Members’ Poems

Waterfront  by Lyn Turner 

I went to the Waterfront today.  I wanted to dip my toe in, to see if it was cold, or welcoming and refreshing..

I was pleasantly surprised.  With trepidation I tested the sand beneath my feet.

I could feel it moving as if the tide was ebbing and flowing, I could see the patterns made as I walked across the damp sand. The Waterfront accepted me, listened and encouraged me.

I will not be afraid to dive in again and enjoy the eddies. I will admire again the differences in style and content of the others.

No sharp pebbles there! Only soft warm sand of education, knowledge and education, knowledge and new experiences.


We are the Waterfront Writers by Carol Butson

We are very select in our writers group, our credentials are plain to see

Each member retains their full quota of brains

As they compose their poetry

Yes, we are the Waterfront Writers and we’re terribly proud of the fact,

For the writers elsewhere they make us despair

For their lack of literary tracts.

Every week we gather together, a mixed bunch of folk who love words

Mixed metaphors fly, pluck our rhymes from the sky,

As a group we just love the absurd

We chatter and giggle and comment, as our various tales are spun

We rework alterations and inscribe our corrections

Just two hours of literary fun

We give ourselves airs, at social affairs, we’re often in whimsical mode

With comments terse and risqué blank verse

We spout limericks, sonnets and odes

The Waterfront Writers are special, no age barrier here holds us back

Our prose is collectable our rhymes are impeccable

But a lot of the time we just chat

Two hours just fly by much too quickly when we meet every week as a group

We talk and discuss, we critique and adjust

When we cook up our literary soup

We conspire and admire, consort and report, by writer’s block we’re not deterred

But we never lose sight of the reason we meet,

We are friends sharing our love of words

Going Home by Carol Butson

As sunrise wakes the sleepy land, and life begins to stir,

I set off on my journey, for I must travel far

I prefer to use the back roads, to walk the leafy lanes

Where quietly waits my old life as I head for home again

As morning sun ascends the sky and heads towards midday

I am going home alone, after many years away

I will walk the old road, though it’s not the quickest route

A solitary journey, as with purpose I step out

It’s the pretty way, the hidden way, this ancient secret lane,

Where dappled sunlight filters through a canopy of green

The sound of my own footsteps, the birdsong in the tree

The smell of new cut grass from the far side of the lea

Pause to lean on five barred gate, and gaze across the fields

At distant hills and hedgerows, pure tranquility I feel

No sound of motor engine to disturb the peaceful scenes

I hear only birdsong and rustling autumn leaves

As sunset heralds evening, starlings gather overhead

The far horizon fades away to purple, gold and red

In silhouette against the sky a flock of black winged rooks

The smell of drifting wood smoke from distant chimney stacks

As twilight turns to darkness, my journey near its end

Past and present side by side, deep silence all around

If you prefer the busy highways, don’t you come along

If you won’t walk the back roads, then I’m going home – alone

Holiday in Margate  by Carol Butson

We were off on holiday, in 1953

Mum booked up for a week, at a Margate B&B

In our ancient Austin Seven, with our luggage in the boot

Buckets and spades upon our knees, Dad in his best suit

As we drove along the road the journey seemed to fly

We were singing ten green bottles, and playing at “I spy”

At last we arrived at the B&B and entered the dingy hall

The smell of boiled cabbage, and a picture of the King on the wall

Scratchy sheets on lumpy beds, net curtains dull and grey

But we were kids, and happy just to be beside the sea

We woke up in the morning, the sun was shining bright

We headed off towards the beach, clutching bucket, spade and kite,

We changed into our bathers which were dreadfully ill fitting

They soaked up all the water because they were made of knitting

Emerging from the sea the crotch hung down between our knees

The icy water was so cold our toes and fingers freeze

Mother very daring tucked her dress into her drawers

And had a little paddle as she watched us from the shore

While Father sat in a deckchair, hairy legs in khaki shorts

A knotted hankie on his head, with the paper, back page, sports

It was such a struggle getting out of a wet cossie

Wind whipping at our towel, sand in every nook and cranny

Then out came the bucket, build a castle made of sand

Seaweed flag and driftwood drawbridge, we were kings who ruled the land

Up to the shop for a bottle of pop and a bright green fishing net

Searching rock pools, catching shrimps, our dresses getting wet

Mother bought us ice creams, and sticks of bright pink rock

We did not heed dire warnings that our teeth would start to rot

And then along the sandy beach we had a donkey ride

We watched the ships far out to sea and saw the incoming tide

We collected shells In buckets, to take home and keep for ever

Memories of a magic time that we would always treasure

In the restaurant the menu was excitedly perused

We were so excited ‘cos we were allowed to choose

Knickerbocker glory, cheese omelette, cod in batter

The waitress said, “You’re late, it’s off, we only have spam fritters”

