Tag: writing group

After experiencing a brilliant poetry workshop last month, led by one of our members, we were tasked with putting our new skills to the test. Here are a few of our resulting creations for you to enjoy.

Food for the Occasion by Mike Moss

How do I tell the girl, once of my dreams

That all is not well, nor as it seems

I need to dump her, but must tell her kindly

But need to prepare, not go in blindly

So…   I’ll invite her to dinner, have a nice meal

Tell her she’s no winner, has lost her appeal

But what shall we eat, Indian, Chinese or Cajun?

And what shall I say, what fits the occasion?

Chicken stir fry, try not to lie

With egg fried rice, best to be nice

Spanish paella, be straight, tell her

Tapas and rioja, be a joker

Serve really hot curry, no need to hurry.

And naan and pakora, I just don’t adore her

Italian bruschetta, I can do better.

Followed by risotto, get her blotto

or Boeuf Bourguignon, light it in neon

With French bread, at least she’s fed.

And for dessert…..

Serve Eton mess, just confess

Or apple pie, don’t tell her why

Strawberries and cream, it was all a dream

Tiramiasu, I have someone new

Or…. I could take her out, somewhere posh

But why spend money

It’s a waste of good nosh

No, none of these.

I’ll go on a bender, then unfriend her

That’ll do.

The Lady Forget-Me-Not: A fun exercise on Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott by Vanessa Gordon

Slowly past The Bells of Ouseley

On towards the Chandlery

Drifting in a reverie

Unnoticed by humanity

               Went the skiff  “Forget-Me-Not”.

Ignored by geese and royal swans

Cold-shouldered by The Royal Arms

Unseen from houses, pubs and farms

               Sailed the “Forget-Me-Not”.

Quietly on the winter river

All with Christmas lights a-quiver

And the current all a-shiver

Heading nobody cared whither

               Meandered “Forget-Me-Not”.

And in her bows a lady lay,

Dead as a daffodil in May,

Naked as the dawn of day

               Beneath covers of ocelot.

No-one saw her drifting past

Except a jogger running fast

Along the tow-path overcast.

He found her lodged in reeds at last,

               The quiet “Forget-Me-Not”.

He saw the girl, he gave a cry,

He grabbed his phone, his mouth now dry,

‘Police!’ Awaiting no reply

               He boarded “Forget-Me-Not”.

The lady’s skin was snowy white,

Her black hair, shining in the light

Of Windsor’s less than perfect night,

Fell like a curling ammonite

               On the deck of “Forget-Me-Not”.

Her open eyes were carbon black,

Her lovely lips were open, slack.

He gently drew the fur rug back,

               His stomach in a knot.

‘She’s gone,’ he breathed. ‘She’ll not recover,

There’s nothing I can do to save her.’

Then tucking round the furry cover

Gently, like he was her lover,

               He jumped back off “Forget-Me-Not”.

They never knew her name or history,

Her death remained a local mystery,

But in his heart she stayed eternally,

               The Lady Forget-Me-Not.

Synesthesia by Sue Blitz

Weeks later, my nose still hungers for the scent of orange blossom

My appetite for its treacly richness doesn’t wane

When wandering past those orchards, I would grab its essence

My senses filled in ways I now can’t quite explain.

Sure, oranges festooned on trees know how to delight the eyes

Their vibrant colour bolstered by clusters of dark evergreen 

But the smell their flower exudes, earthly normality defies

A random shout-out that touches in ways unforseen.

The Glorious Stench of Summer by Vivien Eden

The ancient warm terracotta

Heats my sandals’ soles

As I traverse

Through streets of baked earth

I enjoy the multi sensual

Sewers have never been so sweet

As when I’m travelling in Spain of Greece

The aromas conveying

My exotic location

Far from my chilly home.

Visible clouds of body odour

Are embraced at a basic level

Incredibly manly

Attractive and strangely

Providing perverse pleasure

European levels of dog-turds

Have me pondering away

Why they do smell better

In sunnier weather

And why I forgive their negligent owners    

My nostrils continue to savour

Foul perfumes so strong they’re flavoured

That denote questionable levels

Of substandard cleanliness

Reminiscent of the Medieval ages

I can’t deny that I’m having a riot

Heightened by three-hundred-and-sixty-degree warmth

Tolerating the stinky

And the memories they conjure

Of carefree long-gone summers

When our family would gloriously appear

Somewhere warm like here

With complete freedom

From daily work and judgements

Smells just didn’t matter

They layered into an exquisite experience

Stimulating my frolicking senses

In restaurants, shops and attractions

A constant backdrop

Of the glorious stench of summer.

Garden of Remembrance by Robyn Kayes

Bees buzz by

Along the path where 

Trees are stretching 

To the sky to reach 

The sun and send

The rays of light 

To the right 

Rambling round 

Roses bright 

Amongst the floral sight

And to the left 

Where scented herbs 

Of lavender and myrtle 

And all the rest

Offer nature’s blessed

Peace of mind

As I look forward 

But I don’t  Forget to remember 

The President Talks Through His Hat by Jay Flynn

[To the tune of the Mexican Hat Dance]

When old Trump wants to look a complete prat,

He’ll just make ten more rules by his fiat –

Like a Stetson’s a Mexican’s new hat!

Or the Gulf you all know

As that of Mexico

Is America’s now – that is that! Then sit back and watch the online chat