Happy New Year

Thanks to all the poets;

Mark Niel
Camille Ralphs
Rachel Burns
Jackie Hagan
Carole Bromley
Winston Plowes
Kate Sermon
Martin Lindley
Fiona Ritchie Walker
Katy Ewing
Sarah L Dixon
Nick Jarvis
David Mountain
Rachel Newlon
Kate Noakes
Rob Auton
Anna Percy
Matthew Stoppard
Angela Topping
Karen Powell
Russell J Turner
Vivien Foster
Stephanie Chan
Nathan Lunt
Charlotte Wetton
Angi Holden
Jenn Hart
Graham Sherwood
Charlotte Henson
Helen Addy
Margaret Holbrook

Thanks for reading, and I hope you have a great 2013
Zach Roddis
Editor

Day Thirty One: 'The New Year Dance' by Margaret Holbrook

The New Year Dance
 

Kiss me now

before midnight.

Before the clock

chimes and

the last strains

of Auld Lang Syne

are heard.

Kiss me now

before the Old Year

and the band

have finished playing.

Kiss me now

before anyone else

has chance to,

before everyone

kisses and greets the

New Year while

holding fast to

soon broken

resolutions.

Kiss me now.

Margaret Holbrook

Day Thirty: 'Winter' by Helen Addy

Winter

Ladybirds asleep under the bark of trees,
a newly minted moon keeping watch.

The sky rubbing itself raw,
bandaged with fraying clouds.

The tuck and wrap of scarves,
the pink itch of woollen layers.

Spiders skating on sinks,
lurking in hairy plugholes.

Cars bejewelled in white and silver,
the wipers' keen arc erasing the old year.

Helen Addy

Day Twenty Nine: 'Cellar' by Charlotte Henson

Cellar

Eight year old eyes strain to take in
a gas canister
a freezer
and a bed frame.

A draft,
and the smell of damp.
Small feet scale stone steps.

Behind, a click as dad switches on
a torch to light up the cellar,
shines it on the gas meter,
and tells me to watch my step.

Charlotte Henson

Day Twenty Eight: Untitled by Graham Sherwood

Summer’s vivid apple green silks and limes

have faded blandly to a memory,

and the bottled sages of autumn,

now prone underfoot, no longer crackle,

or laugh beneath our heavy boots.

In sodden maroons squirrels seek to rummage,

shunning the magpies chattered mockery,

shrill portents hiss bitter from the north,

tuned by the fingers of a stripped oak flute.

Only pearls of mistletoe await their hour,

to glisten moist above the Yule log’s flame.

Once warmed, dark corners peer

with heavy dormant eyes,

to bid the failing year farewell.

Graham Sherwood  

Day Twenty Seven: 'Doll' by Jenn Hart

Doll

Abandoned now, by teenage revolt
Curls danced around her placid face,
Empty rose lips tarnished and worn.

Dusty flakes lay thick 
Over gingham folds; slowly saturated.
Eye lashes weighed with time's dirt.

Bright pools, stare on
Never aged. Sat politely beside
Broken Jack and his box.
To be glanced at briefly by a passer by,
Who's interest is to only leave behind
Another memory.

Jenn Hart

Day Twenty Six: 'Wittenham Clumps' by Angi Holden

Wittenham Clumps

Boxing Day, and overfull with sweet roast turkey

sherry trifle, fruited cake, we craved the open sky

and ventured out to Wittenham, its grassy Clumps

still frosted in the afternoon. Hand-held we stumped

up Castle Hill, to find the ancient Poem Tree -

Tubb’s tribute to his landscape: Augustine’s monastery;

remains of Roman villas cradled by the winding Thames;

Cwichelm’s grave; the distant Ridgeway; Mercia’s bounds.

We traced his pen-knifed stanzas, gnarled and worn,

distorted by a century’s growth. Before we turned

for home, we took a photograph, just us, the tree, the sky,

where over-wheeled by rare Red Kites we paused awhile.

Unseen, beneath its bark, a beetled core. A summer storm

has swept it all away; now even words are gone.

Angi Holden