We walked along the promenade, the brass band in the park

Then back to bed in the B&B because it was getting dark

Next day suitcase packed and loaded, ready to depart

Leaving our seaside paradise, with a heavy heart

Off we drove, a last glimpse of the sand and sparkling sea

But father said “Now cheer up kids, we’re back next year, you’ll see”

I now go to Majorca, where it’s never wet and cold

But I still remember Margate, when I was seven years old

Life – by Cally Starforth Hill 

Life is mean and life is short,

something in which we all get caught.

It never meets you in the eye,

It’ll make you laugh, it’ll make you cry.

Life was never meant to be

truly, fundamentally

a game of chance in which we try

to throw the dice successfully.

We were never meant to carve a path

so we could sign an autograph,

and prove our worth to all the world

to show we’re worth our weight in gold.

Living isn’t all a joke,

designed by some great God on coke.

nor is it suffering eternal,

meant to end in Hell’s inferno.

It sure ain’t one big slice of cake,

though sometimes we can take a break,

and find a way to make it work

so problems won’t drive us beserk. 

And plague our days, our months, our years,

feed shamelessly upon our tears,

until we crawl up in a ball

and lose the will to face it all.

Life’s not life without a dream,

so keep believing so it seems

that dreams may never turn out true,

keep your faith, it’s good for you.

It’s not a hedonistic ball

where we can take, just take it all.

Though living in the moment’s wise

just make a wish and close your eyes.

You may never make ten out of ten

or rank up with the bravest men.

If your main goal is not achieved

don’t give up, break down or grieve.

You never know what’s round the corner,

no-one has the power to warn you,

turn your face up to the stars,

reach for the skies and reach afar.

And then you’ll see that life’s a wonder,

curiosity will find you,

who we are, from whence we came

will make you want to live again.

House on Henley Street by Jack Horne

(Remembering a visit to Shakespeare’s Birthplace)

I closed my eyes and wished him there.
My fingers traced the bricks and slate,
Exploring textures rough and smooth:
The wooden beams, the open grate.

I stepped on creaking floors he’d walked,
And climbed the narrow flight of stairs.
I stopped by windows where he’d stood,
And patted tables, beds and chairs.

The building held his tears and joys.
He seemed so close I hoped we’d meet.
I felt him etched upon the place:
He’d loved the house on Henley Street.


In the summer we’d meet and we’d sip iced tea,

and the waiter saw kisses as people passed;

as I whispered my feelings into your ear,

I was sure in my heart that our love would last.

Now the winter is here and your heart has closed,

all the warmth that we shared is now frigid cold;

and I wonder what changed; why I lost your heart,

as I sit at our table alone and old…

After the Fling by Jack Horne

Our love was fleeting, like a cloudy moon,

and when it ended, I kept asking why

you stole my heart, then said goodbye so soon.

I lose myself in memories and cry.

You said you cared, but clearly that’s a lie,

and if I ask to talk, you only sigh.

So if I said I need you, would you laugh?

I’m sure, that is exactly what you’d do!

My tearful eyes can’t see your photograph,

and all I want to do is dream of you:

the day when you return to love me too,

and then I know your feelings will be true.

You never told me why you turned so cold.

My mind replays the scene that fateful day:

you wouldn’t kiss me, wouldn’t let me hold

your hand, I couldn’t figure what to say,

and numb with shock, I watched you walk away.

Too late I thought of begging you to stay.

I wanted you to be there all my life,

and knowing you’re with him, just twists the knife.


Reunited by Jack Horne

She knew her life was through,

but wasn’t scared to die;

she closed her pain filmed eyes,

her final breath a sigh.


