I joined Stockport WOL, in April 2016, I was introduced via a workshop at the Art Gallery. I've been attending since and absolutely love the group. There are some exceptionally talented poets, each with their individual style. The monthly meetings are always a pleasure and always unearth hidden treasures. I'm hoping their influence will rub off on me at some point, until then I continue to clunk through my poetry and distract myself by writing stories for children. I'm the author of a children's picture book Portia The Pear, published by Tiny Tree Children's Books (available on Amazon).
Changes “Predictive text you are so clever” said no one in the world pepper. You act when there is no seaweed inserting “penis” instead of “please.” When inadvertently, I press a key where are you to rescue me? If the settings were simple to use, I would have turned you off Syracuse but as I’m unable to figure it out, here you stay to annoy my trout. March 2018 Joy Found Found when the blackbird trills a Vivaldi suite from his newel post. His majestic musicality throws open the shutters of winter’s silence, heralding the arrival of Spring. Found in the regal nod of daffodils; with halo’ d glow acknowledging tulips standing tall hands cupped, raised in praise. Found in the allure of demure, reticent bluebells their violet haze half hidden beneath hedgerows and trees Found in the intoxicating, heavy aroma of hawthorn offering Pagan protection to maidens of May. Found in sun rays pouring through neglected murky windows. Its spell turning specs of floating dust into a mesmerising fairie waltz. Found in the instinctive pull, nudging the drowsy-eyed gardener to gather his tools; to nurture the ground To synergise with seeding birds, pollenating bees and humble aerating worms, who till the earth as they journey by. Found as the fresh easterly wind tousles your hair. and colours your cheeks after a wan winter of shadows bringing warmth back into your expression. April 2018 Threadbare Each family member spins a yarn. Tales told over years are embellished with brass buttons and ribbon strands. Sepia memories kept in a Jubilee biscuit tin are brought out and closely studied with moist eyes. Though charity shop clothes were worn until the cuffs frayed, troubles were patched at the elbows and spare buttons found amongst the treasure in the old treacle tin, which sat next to bundled knitting needles and china cups, saved for best "in case the Queen should come". A thimble was all that was needed to protect the seamstress, until the day she laid down her work and found rest; leaving her children and theirs, to pick up the thread and embroider their own stories, to pick up the shears and cut their own cloth, each stitch a priceless and unique addition. April 2018 The Sycamore Prince Slender branches silhouette beneath his golden crown. Sparks thrown out by the silver sun ignite his flaming hues. The autumnal prince towers above ethereal mists, caught between earth and sky. In a final flourish, passionate embers of saffron and copper smoulder. Only to cool as the light fades and chill winds blow. Each yellow fingered leaf, I mourn as it falls and returns to it’s roots. I will his warming glow to remain to comfort my spirits during November’s nip and winters depths. Knowing my protests cannot halt ruthless frosts from calling “time”. November 2017
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
A Marriage of Ghosts (11/07/2018)
The Washing Line (12/06/2018)
Move on (10/04/2018)
Magicians of Verse: Enter If Bold (27/09/2016)
Culture Vulture (14/06/2016)
Looking through other people's eyes (14/04/2016)
|Wk 24||1 event|
Hover over an event to see the details. ( open mic event, Write Out Loud event)
Wednesday 13 June 2018
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