FREE VERSE

 

1st Prize

 

Weekend Away by Edith Ward

 

The top drawer in the dressing table

smells of someone else’s perfume.

Someone else’s cigarette

has put a mark on the dressing table top.

The beds are hard but for two days

we belonged to this room.

The fluffy whites droop in the bathroom,

the hotel soap sits in its own juices

and the shower caps have eloped.

In the wardrobe the non-steal coat hangers

clink together waiting to do battle

with the next resident’s clothes.

There’s always a broken one,

who leans against the others

in the empty wardrobe.

 

Someone had messed up

the digital alarm clock in the room

and it wakened us at one in the morning.

We couldn’t find the ‘off’ button

and the noise awoke the room next door,

who banged on the wall.

We think it was the man with the wig

and the woman who doesn’t have

the cooked breakfast, who sit on table six.

 

The room is stripped of us.

Dirty glasses group together,

the bin is full of yesterday’s papers,

tissues and an old pair of natural tan tights.

The comfort tray has been drained

of all but the sugar.

Tomorrow he will make tea and coffee

for someone else.

There’s a tug on the heart when we leave,

as the ‘Do not disturb’ notice on the door

rocks a gentle goodbye.

 

2nd Prize

 

The Retailer’s Tale by A F Harrold

 

Before I got into poetry I got out of retail,

but before I got out of retail I ran a book shop,

providing books to pirates,

until we were picketed by a pacifist amputee group – the Harmless Armless –

after which I stocked safe plain prosthetic hands,

and changed the name to the Second Hand Shop,

which led to some confusion when horologists started asking

for second hands – that is the smallest subdividing moving markers of a watch face –

so,  faced with supply and demand,

I promptly changed the shop’s name again to the Second Hand And Hand Shop,

and ran a scheme where I bought back people’s prosthetics

as they upgraded to smarter models and soon had a pile of second-hand hands,

but since on the other hand a second-hand second hand is rarely worth much at all

I only sold them new,

so the shop became the First-Hand Second Hand and Second-Hand Second Hand Shop.

Until the bottom fell out of the hand market and I tried something else.

 

Moving to the seaside I opened a Flip-Flop Shop

followed by a Fish & Ship Shop, catering for all nautical needs,

and my unique venture in which a white English gentleman promoted urban music,

the Hip Hip! Hip Hop Shop.  (It shut.)

I moved on to the Stop Watching the Stop Watch Stop Shop,

a guidance centre for people who couldn’t control the urge

to watch stop watches until the stopped.

Then there was a shop which didn’t sell a lot, but had it very neatly displayed,

the Ship Shape Shop.  It went under.

There was the store that sold the B-sides to singles which never charted,

the Flip-side of the Flop Shop,

and then my ultimate circus emporium, the Non-Stop One Stop Big Top Shop.

After that I moved to Edinburgh,

and opened a store selling a children’s playground game,

which was my Scotch Hopscotch Shop.

As a sideline I stocked some home-brewing kits, using only locally sourced products,

and renamed the place the Scotch Hopscotch and Scotch Hops Shop.

I sold Old English Bards in the Scop Shop

and equine footfalls in the Clop Shop,

before moving into Greek jazz with my Bebop Aesop Shop,

limited haircuts in the Flattop Shop,

and an Irish band, ballet gear and a variety of moisture

in the Raindrop/Dewdrop U2 Tutu Shop.

 

For Vikings I ran the Longship Shop,

for Admirals the Flagship Shop,

for Archbishops the Worship Shop

and for War Veterans there was Shell Shop.

For folk who liked to watch small pieces of old hardwood vessels be made smaller still

I ran an Antique Teak Ship Chip Chop Shop.

I sold French children’s stories, a Hannah-Barbera character and certain shaved mammals

in the Bare Bear, Babar, Booboo Shop,

and polarised cans containing parts of a Belgian reporter and a Hollywood dog

in my Tinted Rin Tin Tintin Tin Shop.