Her husband took her hand,

and whispered, ‘ Welcome, dear.

It’s been so very long –

we won’t be parted here.’

No Rain by Annie Jenkin


A river bed lies dormant, bare

revealing scars of once was there.

Sand grains and dust move along its path,

catching in wafer thin crusted earth.

Scant clouds whisper “no, no rain”.


River banks shrunken, erode

withered bush roots protrude,

grasses hang insipidly pale,

bones of a once  thirsty animal.

Scant clouds whisper “no, no rain”.


Further along the river bank,

an elephant raises his trunk,

flaps his ears and shakes his body,

conserving energy, ambles slowly.

Scant clouds whisper “no, no rain”.


The elephant finds what he’s looking for,

a remembered spot of years before,

using tusks and foot, he digs deep.

slowly, water begins to seep

He doesn’t hear, “no, no rain”.

EMPATHY AND BEYOND by Natalie Molyneux

Just a number, no one noting.

Stroke upon stroke, positive or negative.

Just a punchbag for others’ emotions

What about me? My needs I see

Bent, right-angled, head is dangled

Unsupported. Questions need framing.

Identity wavers, does me no favours.

Empathy with enemy, takes time to join reality.

What’s my head worth? body’s two penn’orth

of chemicals. Am I worth a six figure fee?

For my thoughts? Anger – psychosis?

Am I heard? Separation from reality?

Superego blinds. Consolation finds. Grapevine twines around the form.

Just a number. In the dole queue.

One hundred and fifty years of P&O by Natalie Molyneux

From Camden Town on a summer’s eve

I travelled to Greenwich Palace.

The park with revellers did heave

for a party given all for free.

Ships with bunting and light we saw.

The palace floodlit from the hill beheld.

An ambience created by a marine band

and then a laser show as we stand

in harmony against the population,

the celebration held for our delectation.

Steaming tea and cheery faces

as in bus queues we take our places.

All too soon we bid farewell

Homeward bound, London Transport’s coffers we swell.

The Kitchen at Christmas by Natalie Molyneux

Cards adorn the walls,

Candle and lights gleam

as evening falls,

flowers and clementines

the mood enhance

as the advent days advance.

Carols and classics:

welcoming sounds,

of styles there’s a choice,

not only the voice.

Unto us a child is born,

for his head a crown of thorns.

Fragrance of cookery

from a book as she

dilligently makes for tea

cakes and curries, as you see.

Crumbles and compotes scent the air

as she works from her comfy chair.

A scholar she feeds,

calories he needs,

as he the courtyard scours.

It would have taken hours.

Virtual files he sorts.

Catalogues her thoughts.

MARRIED BLISS by Sylvia Parys

Early in the morning

busy as a bee

upstairs runs the housewife

with husband’s cup of tea.

Back again to fetch him

breakfast too in bed. 

Hmm, he smells it cooking

As he stirs his weary head.

Shoes are waiting, shining

briefcase by the door

hat and coat to hand him

at the bus’s nearing roar.

Then, in desperation,

wife gives a shout

down the stairs he’s running

shirt is hanging out!

Now to do the shopping

food, he’s very keen,

quite the biggest eater

she has ever seen.

Steak and peas and onions

pickles, ham and cheese

stomach’s always empty

very hard to please!

Back home now to washing

shirts and socks and things

never stops a moment

kitchen clock has wings.

Throws her hat and coat on

– meets the kids from school

‘Daddy’s little angels’

– demons as a rule.

Now the bedroom tidy

clothes are on the floor

put them in the wardrobe

hang them on the door

listen for the kettle

have to make his tea

husband has been working

thirsty man is he!

While he watches telly

still she can’t relax

serving him and children

tea and biscuit snacks

but at last she’s finished

all her household chores…

…yes, at last she’s finished

all her household chores.

The Diet by Sylvia Parys

Oh dear, what have we here?

I said to my friend.

You used to be eighteen stone;

where did it disappear?

I did not know you went on a diet;

I know that you must feel very proud

of what you have achieved.

I am very pleased for you;

I would never have believed

that you could really do it.

I wish I could do the same

and get some off my belly;

It’s really not very funny

when I feel like a wobbling jelly,

so let it be an example

to all of them out there:

this diet can be done

in nine months clear…

Will that be all, sir? by Sylvia Parys

Now no names please,

I’m just a tease,

and just like having fun,

I know you really like my poems,

here’s another one.

