Seahorses
This poem is about how things were when I was at primary school. I’ve changed the name of the teacher but he could be one of thousands. We no longer see his harsh methods as either acceptable or effective but when people were brought up in such times and did as was expected of them did it make them bad people? I don’t really think so.
A collection of straps
Different colours
Different lengths and widths
All stung outstretched hands
When Mr O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses
Mr. O’Brien
He had two pens for marking
Red and green
Hard and soft
Red crosses stung hands
Green a chance to correct
Good! Meant good!
In any colour
Mr. O’Brien
Taught right from wrong
Imposed his discipline
With fairness
In an old fashioned
Outdates, discredited way
Mr. O’Brien was never wrong
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses
Mr O’Brien
Taught what he knew
Knew what he taught
Held his beliefs firmly
Led by example
Cared deeply
Seldom showed it
Jack O’Brien
Was an old man
With steely eyes
Age set free a thin
Wry smile
And bent his once
Rod straight back
And his hands shook
As he spoke
and he spoke of the past
and the pupils he taught
When Jack O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
No more straps
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
But the seahorse
Were gone
Reawoken
Yes I can do romantic – wrote this one for Maggie
Happy Valentine’s Day XXX
I’m awake
Not un-sleeping
But awake
More awake than ever
Awake to today
Awake to tomorrow
Awake to life
Awake with your voice in my ears
Awake with your smile on my face
Awake with your hair in my fingers
Awake with your fragrance in my mind
Awake with your taste on my lips
Awake with your wonder in my heart
You may sleep
Wrapped in my arms
Head on my chest
Breathing shared air
Skin under my skin
Scent on my body
Warmth by my side
I’m awake
Watching, dreaming
Hoping, holding
Shielding, protecting
I’m awake
Don’t ever let me sleep
Not Like the Rest
In satin waves
And did those feet?
Weaving Words: Chinese New Year
Weaving Words: Chinese New Year: To celebrate Chinese new year we are having a change tomorrow, we will meet in the library as usual at 5.30pm and have a workshop on the Yea…
Just Poets “open mic” at the Baum, Rochdale
Just Poets are running their next open mic night on Sunday evening, 8th January 2012 at 8.00pm.
The session is always fun with a wide mix of poets and some music.
Best to arrive a bit ahead of the start time to get drinks from the bar and then head to the upstairs room for the session. Come and join us!
Weaving Words – Rochdale
Weaving Words is Rochdale’s creative writing group meeting in the Wheatsheaf Library at 5.30pm on the second and fourth Monday of each month.
The next meeting is on Monday 9th January 2012 and will be held in the room by the Maskew Collection upstairs in the library. The theme for the meeting is “New Life” and you are invited to bring along something written on the theme to share with the group.
There are regular workshops with those currently planned including;
23rd January – Chinese New Year – by Julia
27th February – Poetic Forms- by Sam
26th March – Fictional Monologues – by Maggie
All are welcome and details are also updated on our Facebook Group “Weaving Words”
The beige and the greys
I was having fun fun thinking about at the way that older people tend to wear grey and beige and had the idea that Littlewoods, BHS and Greenwoods were pushers getting the older generation hooked on those colours – so here it is, another case of thinking too much:
There’s a new drug in town
Big Print
Through the Door
This is a poem about teenagers growing up and that stage where communicating with them becomes more difficult and less frequent.
I lived filled with your music
loud clear and bright
thoughts shared
differences aired
worries eased
growing beside you
but everything changes
and change hurts sometimes
and your music fades
the granite patinated strings
stretched out of tune
your door now closed
herald’s crisp tones dwindled
to ring-ding empty echoes
silent and cold
feelings locked in
unshared, withheld
seeking a reminder
a remnant
one last taste
licking the sardine tine lid
cutting my tongue
blood affirming life
so we keep talking
talking through the door