If you needed to make animals go away you should have come to my Shoo Shop,

and for very light pastry there was my Choux Shop.

Then there was an Ape Shop, a Cape Shop,

a South American Dictatorship Shop, a Sheep Shop,

and an Everything’s Going Cheep Shop – which sold baby birds in old jokes.

 

I became a floor walker in the Grammatical Deportment Department Store:

the ground floor opened onto the mall in a semi-colon and colon colonnade,

the first floor housed the bracket booth and the comma counter,

the second floor supplied cedillas and circumflexes,

alongside the solidus/slash/oblique section, the dot and dash desk and the tilde till.

If you were willing to wait we could order in an ellipsis.

 

Eventually I left there lit with literacy,

and spent a period of time I the Full Stop Shop,

but then I stopped.

 

3rd Prize

 

Textures of November by Margaret Wilmot (extracts)

 

Perspectives (14 November)

 

There is condensation on the window again; the nights

are getting cold.  Autumn this year has arrived incrementally:

shorter days; leaf- and apple-fall; now the temperature falling.

I locate a scarf before pedalling off to Art Class where

the still life’s tones of beige and white nudge the month yet further on.

My paternal grandmother was born today.  She visited when

she was 88, sat by the window reading a Pelican History

of the USA, fascinated by the new perspective.

She was born in Horse Heaven Country in 1897, in the south

of Washington State.  Was it my grandfather’s family who

arrived at the Columbia River in a covered wagon

just too late for the last ferry of the season?

They had to spend the winter with the ferryman, eating cabbage.

I pedal madly to get home before the season turns treacherous.

 

Seeing (15 November)

 

Out a different window I suddenly see small flowers,

almost oriental in their sparseness, dotting the grafted cherry.

Each year they surprise afresh, and more from this angle,

above.  I turn back to the Home Office form on the desk

I’ve commandeered, locate numbers, a document, recent photograph –

and that too looks strange.  Bill pointed out in Art Class

that even mirrors can’t show us what others see.

An article about a current exhibition remarks

on the curious fact that it is only artists who can choose

the face they want to show the world.  I have little idea

what face would be most comfortable, but I’d love

to see through the mask of me; see with no barrier into

the garden from a house built of great transparent blocks

the day before Adam and Eve arrived on the scene.

 

Ordinary Things (16 November)

 

I glance up and there’s a brilliant light just

hanging there high in the sky’s emptiness.

Of course, it’s the moon but already there’s been

that catch of wonder, the heart has skipped before

this miracle, which only illustrates again

the old sermon how the ordinary things in Nature,

would be greater miracles than the extraordinary,

which we admire most, if they were done but once.

Bird-song.  How out of a tiny throat music comes

pouring everywhere.  Long ago I gave up asking

which bird is this?  Almost always it was a blackbird,

or a thrush, or the delicate English robin.  Let’s not start on seeds.

Still the moon exerts its pull though now light is seeping

into the sky, diluting the darkness into the bluest ink.

 

 

VERSE USING RHYME

 

1st Prize

 

Service with a Smile by Doreen Hinchliffe

 

Clarke’s

the shoe shop

with the strange machine

that clicked and whirred

and turned my feet fluorescent green

till I could see them shining

through the dark brown leather of my lace-ups,

where Mum would watch me wiggle

bright emerald toes

and never failed to marvel at the miracle.

 

Vallance’s

the record shop

where rainy winter afternoons

were whiled away

with Perry Como and Pat Boone

their disembodied voices drifting through

the holes inside a soundproofed both

in which my dad and I would settle down

to listen to the latest 45s

and dither over how to spend our half a crown.

 

Frederick Totty’s

ladies underwear

for the fuller figure

where Gran went all her life for corsets

and never realised she was getting bigger

with Frederick dancing his discreet attendance,

unfolding intimate garments

while I watched behind a screen, unseen, unheard,

intrigued by how he glided between ladies,

assessing sizes without uttering a word.

