Category Archives: Poetry

That Smile – Doig Simmonds

Oh!  See
Oh!  Beyond
Those shining eyes

Look and see
Gold hair halo
Softly warm

Finger tips touching
Cool and loving
That smile giving
The welcome
Of living


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Counting Magpies – Martin Choules

One for nada,
Two for nowt,
Three for a shrug,
And four for a doubt,
Five for zero,
Six for oh,
Seven for knowing there’s nothing to know.

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Spring List – Nick Barth

Cherry blossom, check.
Book of verse, jug of wine, check.
Loaf of bread, thou, check.

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The Exhausted Poet – William Morton

The exhausted poet went to bed
and there she laid her sleepy head.
Rhyming tried she in repose
but none there came – just boring prose!
Half wakened by her snoring nose,
a rhyming couplet I suppose,
had tangled uvula and airway,
but to Parnassus came no stairway!

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Time, Ladies & Gents – Pat Francis

It’s Christmas time at Questors,
let’s have a glass of wine;
it can’t be eight already –
the readings will be fine.

It’s party time at Questors,
you’ll find us in the bar;
my sonnet’s nearly ready;
let’s have another jar.

It’s Christmas time at Questors,
let’s dive into the fray;
I forgot to bring my glasses;
let’s read another day.

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The Dreamer – Alan Chambers

Who is the old woman
curled warmly into sleep?
Her dreams are the shadows
that gather in the street.
She wants no awakening
to this cold, dim day,
she is only the guide
through another way:

Where the paths are thorny,
where the rivers run deep,
where the sea is forever
and mountains steep,
where a castle towers high
on its smooth black rock,
where a key rusts slowly
in a broken lock.

Only a brave dreamer
can venture this land,
with a badge of truth
in a clear left hand.
A sinister dragon
waits below the crag
and the sea’s armed might
with its blind tides’ drag,

Beware of the song
that the dragon sings,
beware of the pedlar
and the Fisher King.
A courageous dreamer
may climb the rock,
to turn the key
and loose the lock,
then enter the castle
that has no end,
to meet himself,
to call him friend.


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Filed under Favourites from our members, Poetry, Workshops

The Old Men – Alan Chambers

With red rimmed sunken eyes that leer
the old men sat and blew upon their wrinkled claws
like cold toads waiting under stones for summer.

A pretty miss
with heels a clack a click
and well upholstered grapefruit breasts,
caused those bleary eyes to flicker.

A wan regret, a thought of racier days,
a coarse remark and then a shiver.
The old men spat and turned for solace to the pub.

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