bedded moss


crisp leaves in drifts


of sloping banks


fast flowing streams


crystal splashed


pebble dashed


I have a sense


of waiting





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CHINESE WHISPERS. (for David Kelly)




David Kelly was a weapons inspector during the Iraq war, He was hounded to suicide by a media frenzy,


Tendrils snake through unsuspecting airways,

casually stealing through fact and fiction,

gleefully grabbing information

and tearing it to shreds.


Morsels spread by repetition

coagulate to make a whole,

rearranged and subdivided

take on a meaning of ...

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This place that was my home

lies between the shadow

and the stone

that hugs the crumbling earth.

I walk alone

and see the monoliths that rise

above the line that marks my place.


I watch the sky


remembering how the stars spelt out my name

and how we spoke together

in that place where shadows hide the sun.

You showed me how to read the tumbli...

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I wish that I could build a nest

of feathered down

a deep retreat,


a place of safety,


and hold you there

and let you sleep

without re-occurring dreams

or voiceless fears.


I wish that I could build a nest,

a warming hug,

a comfort for your future,

where the tangled bonds that bind

fall fast away and free your mind.


I wish that I could build...

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This is a tribute to Sarah Gough who is a 'Good Teacher'. Her, all inclusive, themed play leads her young class seemlesly into more important lessons.



Flowers grow in unexpected places,

cracked pavements,

crumbling walls,

inner city roofs

and neglected church halls.

maybe we give up too soon

on unreceptive ground

with a little imagination,

and active conservati...

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I remember the big front door

that once was green

but later re-painted red

with number nineteen

screwed under the locker,

"red is smart I said".

The door closed against the world

shutting the outside out -

shutting in the big table -

 - and the big brown sofa.


The room was large then

with space by the fire

for cutting and sticking

and dressing peg dolls


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I am sorry WoLers this poem is so unseasonal - it was prompted by seeing so many rough sleepers in doorways and under arches when on a shopping trip in winter.


Fear screams

through a fragile mind

while those who pass

are deaf and blind

to the world

beyond their focus.


Commuters hurry

and heels tip tap

as snow's first flurry

covers the back

of the doorway'...

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Anna Soubry I like your style

you quell the mob with tigress eyes

and withering stare,

defying orders from tyrannical whips

who dictate your vote through two line lips

you display your independence.


Bravely now you sit aside

using truth as your guide

surrounded by moderate voices

you defend your free voting choices.


I may - or may not - a...

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listen now and understand

we are the dreamers of this land,

We're not blessed with winning ways

and may look like waifs and strays

but remember this, we have a place,

a part to play - a path to trace.


When you speak of us be kind

for we have the power to sooth your mind.

The songs we write that bring you joy,

and the pretty phrases we employ,

to calm your fe...

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I'm just an ordinary kinda guy

not too bold but definitely not shy

an' i believe in live and let live

at least i did till her in doors

took up with two macaws

and couldn't choose between 'em


so she had 'em both


Well i'm not the kinda guy

to sit around all day an' cry

so i gave me feavers one more tweak

polished up me curving beak



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Monks sweet voices rise and fall

like tides incessant motion,

playful wavelets suck and hiss

a rhythm for their devotion.

Salt- washed pebbles grind on sand

like whispererd voices from some far'way land,

while echoes haunt, cave like empty spaces.

On rocky outcrops breakers dash

with beast like roar they rise and crash

at fortress cliffs and sea defenses.

The tur...

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This poem is a tribute to the teachers and staff at the Aspen Unit, the school for mentally and physically handicapped children that my Grandaughter attended.


Angels they are, real angels,

not the sort in flowing robes

with sickly grins and glitzy halos.

Down to earth angels, flesh and blood,

every day angels in blue jeans.


No harps for them - or silver trumpets,

no ...

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I gaze into the pool

the pool gazes back

a dark unblinking eye

surface perfectly flat,

no ripples or reflections

just dark, brown black,

a natural sump, a bitter cup.


Almost round

with sloping sides

no iris or reeds

to soften it's banks,

no dragon flies

or bathing birds

just dark, brown black,

surface perfectly flat.


Above the pool


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This a letter to Elsa, a nervy fluttery little fve year old.


Little butterfly

spread your trembling wings and fly

to chase your dreams across a laughing sky

see where the raindrops learnt to dance

and where white horses rear and prance,

then ride on the back of a mischievous breeze

to play new games above blue sparkling seas.

When you tire of playing hitch a ride


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REMEMBER REMEMBER The 5th of November

I think it may be time for one of my silly 'fluffy' poems.

not written by me but by a puppy,  please excuse his spelling.


Oh deah! Oh deah!

i think that i am goin' to dy

there's culeerd lights aflashin' 'cross the ski

an' i've no ideah at orl the reeson wy

so i role into a borl an' whine an' cry.


