profile image

trevor homer

Updated: 2 days ago

Contact via WOL



I have been writing since I can remember, but its only the last few years that I have considered myself a poet. This coincides with my performing poetry at various gigs, and the changing political climate which, I feel, demands we speak out on socio/political/arts issues. Hence I have supported Labour party benefit gigs, and other 'peace' events with a group of local activists, primarily Stand Up To Racism. I am a member of Coachhouse Writers, and read regularly at Permission To Speak, held at Claptrap, Stourbridge. I was also invited to give a reading for Arts Foundry at this years Wolverhampton Lit. Festival, and performed with Coachhouse Writers group as part of the festival. My seminal influence is Bob Dylan; though Whitman, Wilde, Eliot, Ginsberg, Kwesi-Johnson et al. are all in the mix.


THERE’S A SHOTGUN IN THE CELLAR It’s harder than you think to disappear, To lose yourself, then reappear, with no trace of why, Or what went before. You can get lulled into a false sense of security, Become blasé about the little things; Like never answering the phone when it rings. There was a shotgun in the cellar, wrapped in hessian sack, I took it out a while ago, intending to put it back. When we first came here, I had some grand idea of self-sufficiency, You know, living off the land. When you live out in the country, everything’s a risk. The weather can turn and set you back. Few people know of this old dirt track. There’s a shotgun in the cupboard, no one knows it’s there. It’s well concealed in a cubbyhole, underneath the stairs. The old shoe box has three cartridges in it, lubricating oil, And a special tool for cleaning the breach, High up on the top shelf, out of reach. You can’t be too careful with a child around. I have more time on my hands now, since my last little venture failed, But the summer has been glorious. This is a special place to be when the sun rises over the river, Early in the morning. But things can change without warning. It’s like that when you’re on the run; you never know when they’ll come. There’s a shotgun on the table, my wife and son are in bed. The neighbours said they heard a truck backfire 3 times, Or it could have been poachers, after rabbit and partridge. I can feel warm steel from the barrel as I load the last cartridge; The smell of gunpowder on my clothes. We left before daylight, nothing unusual in that. It’s not a 9 to 5 existence around here, People come and go at the strangest of times; Mending fences and digging holes. There’s a shotgun on the kitchen floor, how it got there, no one knows 2019

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

Viewed 25 times since 11 Feb 2019

Do you want to be featured here? Submit your profile.



Tue 12th Feb 2019 20:16

Welcome to WOL Trevor

I hate football with a passion... However your poem is masterful, I almost wish I liked football lol.

Looking forward to reading more of your musings.

Your sample THERE’S A SHOTGUN IN THE CELLAR is excellent.


View all comments

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message