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Lets celebrate creative writing
you say Poetry 2010 (1)
Ed. c. wellbeloved
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The empty photocopier
Broken, haggard and misused
From years of office strain
Near the fire extinguishers
But they can’t extinguish the pain
The photocopier has lived
More pain than you and I
More heartache than the printer felt
When you bled its cartridge dry
Hurt from all the paper jammed
Inside its middle section
I look at the photocopier
And see my own reflection
For I am emptier than you
I can’t take any more
My paper trays lie barren
Now I’ve run out of A4
Feed me no more documents
I have nothing left to give
Don’t bother to recycle me
I’ve lost the will to live
Adjust the brightness of my soul
And make it extra black
Print fifty copies of my pain
Landscape, back to back
Then shred them like you’ve shredded me
To never be retrieved
Fill up my paper tray with your lies
And unplug me when you leave
Stephanie Lunn
Sun Jewels
Sun on rowanberries
Clusters of rubies on green silk
Sun on blue sea
Turquoises on silver bed
Sun on heather clad mountain
Amethysts on patchwork quilt
Sun on snowy field
Diamonds glinting on white hand
Sun on autumn foliage
Amber strung on threads of gold
Sun on dewy grass
Pearl drops of milk
Elizabeth McCloskey
Who will love the jellyfish?
Who will love the jellyfish
If they don’t love themselves
No one to hold and cuddle them
Just loneliness instead
Each affectionate encounter
Meets with an icy sting
The poison in their tentacles
What loneliness it brings
They scrub away the pain
With an industrial sea sponge
But further into solitude
They cannot help but plunge
I dive into the ocean
Deep down below the reef
Where a smack of golden jellyfish
Have lost their self-belief
I swim to them, arms open
But they see me and run
For I am lonelier than them
My pain is never done
I have no poisoned tentacles
Just pointless skin and bones
No gelatinous exterior conceals
The wish to be alone
As my aquatic emptiness
Becomes my only purpose
I make a bid for freedom
And swim up to the surface
I tried to love the jellyfish
They rejected me somehow
The emptiness consumes me
So who will love me now
For I will find no solace
Where seagulls swoop and dive
But deep below the surface
It’s good to be alive
No one will love the jellyfish
They don’t believe in love
But I will find salvation here
Much more than up above
I’ll swim with shoals of sea bass
They’ll grant my every wish
You’ll find me in the deep sea trench
Canoodling cuttlefish
Stephanie Lunn
Deep Desires
It is said that when the night draws in,
And the wind is from the east,
And the crows fly to the west,
That the fireflies will guide you through the wild wood.
Down to the wasteland,
Where the wild dogs run free,
Where the dogs hunt rabbits in the ruins,
Where the twin willows weep for the Old Hanging Tree.
The old oak by the forgotten crossroads, of a forgotten village,
The wind rustles the leaves, like the moans of lost souls, swaying in the wind.
In the dead of night, a figure sits at the foot of the tree,
He whispers to the wind, which carries his words over the land.
When you are in need, and the Lord is deaf to your pleas,
Turn to me, anything for a fee.
Old Nick has shed his horns and hooves,
Demands no souls, just a small gift or favour,
Always a bargain, never a fix.
But when a gift is given, or an act committed,
Who knows where the consequences will lead.
Ian Ward
Heat
The crowd gathered to view the show.
The air rich with tropical perfume.
Pungent aromas enhancing the night.
A torrid mood enveloped the room.
Audience lightly clad, keeping cool
Waiting casually for the final count.
As the drums commenced a seductive beat
You could feel the tension start to mount.
Warm bodies brushed, hands roamed.
Hearts throbbed in youthful chests.
Men, legs closed, hands on knees.
Women with a tingling in their breasts.
Ten native bodies erupted on stage,
Commencing with a fiery display.
My eyes were glued to a nubile girl.
My heart leapt when she looked my way.
The pulsating gyrating turned to frenzy.
Drums beat at a feverish pace.
The heat and the beat inspired the crowd.
Bodies swayed all over the place.
The drums slowed to a sensuous rhythm.
Couples clinched amid the trees.
I felt lost in the seething throng
Till a voice said softly, “Come Please”!
My nubile girl with skin so brown;
Shiny black hair, teeth so white
Took my hand and led me away,
To where I only dreamed she might.
By a jungle pool under a moonlit sky,
Lips touched and kisses were sweet.
Our clothes soon gone bodies entwined,
Moving gently in the tropical heat.
Her eyes alight she held my gaze.
Her toxic perfume driving me insane.
Our bodies reaching that peak so high,
Minds savoring till passion’s wane.
My eyes were glazed with that vision of her,
Till a sharp voice became an intrusive spike.
“Mr. Jones, your Tahiti tickets are here.
You can keep that brochure if you like.”
Jonathan Tromane
Journey
I stand a pilgrim of my years;
that treasure trove of hopes and fears.
And all too soon the curfew nears.
My twilight days unfold.
The hooded man with sickle blade;
he sits composed, beneath the shade.
He knows my days are not yet paid.
He waits on God’s decree.
I walk the paths of memory,
recalling flights of levity.
The shadows that disparaged me
could not obscure the view.
And in my times of pondering
on truth – persistent wondering.
I steered my course meandering
with love and light and song.
Through love, I breathed how life beguiles
when first I saw my children’s smiles,
and watched them whet their waggish wiles.
The sparkle, and the tune.
The mirror man looks back at me
and eye to eye we both agree,
Adventure was our victory.
Faith – our saving grace.
Tom Murphy