Excuse me but I must state

that you have a very full plate

with your veg, roast meat and good wine

you really know how to dine.

What a delicious spread

with delicious jam and bread

and cakes so divine

I wish they were mine

also with caviar and oysters

foie gras, baguettes and cucumbers.

The toffee nosed and upper crust,

I think they are about to bust.

My Love by Sylvia Parys

He is my big blonde bombshell

and is sitting in the car

he is fantastic, so quiet and gentle,

good natured too

He will do whatever I ask of him

and do it without any fuss

I have never met anyone quite like him

he is so special to me

we go everywhere together

I could never be without him

that is why I love him so much

my big super softy collie.

Honey Bear by Sylvia Parys

This is your Honey Bear:

I love to look for honey everywhere;

in people’s homes, I do declare

that I will find some somewhere.

Hurrah! I’ve found a pot of honey;

It’s just the size for me.

Now I will try and see

how much there is inside.

Oh dear, silly me, I have fallen in,

and it’s nearly full of honey.

Oh dear, I seem to be stuck.

It’s all over my hair and derriere.

Help, now how can I get out?

Looks like I will have to eat it all;

don’t come to get me out just yet:

this is going to take a long time to eat

’cause I’m quite enjoying this:

life is very sweet, if some honey you eat.

Little Miss Muffet by Sylvia Parys

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey,

when down came a spider and sat down beside her, hoping

to scare her away

But up jumped Miss Muffet from her tuffet

You are big, fat and ugly, she said angrily

and I do not like you, so please go away

But the spider spoke to her and said

I am very hungry, I have not eaten for days

I like what I see you eating

with that he gulped the curds down

then he very quickly began to grow, and grew very big

with one quick sweep, with four of his feet

he picked her up and took her away

into his home of a web

He knew what he was doing

there were no flies on him.

Ode to a Glass by Sylvia Parys

I like coffee, I like tea

I liker to sit on a knee

I like red and white wine

Will he take me out to dine?

I like spirits and liqueur

but please don’t put me on the floor.

Don’t forget I like port and sherry

it’s no better than my Blackberry.

Now my glass is quite full and I’m sure that you are too

Do you know what I think?

That you have had enough to drink

Don’t you think that you had ‘oughta’

go and drink some milk and water?

I nearly forgot my beer on draught

when I tried so hard to make you laugh

What do you think? You’re looking quite tickled pink.

Attitude by Thea Bruten

We all know of people

who rely on attitude

they’re abrasive, evasive

and really rather rude!

Booting through the senses,

closing open doors,

cutting conversations, shout

when they should cut their claws.

Channelling bad attitude

can have a great result

conserving all that energy

instead of finding fault

pushing with the steaming mind

can sort out everything

It’s great what sated attitude

with  a dash of care can bring!

Do it now by Thea Bruten

Phone a friend,

write that letter,

feel the sunshine

and look at the stars tonight.

Live each day

like there’s no tomorrow –

it could be the day

that you’ll be right.

Note to Editor: Anyone got an ‘E’? by Thea Bruten

Just one small adjustment

one writer’s tiny plea

while publishing our verses

please spell Bruten with an E –

now I have never been on drugs

although I yap at speed –

to keep my poems coming,

one E is all I need!

Another Wrinkly Rap by Thea Bruten

I am one of the deprived

although two years off seventy-five –

lack of easy mobility

over loaded memory

chemist controlled for each heartbeat

ankles turning to concrete –

overnight bags carried by my eyes

jaundiced already by life’s lies.

What is left to regenerate?

Too cynical, wised up, too late!

No longer fooled by wallpaper charm

with a two-edged tongue

that can do harm –

rocking chair

pots of tea –

sweet old lady?

Yeah! That’s me!

Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Thea Bruten

I am the Minister for Procrastination,

not a doer, but a thinker of ideas.

My portfolio is my imagination,

still blank and I’ve worked on it for years.

There’s no division bell to prompt an answer,

Mr Speaker’s out on his two-hour lunch –

I should be penning thoughts

of utter brilliance,

could I do so if it came to the crunch?