 

Butterworth’s

with sweets

of every colour crammed

in jars on dusty shelves

a half-hearted bell above a door that slammed

and then a heady mix of smells

snuff and pipe tobacco, peppermint and ginger,

where Five Boys chocolate always promised acclamation,

and I’d hover over liquorice, pear drops, sherbet,

tasting the flavour of delicious hesitation.

 

Marshall and Snelgrove’s

exclusive, high class

drapery and department store,

its coat of arms engraved in gold

above the great revolving door

through which we’d venture sometimes as a family

then huddle together in alien territory,

talking in whispers as we walked the perfumed aisles,

afraid our accent might betray us, or we’d somehow

show our lowly breeding by our nervous smiles.

 

 

 

 

2nd Prize

 

Off The Anchorage, Scapa Flow 2006 by Don Nixon

 

The moonlight sets and freezes on the sea.

Foam splinters into shards of glittering light,

Breakers like salvoes broadside through the night,

Gunshot waves explode in the headland’s lee.

Out there, the ocean slides, uncluttered, free,

Except for genuflecting buoys, red bright,

Held fast by anchors, rusting chains hauled tight

Which strain down to a grim finality.

 

Above, poetic moonlit fancies fade;

Dawn clarifies in monochrome and grey

Torn shattered hulks, war’s iron coffins splayed,

Behemoths cornered in a deadly fray.

Tombs rusting with ribbed sea drift overgrown

A steel walled charnel house of mingled bone.

 

3rd Prize

 

Driven to The Edge by June Drake

 

Occasionally I cannot bear to stay

and have to take a turn around the block.

I know like hell I should not go away

and leave her there alone, perhaps to stock

the fridge with socks she’s taken from my drawer

or rearrange the yoghurts in the sink.

She likes to lift the carpet from the floor

believing that it makes the kitchen stink.

 

This is the lass who brought me so much joy

and comfort too, for over fifty years.

How proud we were when she produced a boy

and, later on, a girl, allaying fears

that he would have to be the only one:

she was a model mother to them both.

She can’t remember now, those days of fun

and laughter, how we marvelled at their growth.

 

I’m no great cook but do the best I can

with things I know she likes.  Yes, even cakes.

However, if I turn my back, the pan

is emptied down the sink in just two shakes

because, she says, we had that yesterday.

I bite my tongue and force a smile again

and tell myself it’s just a game we play,

as some misguided way to hide the pain.

 

The evil thing that eats into her mind

will swallow me as well, if I’m not strong

and patient.  When I’m forced to be unkind

for safety’s sake, I hate myself.  It’s wrong.

I try to make her laugh as I remove

the spoons she’d hidden deep within her vest

and not to show at all I disapprove.

 

God take her soon and give us both a rest.

 

 

 

FREE VERSE

 

Highly Commended

 

Farm Lanes by Brett Van Toen

 

Sundays can’t be wasted, a day to spend out above the farms, finding open ground

space to be explored.  Picnic among the hills, shelter behind broken stone walls.

Under a cosh of imaginings we set out early, nervous, twitchy, high hopes.

 

To find a perfect place to be, a better way.  Mornings with the air so blue

you hope to break through the eggshell into somewhere else.  Sky too tight

for it not to crack.  Climbing into the magic car we left, top down, the safety off,

 

car cocked and about to go off, me, head down rear gunner, toy rifle.  Taking out

the passers by.  But Yorkshire farm lanes trapped my parents, every time.

Edges of the road reached out, verges with hidden rocks, brambles

 

scratched the morning good mood as I knew they would.  The lanes

inevitably faded into farmyards overflowed with rustery, melted stone walls,

celandines, manure.  Cheeks sucked in, sighing, tight lipped, paled, then snapped,

 

eventually shouting, How can you be so stupid, it was obvious!  I told you!  Failure!

We always had to turn in the yard embarrassed and Mum was right, it was clear,

grass grew down the middle of the road, the way the tarmac faded out.

