RBW: Footprints 2014

Still Waters

footprints

2014 poetry collection

Rising Brook Writers

rising brook writers

DISCLAIMER: To the best of our knowledge and belief all the material included in this publication is in the public domain or has been reproduced with permission and/or source acknowledgement. We have researched the rights where possible. RBW is a community organisation, whose aims are purely educational, and is entirely non-profit making. If using ma-terial from this collection for educational purposes please be so kind as to acknowledge RBW as the source. Contributors retain the copyright to their own work. Names, characters, places and incidents are imagi-nary or are used in a fictitious way. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

SPECIAL THANKS: Staffordshire County Council‟s Your Library Team at Rising Brook Branch

PUBLISHED BY: Rising Brook Writers RBW is a voluntary charitable trust. RCN: 1117227 © Rising Brook Writers 2014 The right of Rising Brook Writers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 & 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

First Edition

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Footprints is the seventh annual collection of poetry produced by Rising Brook Writers‟ library and online workshop contributors. As well as publishing poetry, Rising Brook Writers participate in a number of live performances each year. Each October, contributors also celebrate National Poetry Day with a poetry session and fre-quently invite local poets to participate in RBW workshops.

In 2013 RBW held an event at Rising Brook Fire Station Community Room for National Poetry Day with Staffordshire‟s very first Poet Laureate, Mal Dewhirst. The theme was „Water‟ and many of the poems in this selection of RBW poems reflect this diverse subject.

Ma

l De

wh

irst


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Contributing Poets

Lin Priest 5

Alice Schofield 10

Countryman (Fred Waterfall) 12

Michelle Draper 18

Pamela Clare-Joyce 24

Edith Holland 29

Joy Tilley 31

Paul Pittam 33

Penny Wheat 36

Elizabeth Leaper 40

Steph Spiers 44

Pauline Walden 50

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Bizarre! Head held high and laughing, Sweet smile beams from front page. Spaghetti-straps and crinkly pleats

At just two years of age! Diamond for adornment, Dad‟s hold is firm and strong, Pics for paparazzi, Satisfy the throng. Turn a few brief pages, A boy of ten alone, Holding deadly missile, Completely on his own. Dusty, dirty, dangerous, Fight for freedom long, Pictures from a battlefield, Something is clearly wrong.

Lin Priest


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Laundry and Lingerie

This morning on the radio Anna‟s in the chair, Thinking about her washing line And what she pegs up there. Talking to her neighbour, Comparing how they feel, About size of comfy knick-ers, And qualities that appeal. Pegged out on her washing line Their glory plain to see, With two pegs quite mag-nificent, Imagine effect with three!

But Anna is not happy With such a sight in view, And instructs her helpful husband, With pants, one peg will do! Let them hang pretend-ing They are a cloth or rag, Give them just one peg And let those undies sag! Lovely lacy lingerie, Fills her knicker drawer, But when hanging in her garden One peg for them, not more.

Lin Priest

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Today we will go shopping, D.I.Y. the game My husband‟s started whittling, only myself to blame!

He‟s joined the Wednesday pensioners less ten per cent in hand, Who roam the aisles for bargains in peat and moss or sand. People who have purpose, look of hunger in their eyes, Because they‟re paying less than you ordi-nary guys! Paint becomes appealing, paper no longer palls, Drill bits take on extra charm - screw new picture hooks to walls. The trolleys will be filling, and the wife will be content, Bless B&Q on Wednesday‟s - B&Q, less ten per cent!

Lin Priest


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Vote for Me Saying what we want to hear In an arrogant, pompous way. Vote for me. I AM RIGHT! That's what they all say? I am for the Common Man, I‟ll work hard - just for you, I‟ll fight all of your battles, Whatever you tell me to.

Don‟t fall again for such rhetoric, Let him charm the birds from the trees, We‟ve fallen for this once or twice, And now the country is on its knees. Don‟t believe a single word, Think politics of the past, All those empty promises, We knew they wouldn't last.