They say you should take time

to smell the roses,

but in depth of winter that is no excuse

so I sofa-loaf and plan

how I, tomorrow

will put my rusted brain

to some good use.

There’s a hole in my Bucket List by Thea Bruten

People, as they age a bit

start a bucket list

of places or experiences

they fear they may have missed –

skydiving or abseiling

no thanks! – not for me

I’d like to go alone, again

to wander Italy.

or back to Honalulu

though friends there will have died – they ran Greenhouse Hawaii

breeding orchids on the side.

They taught me corsage making

and asked would I like to stay –

I couldn’t, as my mum and I

were due in the UK.

Mr and Mrs NDA, in 1954,

grew orchids in California,

less than 10 years since the war.

They’d bred a new variety:

Vanda was its name;

flying corsages to LA nightly

and I could have done the same.

So at 22, what I had to do

was turn down a Hawaiian life

and freeze in English winters

through 60 years of strife.

Two marriages, two children,

Eight house moves, budget cares,

so many jobs: nanny to nobs,

florist, store guide, au pair.

So my days alone and working

before the Swinging London times,

I lost sight of my bucket list:

now I just list my life through rhymes.

Early Morning Jot by Thea Bruten

Between three and four in the morning

if the brain continues to burn,

a rhyming couplet forming –

will you never learn?

Addicted to the memopad,

always a pen in hand,

the light swiutched on,

all sleep is gone,

the Sandman’s run out of sand.

But dripping through the misty mind

the words find other words:

adjectives looking firmly on,

inspired or absurd.

What triggered off the subject?

How do you follow it through?

By now the rhyme takes over;

it’s no longer up to you.

Powering across the page,

the last line now in sight;

sunrise attacking your curtains –

what happened to the night?

Teardrop in the Sky by Thea Bruten

On the road home from Plymouth in the late afternoon

there’s sometimes the sighting of a silver balloon –

hanging, a teardrop against sun-setting clouds

away from the chaos of engines and crowds.

No long necklace of cars, no white vans up there,

no holiday caravans, no petrol-pumped air.

Just this silvery teardrop suspended in space,

looking down on the srtrung-out, tired human race,

hurrying home in their metal cans

pressured by time and bottlenecked plans.

Carloads of children complaining, confined,

drivers with patience accustomed, resigned –

and others who let you know what’s on their mind!

And there in the peaceful gold-dusted air

glides the lonely balloon free from angst and despair.

I’ve often wondered – where does it land?

Lucky pilot that owns it – by whom is it manned?

It’s seen parallel between Buckfastleigh

and over the farmland between there and the sea.

So the pilot an anyone sharing the flight

must have glorious views in the evening light

of green velvet acres and our heritage coast –

the full panorama encompassing most

of our piece of Devon, far more than we see

from our concreted causeway hurtling A to B.

Oh, to be up there to float unconfined

free from the strictures and structures of mind –

to have, laid below you the patchwork of fields,

the ribbon of rivers and, as eachg thermal yields

another clear vista of small village shops

clustered with cottages, some with thatched tops,

tiny back gardens, then further away

long lines of crops or piled bales of hay.

People so tiny, some waving to you

wishing, like me, they were floating there too.

As the sun disappears and our journey’s near end,

for the flight I have shared with you,

Happy Landings, my friend.

Stress by Thea Bruten

The toaster spat out burnt offerings,

the egg yolk split its sides,

the orange juice played fast and loose

a trickle, then full tide.

I was further stressed

while getting dressed,

worried and in haste –

just the day for the zip to stick

fighting a new inch on my waist.

I shot out through the front door

then found I’d left my keys –

give me a break

for heaven’s sake,

I’m almost on my knees.

What’s gone awry with my day?

What ruptured my routine?

Of course!

I’ve just remembered:

today’s Friday Thirteen!

Gone by Thea Bruten

I lost a poem in the night,

it floated through my dreams

and like a dream, it seemed so real

but when I woke it seems

the sentences had come unglued

the lines all fell apart –

a scrap of paper and a pen

could have caught it at the start.

I felt a sense of loss because

it held such terms of phrase.

Oh, why don’t such good poems

come in our waking days?

