WRITING

Check out these pieces written by members of your community.

Magi

They still follow the star all year,

sweeping its arcs across the deserted prairie

each evening.

Their horses have never questioned the journey,

content to be with the three men.

Too old to ride, too old to be ridden

they walk together.

Beneath their hats

the wise men gather.

Cough and spit and chew,

around their campfire each night –

a tiny speck in the darkness

flickering and illuminated.

Their eyes glittering,

their faces wrinkled as walnuts from looking up.

They feel like a destination –

their coffee cups and cooking pot always full –

to anyone they meet in those lonely spaces.

Listening to their voices

turning things over

like a mountain stream

on a journey without end.

DOD, Wiltshire

Destination

I want to run away
Travel and tour
Staying in one place is a bore

Different countries
One at a time
Creating all these memories in my mind
I’d love to go back and rewind

Sunny or raining
Snowing or fall
It won’t stop me from doing it all

Hop on a plane
And fly anywhere
Different destinations

Look cool and make them stare
I’m happy when I get there
Getting that tan
Or by the fireplace
My journey will never be a waste

Poems and image by Monica Dasilva, Morecambe

Escape

I want to escape
To fly away
Oh I wish I had
Better days

I think I’m lost
I need to be found
Everything is just going around and around

To be alone
So sad it seems
But I want my own company
I want out

Not thinking negatively
I want to be free
But them demons won’t let me
I can’t cope with this misery

I want to find an exit
Somewhere to go
Where I feel safe
To find my home

I looked to see if I had anything that captured the notion of escape. I came across these three poems, each of which capture a notion of escaping, but none of them are quite a vacation… 😊
Tickets Please

The pulse of light from passing towns,

through darkened windows,

disappears.

Her soul comes quietly to a halt.

Made of nothing, nothing can harm.

A Guard checks her ticket

and nods.

A tug and then the soft pull forwards –

onward her journey

into the night.

After a close relation had passed away, the struggle of her last days was replaced with a look of quiet serenity.

DOD, Wiltshire
Fire

His feet grown loose and small.

His kingdom all to ashes heaped about him
in his metal throne.

The walls appear to have taken a step back,
deserting him.

He nods beneath the hole
that grows above his head,
an iron chandelier,
an open throat
suspended by a dwindling chain of smoke.

He feels the draught between his toes like mice.

He coughs and nods and listens
to the ruby slippers
beneath his feet
promising, with their last breath,

over the rooftops

to take him home.

Prompted by the sound of hot coals settling in our old iron stove at home, and wondering what happened to that fierce heat as the fire burned itself out…

Wet Paint

A long-legged fly
alighting on the door
could not detach himself.

He looked around about himself
for purchase.
Nothing.

There was nothing for it.

He rolled around the cardinal points of each leg,
counting them off,
one by one.

His thinking, like his body, was becoming disjointed.

“I shall become a bird of paradise” he thought,
“a winged loaf!”

The legless compact pillow of himself
backpacking his way across the blue sky
on fevered wings to the Jetstream
and the strange creatures that live there,
airborne into eternity.

When I returned to painting after lunch
I found a little copse of crooked legs
as if a chemistry experiment had gone terribly wrong
and when the smoke cleared only their boots could be found.

A positive spin on what is clearly nothing more than a terrible misfortune for a daddy long legs.

‘Summertime’

Garden of eden

field full of dreams

Realistic pleasures

Beautiful ideals

soft gentle breeze

Dance in the glow

Teasing the trees

Nature’s sweet treasures

Live wild, run free

Earthy expression

Take their own lead

Full green explosion

Breathing in the air

Fireflies illuminate

Lighting up like flares

Nightfall comes easy

Hush starts to spread

The sun has gone to rest

In her ember bed

The moonshine takes over

Glistening the view

Eery shadowed vision

Night creatures peeping through

In all of its glory

Rich nature provides

Progressive replenishment

Full wondrous surprise

by Leyla Edwards, RF Recovery Worker, Stowmarket

‘Adversity’

Adversity brings out the best in you

It often helps to find something new –

A hidden talent or clears a doubt

Or you understand what life’s about

Adversity nourishes you to become strong

It helps to reach where you truly belong

Adversity makes you tough and wise

It shows where your strength lies

Adversity is nothing but a steppingstone

To a path that seems rugged and unknown

But if you let courage be your guide,

And can take things on your stride,

Don’t get dejected and continue to fight.

In the end, you’ll see hope and light

By Gary Parsons, Employment Specialist, Surrey – really powerful poem Gary, thanks for sharing.

Journey

My feet hurt, my legs ache, my shoulders are sore.

I adjusted my pack to ease the discomfort. The moon had passed into the dark twice since I left my home.
I was not even sure about this journey, but my mate, our children, & maybe the entire village may depend on its outcome.
My journey began with gifts from the people, & my family. Doe shoes, a cloak from a black bear, wolf leggings and a pack made from the hardened hide of an auroch. Most of all, the pouch containing my offering to the Sun Stones. Pieces of pure copper.

It was colder now than when I started, my hands were stiff as they gripped my spear, luckily I had not had to use it. My knife had broken on the bone of a recent wolf kill, but I could not pass up the free deer meat, & the wolves were not near. After the offering I would shape some flint to replace it.

Most of my journey had been without others, but now as I was drawing ever nearer I could see many more people. We still kept our distance, but all travelled in the same direction.

Some alone with heavy packs, others with their families, even wealthy traders with their slaves carrying their masters burden.