Lin Priest

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Rainbow Ribbons Across the sky the ribbons are in place, a promise made so many years ago. The artist picks the colours from his case, and with delight, allows the paint to flow. The sun is high so raindrops disappear, An arc of gold where once the clouds were black! Blink of the eye, it now becomes quite clear,

an artist‟s brush is following each track. Strong lines of paint will seep into their place, where ribbons mark a picture in the sky. Before you know, a rainbow fills the space, a glorious arc to lift the spirits high. The work of God, a promise made to keep, To show His love, as wide as it is deep!

Lin Priest


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Remembrance

Sometimes it hurts to remember, Sometimes, I want to forget,

Yet all of the time, I need to recall. Each memory since we met.

The good times and the bad times,

The funny and the sad and The nights we lay, our arms entwined And yearned for the joys we‟d had.

We talked a lot, we laughed a lot

And occasionally we cried We searched our hearts together For reassurance that we had tried To make the most of our given lot

To cope with the heartache and pain To savour the memories of happier days

Knowing they couldn‟t occur again.

Yet the memories of our younger days

Helped to keep us going When we laughed with family and our friends ,

In spite of each one of us knowing. Those days were long, the nights dragged on

Through that terminal December How lucky we were to be comforted

By such an abundance of life to remember.

Alice Schofield

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A Valentine Card Lament

I long to receive a Valentine card Adorned with hearts and flowers I‟m not looking for commitment,

Or your attention for hours and hours.

I‟m just looking for a moment‟s joy To feel that someone might care. And perhaps we‟ll laugh about it A secret, with someone to share.

In the past I‟ve had a good partner Who was truly the love of my life

My husband remembered each Valentines Day I was so happy being his wife.

I miss all his special tributes

Life without him is sometimes hard

It would help if just for one more time I could receive a Valentine card,

So if anyone out there is listening

To this elderly lady‟s plea, Come on be a sport, just do it

Send a Valentine card to me.

Alice Schofield


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Countryman

Me teef are looking better

Me teef are looking better, and I brush them every day, New electric toof brush, and some paste that looks like clay,

Me misses getting onto me, n‟ the dentist gives a hint, Break a habit of a lifetime, to brush me teef I dint.

Mornings are so busy, after breakfast rush right out,

Then think I anna brushed me teef, n‟ rules I mustna flout, But then I conna turn right round, cattle got to feed,

N‟ I‟ll do in the morning, n‟ I‟ll brush them till they bleed.

Conna see the point of it, once a week enough fa me, Twice a year is what om used to, n‟ the dentists got the key,

To count them every visit, and to scrape then there‟s no need,

Cuz I eat an apple every day, and my mum she (set that creed,) (did breast feed.)

Please don‟t put the pressure on, om not feelin very well,

The verbal and advice okay, but too much I will rebel, So to the dentist I have a message, count me teef and clean,

N‟ chat about the weather, n‟ whatever else in-between.

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Countryman

I Worry Every Day

I worry every day, bout appointment that I got, Six months it‟s on my mind, even when om in me cot, It‟s the dentist they are scary, every day it is the same, It‟s on me mind day and night, then they call me name.

Reminder day before, that that dreaded day has come,

Me hair is falling out, and I conna eat a crumb, A mere shadow of me sen, and it‟s all of them to blame, Shaking in the waiting room, o conna move om lame.

They offer me an easy chair, nother room with light,

Give me a pair of glasses, much to their delight, Expressions on their faces, tip the chair down low,

Ya teeth is what were looking for, open up y,owd crow.

Me tongue‟s held down pushed aside, counting‟s now began, Top and bottom front and back, record them on the plan,

Scrape and polish rinse and spit, rear me up agen, Just a funny sort a routine, in their little den.

It‟s over in couple a minuets, and I‟m heading for the door, Dint know what the worry was, might pan out on the floor,

Cannot see me ass fa dust, heading fast for home,

Back into me arm chair, in me mind, no more to roam.


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Countryman

Jack of all Trades, Master of None Farm jobs you would not believe take place On the farm you build up skills far beyond what

you can imagine a farmer would normally be ex-pected to do. Living out in the country you tend to become an emergency doctor (to stem a vigorous flow of blood), nurse (patch it up), vet surgeon (castrate, dehorn inject), executioner (occasionally a animal or bird needs to be put down), undertaker (and buried), on occasions pathologist (why it died), in-vestigator (what caused it), policeman (who caused it), poacher (if you can‟t beat them join them), curator (show folk what we do), escapolo-gist (get out of a hole that you‟ve just jumped in, to escape a creditor or the taxman), and environ-mental wildlife conservationist (drive round the

peewit nests instead of driving over them) and many more peripheral jobs that crop up when there‟s no one else about to help. I know I jest about some of the jobs we do and how we do them, but they all crop up at some time or other, and you deal with them how you

know best, it‟s all about survival, and helping oth-ers. Do unto them as you would like them to do for you.