Tally by Thea Bruten

All those things that you could have done,

that you would have done,

that you should have done,

that you long ago refused –

all those chances you didn’t take

for convention’s sake:

what a sad mistake

that your upbringing confused;

do they outweigh the better days

the unfettered days

when you changed your ways?

All the people who’ve been friends to you,

the interesting places you’ve travelled to,

the conversation with every view –

these are the treasures to hold on to

and your days are not yet used!

Plymouth Glass Galleon by Thea Bruten

Clean as the early new washed sky,

clear as the icy sea,

the glass of the galleon rigging

twists into history.

For then, the ropes and the oaken hull

gave speed to the merchantmen –

and now there are masters of molten skills

who can build us a ship, again.

From a blob of glass in the orange heat

of an angry furnace fire,

they can fashion a galleon in full sail

with glass spun fine as wire.

With sails lopped and hanging

from icicle-like spars

captured in frozen fragile form,

the pride of the ancient tars.

But this ship will never take to sea,

never wash her decks with spray –

for she’s missed the tide

so she’s moored inside

a landlocked wall display.

Haiku poems by Thea Bruten

straddling the river

reaching from the banks of time

paved in history

poems on a wall

expression freely offered

thoughts by concrete bound

Nightfall by Thea Bruten

Steely-grey, the cloudy fringes

losing grips on an evening sky,

burnished now with flames of sunset,

burning the day as it passes by.

High above, like a silver pendant,

hangs a slice of moon,

frozen beyond the far horizon,

riding the day that will die too soon.

TIME by Joyce Matthews

Time in loneliness stands still

Time has no meaning, when you have no will.

But time moves on, it’s you that stands still.

So move with the times, live your life get your fill.

Time hangs heavy for the man in the cell.

The days are long and the nights are hell.

He took a life when he did his crime

When he took that life, he took their time.

Time waits for no man it ticks on by.

There’s a time to laugh, and a time to cry.

There’s a time to sleep when darkness fall.

There’s a sometime a no time and a good time for all.

Come the end of your days where did it go.

All this time you had, you don’t know.

It slipped on by without a sound.

But time is eternal when you’re under ground.

A SCARY STARE by Joyce Matthews

I wondered through the city going from shop to shop.

All I wanted was a little black top.

Shop after shop, searching  rail after rail,

Up and down each street I trail.

Feeling worn out and tired.

Some refreshment I required.

Sitting down enjoying the break,

With a cup of tea and a slice of cake.

A man stood by the next table looking at me.

“Well girl you’ve still got it” I thought with glee.

I look away and around the room.

By now he would have gone I assumed.

I looked back and he was still there.

His eyes on me with a stare.

Feeling nervous now, what did this imply.

Him staring at me. I wonder why.

A lady came, took  his arm, and they turned to go.

Walking  away careful and slow.

He carries a white stick for all to see.

     And I thought he was staring at me.

I DON’T FEEL WELL by Joyce Matthews

Last evening I began to sneeze,

By bed time I was weak at the knees.

Today I’m laying in my bed,

A sore throat and a pain in my head.

I’m hot all over but shivering still.

My chest is tight and I feel so ill.

My nose is running and my lips are sore,

My muscles ache. I can’t stand much more.

A box of tissues near to hand.

A hot lemon drink on the stand.

For three days I’ll stay in my bed.

My friend will come to see that I’m fed.

Then a few more days to convalesce.

I’ll be off with my night-gown and on with my dress.

I’ll go out to places that I know,

Looking healthy and all a glow.

I wonder who’ll miss me while I’m ill in my bed.

I bet no one will, that’s another pain in my head.

THE POSH DO by Joyce Matthews

I’m going to a posh do tonight.

So what can I wear that’ll look just right.

I went to my wardrobe and looked through my gear.

Mouldy and moth eaten and no cashmere.

No silks no sequins, not a sparkle in sight.

Oh what can I wear to look just right.

Through all my drawers in desperation,

Looking for that little creation.

There was nothing there that I could see.

Then suddenly a brainwave came to me.

I ran to my bed and pulled back the sheet.

And there it was all folded neat.

My long black nightie trimmed with lace.

I’ll wear this to that posh place.

Then I remembered granny’s shawl.

Crochet in cotton with black beads and all.

With my nails all polished and my hair piled high.