The sun stones paid no heed to who came, just that they did, I had heard that offerings varied. From grains, copper, skins, weapons, & even gold. I hoped my unearthed copper was enough.

I still had my doubts about this trip, were the Stones even real, where did they come from, my mate & village elders said they were a gift. But from who seemed to be unknown, but whoever placed them must have been more powerful than man.

All these thoughts passed, as myself and many other walked in silence as the chill morning air turned our collective breaths into fog. We were on the last part now, we were told by the stone guides dressed in their grey robes, to turn left at the next marker, and that was soon.

I could only hope this was all worth it. Then I turned and looked up. In the distance, shining white in the dawn, I saw them. The Sun Stones. I stopped.

My heart beat faster, even at this distance I could see their size, their presence, their magic. All at once, all the stories, the tales, the Magic of the Stones came back to me. And I KNEW, they were all true. As no man could have built them, only the Gods could have built such immense beauty & power.

I gripped my spear tighter, checked my offering bag, and realised I no longer even felt the cold. As one, myself and the people around me seemed to set off as one, our steps now sure, steady, and quicker.

I knew now that my future, and that of my village was in good hands. As God’s who could build with such Magic could easily aid our small needs. I smiled, my heart strong, I felt tears of joy and hope wet my beard.

It was almost like they were calling out to me, aiding me, giving me renewed strength, filling me with pride.

“Come traveller, come to the Stones of the Sun”.
I cried out, “I am coming, I am coming!”

By Richard Hookway

Beginnings

I

remember the first time,

but I didn’t know then

what I know now –

that it was the beginning.

History gets written by people

running back on

and re-arranging things

under a spotlight.

And how, exactly, were we supposed to know?

There should have been a bright yellow fire hydrant,

some tap-dancing and a spot of rain,

a police officer and singing in the streets.

None of it!

There was no moon,

the park bench under the lamp post was empty,

the birds had to feed themselves.

‘You snuck around the back then ran ahead,’

is what you said.

‘You must have moved the chairs around,

when no one was looking,’

I replied.

We are standing in each other’s footlights now,

even as we bow to ourselves, staring up at us,

clapping in the audience –

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Maybe we are in the middle.

And maybe this is near the end.

When you leave this little theatre

we’ve created, take my wishes:

May your endings be happy,

and your beginnings be few

and may my beginnings

end happily in you. 

DOD, Wiltshire

My Home Town

The cobbles sweep gently upwards, creating a challenge for even the fittest walkers. The row of houses nestle into each other, making it hard to tell where one ends and another begins. An old wives tale states that if anyone were to remove the bottom house, the rest would tumble like dominos.

This small hilltop market town isn’t somewhere that people stay; it’s where people are born and people retire, and, just like a protective parent, offers a safe place to rest when life takes an unexpected turn.

Little family-run businesses line the high street; cafes and hairdressers and giftshops. Windows proudly display local produce; cakes and pastries, cheese and wine. Clustered in the corners are posters of local events; fayres, plays and concerts, that draw the community together.

Far-reaching views stretch out over the Dorset countryside as my favourite walk takes me past the ruins of the old Abbey; a view that has prompted some people to say; ‘this must be what Heaven looks like.’

This town offers peace, serenity, a place to collect your thoughts. To re-map the future and take a breather whilst figuring out your next steps.

The town knows you will say bon voyage again, but will always welcome you home.

Words & Photo by Becky Bye, Dorset

Waiting for FirstBus

A dull, wet, gloomy morning

Clock strikes the minute yet again.

No roar of engine cometh,

collective groan pairs well the pain.

Original time of 8:47,

Now expected at 9:02.

Don’t worry about it they’re just numbers,

And at this rainy stop there’s loads to do.

Imagine if I was invisible,

Could catch this crow I’ve named Gus.

And if I get enough of them,

I wouldn’t even need the bus.

Can scroll more endless social media posts,

Of people looking happy and sun-kiss warmed.

Don’t let the screen turn black,

No likey the sad reflection formed.

Maybe I could steal a car,

Somewhere toasty I am penchant.

But then I would end up in jail,

Not worth it says my conscience.

What are these drivers doing?

Why are they being paid?

To make sure we don’t get to work,

Stop any bricks from being laid.

But they are likely in the same boat,

Underpaid with too many demands.

The big rich bosses at the top,

No trickling down to lesser hands.

So I’ll keep waiting here oh First Bus,

Until you get a clue.

Actually, I think I see one coming,

Oh, who’d have guessed there would be two…

By T Rex, Bristol

LOOSE TOOTH

Knock

Knock,

Like a loose tooth you are easily pulled
out of the house in the evening light

by cotton threads of worn tracks
that purl and slip on beds of chalk
and clay and knobbed flints;

pulled tight through tousled heads of thorn – and on

to cowslip, devil’s bit, sheep sorrel,

a kingdom of wildflowers and dark skies.

You could go on –

stepping off this world entirely
under a crescent moon,

into the valley of the sky –

past the frozen bloom of planets,
the scattered wethers of glittering stars,
following droves millions of years old –

even to the flax and rags of drifting nebulae,
the slowly turning heads of sparkling clusters
and on –

to the far flung bluebell galaxies, whirling, and beyond –
never finding your way back home.

Or if you do – be told:

you will coming knocking, with the night ploughed under your skin
and stars glittering in your forehead –

making them nervous – not letting you in.

This is a poem about a friend of mine, who has a particular soft spot for the area in which we both live – the Marlborough Downs and Pewsey Vale – which is dominated by chalk grassland and open skies. I can imagine him disappearing into that landscape entirely one day. (Daniel O’Donoghue)