Sumone sed that it's a firewurk display

so i'll close my eyes until ...

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written on behalf of the family a young man (heavy smoker) dying of lung cancer


My child,

my son,

my friend and mentor,

your are part of me

I made you what you are,

and now you stand alone, an independant self,

robbed of your living by corporate greed

and their obsessive drive for wealth.

They disregard you dying, my parental crying,

and shrug away your life.


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sorry I am still being silly - still letting my hair down.

March is my birth month - that says it all


I'm a happy kinda' frog

hoppy frog

flappy frog

a goin' to the bog frog

gotta' find another frog

slippy frog

slimy frog

spotty frog

a kinda' happy slappy frog

pretty frog

dippy frog

yellow frog

or maybe just a green fog

or an inbetween frog

a hop...

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The drummin' has a rhythm

An' the rhythm has a beat

The drummin' is in rhythm

With the tappin' of our feet

I'm dancin' to the rhythm

An' the rhythm aint the blues

I can hear the guitar singin'

An' I'm shakin' in my shoes

Yeah! I hear the guitar singin'

An' it's singin' to my soul

I hear the drummer drummin'

That beat from long ago

Music's gettin' louder

An' w...

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This poem is being spoken by a well brought up eight year old



"I can speak latin

I can say





and even




but I can't say




                                because it's a lie"

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Duck Hole Bog is an area of water and reed beds in the New Forest. It stands in the shadow of heather clad hills, when wet small streams run down the hillside cutting out gullies and scouring pebbles.


Thunder headed brooding knoll

heathered black and heavy green,

ravined by water's cutting edge

flushing silver silted streams.


Pebble bright mosaic gullies

delta into wait...

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there is comfort in words that loosely hang together

without the dubious benefit of commas and full stops

gloriously they mingle unrestrained by rules of grammar

proclaiming their authenticity denied by scholarships


dialects and accents mix happily together

in market towns football grounds and bustling train stations

where milling crowds meet to greet their friends and relat...

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This is one of the first poems that I ever wrote, Rich's poem reminded me of it .



Come walk with me along these ancient paths

and listen to the wind sigh through the dappling leaves,

then pause awhile, and gaze between those shafts

of golden light that filter through the shading trees.


Watch with me in this quiet glade

let your senses be aware we're not alone,


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This poem, out of date now, is about the foot and mouth outbreak in March 2001. and is a reminder of the vulnerability of agriculture.



Hardened men,

grim as granite

hide behind their faces

as fires are stoked

with carcase after twisted carcase.

Smoke, held low by mourning miist,

blots out the winter sun,

silently stealing through chilled valleys

and lonely farm...

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We follow the tractor

my friends and I

streaked with sweat and grime,

a gaggle of women under a screaming sun

following the tractor's line.

Fingers scrabble in dusty loam

plucking potatoes discarding stones,

engine throbs it's demanding beat

slowly we follow on dragging feet,

filling our baskets, feeling their weight,

tipping our load into waiting crates.



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- of myths and legends


Dreams exceed reality

Changing monochrome to colour

Glass to diamonds

Stones to gems.


Heroes become legends

Changing deeds to myths

Facts to fiction

Circling without end.


Fantasies are woven

Tapestries embroidered

Illuminated scripts

Pass from hand to hand.


Dreams exceed reality

Changing legends into heroes


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Just a bit of froth for WoLers dog owners who will  all have

experienced this at one time or another.

Written by Flynt.


You can shout and scream

and stamp all you like

but it's cool in this stream

it's a holiday rite.




You can rant and swear

throw stones and sticks

jump in the air

try other tricks





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Memories from the 1940s



The narrow street is just as it always was

it's uneven pavements cracked and untended

patchy grass bordering it's crumbling edges.

Frayed ropes still hanging from bowed lamp posts

and tired gardens still hiding behind struggling hedges.

Apologetic paths lead to faded front doors

while sightless windows , opaque and unblinking,

blank the fla...

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this photo was taken in my field, I have plenty of 'sharp' fox photos'

but this one's soft inteligent expression felt quite intimate.




Some times it's best

to sit and wait

and test the air

to read the scents and sounds

that linger there.

Stay still but sharp

best not to run

but slowly melt away

from distant guns,

don't be a target.


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This is the last of a series of poems for my granddaughter.

Annie is now an adult but still needs one- to- one  twentyfour hour care. Her family has split and her grandparents are now estranged.

Jusr a normal modern family really.


I knew he once

so long ago

loved her

laughed with her

watched her grow

and slowly blossom


and now

she is gone from me

cut from...

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for Annie - now a school girl



Fairy lights, like stardust,

sparkle and spiral,

lips pout concentration

as fingers explore.

Blue eyes,

wide with amazement,

gaze as bright silver

fuses to gold.