 

A notice saying “Hillside Farm”.  The row hopped a couple of times

until divorce was mentioned with relief.  Eventually air cleared as it might

after a thunderstorm, someone pleaded and cried – who kept count apart from them?

 

Me, I’m caught by time not space.  The deadline finds match heads stuck between the tiles.

Enough joints undone each day for all the tools to be left out in a corner of the room.

The garden fails entirely at the edges even when each single bed is done.

 

Just so in 4.5 billion years the world was almost finished.  Which is why

we can’t quite dance or play the guitar.  Only in the centre is my wall quite plumb.

So time pricks my temper like a bad bald bull and serendipity is going out to go nowhere.

 

Both side roads and missed appointments bleed us playfully.  But I met Hecate, Goddess

of crossroads, turnings in both time and space last night.  She decorates she says idly,

areas between highways.  Lost ways are lost, as Dad always claimed, justifiably. 

 

 

 

 

Remembrance Day by D B C Reed

 

In his last year

I stood with my father

at the village memorial

as he laid a wreath.

He’d been in a reserved occupation

during the war, but my mother’s cooking

drove him to volunteer for the R.A.F.

He was only accepted as a third-class packer

after the aptitude test.

He wore a very good bowler

for the service

slightly pushed to the back of his head

so he always looked like a bookmaker

out at Friars Wash.

The Fallen in 1914-18

made a pretty impressive list

of names still current in the village

for breaking the law when pissed.

Once on Boxing Day

walking pubwards up the High Street

we came on one of them

locked in a tight embrace

with the local constable

who, getting nowhere, gasped

“Send for the Police!”

My father, then a JP

was engaged in charming my fiancée

so side-stepped this new struggle

without a break in his repartee

and entered the bar to acclaim.

On the other side of the valley

I could see the hills rise in unbroken acres

save for a pump that stood distinct;

it leaned forward like a falling man

its handle stuck out straight.

Once I had worked this pump

destructively, as a child,

and a warm smell had emerged amid the guttering,

choking gasps.

With long convulsions

a stream of water

ran swiftly

then sank into the ground.

 

Hell Returns for an Extended Run by John Feakins

 

A savage storm hit the city

Driving its citizens away,

Those that could flee

In their big cars

 

Sped out of the way,

Before the horrors

Of destruction swept

Their lives and possessions

 

To nothing, in the terror

They grabbed what little

They could and packed

Their necessary treasures.

 

Those that remained, old,

Infirm, poor, bewildered,

Surrendered to the full

Fury of the onslaught.

 

Becoming the first, but

By no means last, victims

Of this predictable violence,

The buildings collapsed

 

Under the weight of the assault,

Bodies lay distributed unevenly

Across the city’s reeking grids,

Broken walls, cowering pets,

 

A distant howl of sirens,

The air shuddering with

Approaching helicopters

And the blind rage of smoke rising.

 

After the continuing shock

Of the first few days,

They realised the ferocity

Of this nightmare would hold,

 

Pausing only to register that

They were still alive, realised

The storm had abated, and the dust cleared

To reveal a growling of desert-coloured tanks

At the corner of the street.

 

 

 

After by Barbara Marion Rockall

 

I stand on the edge of a different world

That tries to take me over

I must resist and stay where I belong

But sometimes the walls of glass and brick are so strong

They must come down piece by piece

No matter how long it takes no matter how painful

To be free, to be strong, is all I pray

One morning I will wake up as good as new

And it will be such a wonderful day

Let me wake up to a morning that holds no terror

After a peaceful and dreamless night

People will see the difference in me

And all the love and support they have given me

Will once again show me I can cope

No more lonely times even when I am alone

Joy in doing simple tasks that have been such a burden

The garden will blossom, the house will shine

Hands will be busy doing all the things I love

Alien eyes will shut and normal bright eyes

Will look at the world

Colours will be bright like jewels on a ring

Shopping will be good with no worries about

What to bring

Eyes that follow me and watch my face

Will no long bother me because I will escape

From this deep dark place that tries to enfold

All that I am

I WILL BE WELL!

