Ven, living and working in the Valleys of South Wales, has been writing poetry in a semi-serious capacity for six years. She earns her keep as a self employed seamstress, owns and successfully manages her own small tailoring outlet and operates under the maxim that "the customer is always right". (Ha ! Yeah right). She tried working with others once in the eighties but it didn't work out; popular rumour and scissor holes in the doors suggest that she has some sort of attitude problem. Her written work has appeared in several anthologies, predominantly The Poetry Pages "Collection of Voices" series and in 2005 she self published a solo collection "Duct Tape & Daffodyls" through Diggory Press Ltd. During the last two years she has compiled enough work for a second volume but unfortunately when it comes to formatting she has a lazy streak that is slightly bigger than her urge to be perfect bound. "Duct Tape & Daffodyls" ISBN 1905363966 however, is still available from Amazon, W.H.Smith, Waterstones and all good online book pushers :~) .
. Quiet ! Through incessant irritation concentration breaks. Sigh ! Stress levels increase, paper is rolled. Sigh. Aim, swat, ahhh, an ex-Fly ! sigh ... and this becomes, what exactly ? Killing for the sighlence ? ©VenJul07 ~ A Pace War with Chaos Morning pulls the carpet from stairs beneath my feet in the same way as the trickster pulls the table cloth away from the table leaving grandmas finest Clarice Cliff intact. While I start with clear conceptions, orderly and neat, a chaos rabbit leaps out of a nearby hat in disarray and shouts “I’m late !” yet I’m the one at scamper rate. How abstract ! ©VenJuly2006 ~ Ain't I Grand ! Night approaches, Muse encroaches on the minds of writers who seek solace to drink sorrow still, - sip self pity to their fill and dip the poisoned tip of quill in ink of solitude until; words emerge from deepest dark of hell, (where poet souls embark) on nightly roamings, often time, in rhyme of "thee" or "thou" or "thine" - but better this self loathing phase than listen to the endless days of "big up me" and "ain't I grand", now metrical is in demand for banishment of poet black revives the ego and brings back the killer stroke and swift attack of the rhythmic megalomaniac. ©Ven.Jan2005 ~ Foundling You who once was lost and lonely, left too long to sit in corners, learning lines from see-through friends that whispered, "Lo, I'll find you". I never meant to leave you there, I thought you were behind me. I thought that you would find me as I raced toward where now is and the promise of this better place. Yet in the rush I lost you. As I crossed from there to now I'm not sure how, I'm not sure when but sometime then ... I lost you !. ... It was never my intention. And now I find you sitting there in the closet, at the bottom under books of poetry and dusty photo's long forgotten. You who once was lost and lonely, left too long to sit in corners, sharing words with timeless friends, ... "It's me, I'm here, I love you ! ©Ven.July07
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