Brown hair,

tied back with ribbons,

is halo'd with tinsel

and crafted with love..


Translucent wings

frame her pale face

as she dreams childhood drea...

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for Annie


I love to hear her laugh

belly bubbling

throat clutching

outragous chuckles,

it starts from deep inside

then fills her eyes

with a merriment that must be sharerd


by self imposed restrictions

or inhibitions

demanded by our adult role.

We join her in her laughter,

without moderation

or explanation,

our laughter encircles her,


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(for Annie)

Folded in feather down dreams

safe from fears of the night

undisturbed by winters white screams

thoughts wing away in full flight.


Muffled in merino fleeces

dreams glide over starry horizons

silhouettes hide in recesses

shadows sharpen into dark icons.


Soft lamps burn in dim corners

flooding the ceiling with light

showcasing moths like mad dan...

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written on the birth of Annie my severly mentally and physcally handicapped granddaughter.


This space

cloud filled

cold shrilled

without substance



where thoughts whilrl in a tangle of sound

and sound mingles with fear and uncried tears,

where days and nights have no margins



and what of tomorrow

will suns rays bring co...

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 an 'almost' true story - Just for the giggle.


We rushed to catch the early bus,

we did it, we did, but it was a rush

we rattled up the curving stairs

proffered up our exact fairs,

then plumped upon our seats to rest.


          "Are you wearing your warm vest

          winter's nearly here my dear

          and what about your navy knickers?"


Around the bu...

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For Paul who is missing his estranged daughter


Clouds gathering

not the lazy drifting

feather floating

clouds that I have come to love

but a tumult of thunderheads

a boil of molton lead

energy laden

burden heavy

explosion ready

rapidly closing the gap

of the final glimps of summer blue

the glimpse of what was

the glimpse of what cannot be

of bird...

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This poem was written after a succession of terror attacks and is a protest against the feeding frenzy

of the press and sound bites from cynica lpoliticians.


It's easy to hold

the grand pose

then proudly stand

as rehashed rhetoric flows

from journalistic lips

politions checking their ratings

vye with each other

as they strive to compose

a more elegant prose


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Jagged white screams

sharpen to icicles

brittle tears lie scattered

and ground underfoot

diamond cut streams

lost in the labyrinth

fast frozen in time

at the moment of truth.


Holder of secrets

the cut glass of plenty

sharp as a dagger

the chilling white wine

cruel as a cutting edge

shards of bright silver

encrusted with sapphires

cold by design,

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Soft soapy water

spilling through my outstretched hand

so hard to hold

like windblown smoke

or shifting sand.


Whispered voices speaking

without sensitivity or grace

while practised smiiles

conceal the lie

behind each shining face.


Soft soapy water

filtering through my wearying hand

disolves my innocence

while God's own godless daughter

reasserts ...

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written for a friend on the loss of his adult son. I couldn't show it to him.


It's over now

the sands have run

there's no return

this thing is done,

and joy belongs to yesterday

when we sure of our tomorrows.


My son you were my other self

my present - and my future

and now this ash - this inert ash

is all I have - is all I am.

If I could ask - if you coul...

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Small frightened faces

Iron and rust

Iron and rust

Sharp smell of anger

Gunflash and dust

Gunflash and dust

Small frightened faces

Sharp smell of fear

Cries for the wounded

Cries for the dying

Iron and rust

Iron and rust

Call for their loved ones

Caught up in the rush

Small moonlit faces

Who can they trust

Gunflash and dust

Gunflsah and dust


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You don't have to understand

that's what they said.

Just believe, have faith,

don't doubt the things that God has planned

             That's what they said.


You are blessed,

faith is a gift

given to a chosen few,

it's up to you to make the best of it

             That's what they said.


Humility is good

as are obedience and servitude,

don't look for re...

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This England

this land of pleasant green

"God Save the Queen"

"Britannia Rules the waves"

and other jingoistic phrases

that were used

while flags were waved

so many years ago.


This England

that grew fat on trading slaves

and subjugation,

the struggling poor controlled

by lack of education.


This England

this land of pleasant green

where network...

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Words arrive in bundles

then separate and spread

out of my control.

They lead - and I am led

into their parallel world

that I can show

but never tell.

Where restrictive barriers are broken,

no diversive languages are spoken,

and yet we touch

and in turn are touched.

Words arrive in bundles

and manipulate my thoughts

but they are welcome.

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Pounding waves

invade the shores of my imagination,

salt washed pebbles bruise my naked feet,

discordant voices ride the onshore breezes

and mock the need to close my eyes in sleep.

I watch the restless tide's incessant motion,

see peaks and troughs as win or lose,

hear gulls harsh screams of exultation

as they hunt the silver flesh in shallow pools.

My body aches w...

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