 

VERSE USING RHYME

 

Highly Commended

 

Timeslip by Ann Peat

 

I wandered through a hole in time

And saw her at the gate

A bonny girl with rosy cheeks

No more than seven or eight

 

She stood beneath a cherry bough

Blowing bubbles in the sun

I reached high up to catch them

My reflection in each one

 

My Mum and Dad sat smiling there

Upon the garden seat

Our little dog with waving tail

Came running to my feet

 

An apple pie aroma

Carried on the summer breeze

And I longed to be, that younger me

Dancing around the trees

 

I tried to tell what paths to choose

To make a wiser choice

Though she wouldn’t meet my eyes

And couldn’t hear my voice

 

I longed to warn the life ahead

Of sorrow and regret

Many tears I would have saved

If only we had met …..

 

I’ll deal with it – in a moment by Ian Williams

 

I’m trying to prioritise,

I’m trying to get straight.

Sorting all my paperwork

Is something that I hate.

I’m putting all the “urgents”

In a nice and tidy pile,

Although everything is urgent

And there is nothing left to file.

I’m sorting out important work,

An approach that cannot fail,

But I never can get on with them

For answering my email.

Each time I try to make some space

To do important things,

I’m constantly disturbed again

By insistent cyber “pings”.

I make a list of all my things,

“To do” is at its head,

but I never get to tick things off,

but add them on instead.

I try to sort out what goes where

With papers on the floor,

But then they’re back in chaos

As a draft blows through the door.

I carefully block out some time

To try and end my misery,

But every time I come to look

Something else is in my diary.

I stuff things in my briefcase,

Until its seams can take no more,

It creaks and groans then flies agape

And spews them on the floor.

I try some delegation,

My attempts somewhat burlesque,

But everything I cascade down

Ends up back on my desk.

And as exasperation rises,

And my patience hits its limit,

Someone knocks upon my door

And says, “Have you got a minute?”

They tell me that they’re feeling stressed,

With all the work they’ve got.

I nod, but really want to say,

“And you think that I am not?”

And just as they get up to go,

Relieved of all their strife,

The peace is once more shattered

As the ‘phone bursts into life!

The voice, which hails me down the line,

Is loud and starts to shriek,

The report they asked for yesterday

Is now required last week!

Why is it not upon their desk?

The Boss is having kittens!

Trying to remain quite calm,

I explain it isn't written.

Trying not to punch the wall,

As I tightly clench my fist,

I mumble that I’ll get it done

And add it to my list.

Footsteps and voices arrive outside,

“In his office, is he?

I’ll just pop in for a cup of tea.

He’s never really busy.”

I try to be assertive

And say I haven’t got the time,

But even then he sits right down,

“Two sugars please in mine!”

Thirty minutes more pass by

And still he’s drinking tea,

The piles of work still congregate

And leer at me with glee.

At last he leaves the office

And I dive towards my pen,

But the computer beeps into my ear,

My inbox is full again!

I put the papers back in piles

And start once more my sorting,

But find to my annoyance

That fate once more is thwarting.

The ringing ‘phone rents the air,

A director’s urgent call,

She wants a cup of coffee

And she’s got no milk at all!

I grit my teeth and try to smile,

Whilst all my files I’m dropping,

And, still talking quite politely,

Suggests she goes and does some shopping.

Another interruption,

As my day starts to unravel,

“Please can you try and sort this out,

I’ve not been paid yet for my travel?”

Then back to all my paperwork,

That’s spread across my office

And wonder once again, aloud,

Why did I take this poison chalice?

Once more I try to tackle things

When I get another call,

“I’m going to have to go off home,

I don’t feel very well at all.”

A call comes from the public,

So I act with some restraint.

Not happy with staff attitudes,

Can they please make a complaint?