For this posh do I now qualify.

So off I went and the evening went well.

I’m in my nightdress but no one could tell.

I looked very nice so everyone said.

When I got home I just jumped into bed.

WEIGHT AND WASHING by Joyce Matthews

Got to get the washing done

And it’s raining again before I’ve begun

I kneel on the  floor to sort the washing .

You can guarantee there’ll be an odd stocking.

The washer’s crammed full, it never used to be.

It’s the same amount of clothes, they all belongs to me.

I think it’s to do with the weight I’ve put on.

My small sizes have long gone.

I’m now size eighteen going on twenty.

My chest was flat, now I’ve got plenty.

I look at my dress and think of a tent.

An homeless person would pay me rent.

THE BUS RIDE by Joyce Matthews

I walked to the bus shelter, the sort with an opening each end.                          

I joined the queue and wondered if I was at the beginning or the end.          

The bus came right on time, I’m standing at the front of the line.                      

I show my pass as I board the bus, there’s only room for one of us.             

One seat is all I see inside, next to a lady who’s very wide.                          

Just a little of seat is all there is for me, a one cheek job this will be.            

As the bus cornered I felt I would drop. I hung onto the seat stop after stop.    

“I want the next stop” said the lady next to me, a seat to myself I foresee.      

I sat by the window when she’d gone, it felt so good ‘till the fat man got on                                              

With only one seat to be seen, it’s next to me so against the window I lean. 

He was not on the bus very long, I was glad when he had gone.                                                

 I sat back to enjoy the ride, when a mobile rang on the other side.

Answering the phone in a loud voice, we all had to listen; we had no choice.

Every word you could not miss, the conversation went like this:                                     

“I’m on the bus I’ll be home by three, I’ve got you something for your tea”.                       

On she talked without a care, I think she’d forgotten that we were there.                               

At last she put the phone away, we were pleased she had no more to say.                         

Next all the school kids got on the bus, big bags swinging just missing us.                  

I thought a bus ride would be a treat, I was glad the next stop was in my street.

MY POOR FEET by Joyce Matthews

I dressed to go to town.

The shoes I wore were my very best brown.

When I put them on they did not feel right.

My feet must be swollen cause my shoes felt tight.

Then I remembered I’d worn them the day before

And I’d walked so far my feet was sore.

Now that’s why the shoes don’t feel right

Uncomfortable, and feeling tight.

The shoes matched my outfit so wear them I must.

Hoping the shoes to my feet would adjust.

I took the bus to town because my feet was so sore.

I did not want to aggravate them anymore.

Walking around town my feet got worse.

I looked down at my feet, them to curse.

Oh my what a sight.

My left shoe was on the right.

AFRICA by Miranda Lloyd-Gregg

Indigo – Dyed from the blue, emerges the deeper blue

Lemon – The disc of the sun through the morning mist
Orange – The African sky at sunset, vibrant as your first kiss
Violet – Deep is the purple, velvet are the petals which fall
Ebony – Darker than the night sky, fragrant is your skin

Yellow – Bright as the midday sun, shining on your house
Ochre – The feel of the earth beneath your feet
Umber – The banks of the river, where the elephants play

DOWN THE LANE by Miranda Lloyd-Gregg

We met In a silent place, as the dead lie undisturbed,
Our paths crossed and we both stood our ground,
Briefly, our eyes locked, one on the other, in a frozen stare.
I thought I saw the glimmer of a challenge in those yellow eyes,
Although I meant him no harm;
In this passing place,
He had as much right as I.
Then turning aside, the fox slipped back into woods and
I continued down the lane.


LOVE ON THE LOCH by Jack Horne

 Her colleagues thought she was a bore

and found her easy to ignore,

they smirked about her style of dress

and said she always looked a mess.

She pitched her tent upon the shore

and hoped to hear the monster roar;

the gal was praying for success

on holiday beside Loch Ness!


A guy was also camping there –

if people laughed he didn’t care,

they talked about his clothes and hair.

At once they knew they were a pair!


At midnight as they shared a kiss

and felt they couldn’t know more bliss –

the loneliness was at an end

as each of them had found a friend

(they’d waited all their lives for this) –

the monster crept up with a hiss…

too fast for them to comprehend,

they died together that weekend.