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The Work it Wonna goo Away

When ya know you‟ve got to work, And it wunna go away,

Put ya back into ya work, And ya hope it‟s gonna pay.

You‟re the owner and the boss, And the only worker too, The hours dunna matter,

Cuz ya work the night right through.

Ya worry bout the bills, And wonder how ya gonna pay,

The bills that come so regular, n‟ put them out the way,

Till ya sell and get some money, It‟s so hard to save at all, As if a hole in ya pocket,

n‟ it‟s empty every time I call.

Ya look back upon ya dreams, Of how it all should have been To build up on the business,

And the forecast now unseen, Expansion every year,

And just getting in your stride, N‟ the tax man catches up with you,

Skins you of your hide.


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Countryman

A Verse to St. Swithin’s

St Swithin‟s Day it turned out wet, For forty days it‟s rain,

Each day we watch the forecast, But alas it‟s all in vein,

Cloud and drizzle a little sun, Each day it starts the same,

The next day it turns out fine, And gives you hope again.

Fifteenth July the decisive day,

And forty more to come, Whole phase of the moon and more

Before we get the sun, Big depressions sweeping in, Low cloud and mist it brings,

Broken cloud and sunny spells, Muggy warm evenings.

The local show the village fete,

A chance they have to take, It just by luck rain holds off; Bring folks through the gate,

Just one day a year it is, And just a few hours that day,

Six whole days since Sunday, When the vicar‟s was meant to pray.

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Hay making‟s been put on hold, And the corn is getting ripe

The grass matured and gone to seed,

But who are we to gripe, We take what comes from day to day,

Work along as befit, It‟s frustrating all the waiting about,

Enough to make ya spit.

The Longest Furrow (Vol. 1 & 2) by Fred Waterfall are now available

on Amazon as both paperback and e-books.


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Spectre Can you see her? Standing by the wall Nobody taking notice ... nobody at all She stands so very still As if frozen in time Silently watching the world

go by She looks rather poor If that I‟m allowed to say Clothing un-appropriate for today High winds, a storm is coming Rain‟s beginning to patter down Her skin slowly begins to drown

Frozen still she is She continues to look straight on Everybody‟s rushing to get home I stare at her until I‟m soaked

Just as much as she And I take in all I can see She‟s ageing in the face Her lines can tell me so Her eyes are so full of sorrow Empty of all possessions She‟s carries nothing more Than her body and clothes torn

Michelle Draper

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Oblivious to the bustle She stands so very still She is looking so very ill Pale in the face So very white all over Cheeks shallow, her tiny torso

Covered down to her feet From her night gown thin Her arms and shoulders bear the winds Still she stands alone The rain comes pouring down The streets seem so empty now

Just about to step for-ward I Myself to take her in Warm her up deeply within

She looks at me so suddenly Her eyes show of her fears And then, she slowly, disappears


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Michelle Draper

Strangers’ Cries I cower down and close my eyes Can hear strangers‟ moans from the shore I‟m silenced by those strangers‟ cries It‟s hard to see who outside lies I can hear them outside my door I cower down and close my eyes The darkness deepens across the skies

The moans now louder than before I‟m silenced by those strangers‟ cries Something past my window flies As I‟m kneeling now on the floor I cower down and close my eyes Sudden screeching in almighty highs Ripped wallpaper the strangers tore I‟m silenced by those strangers‟ cries I‟m pinned down as if in ties Sweat dripping from every pore I cower down and close my eyes

I‟m silenced by those strangers‟ cries

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The Invisible They can see what‟s inside you They control all you feel They imprint all of your thoughts

They are the makers of fear They come to haunt you In the middle of the night They touch you, and they call to you They won‟t leave you alone They cannot be seen But you know they are there Creeping all around you Mocking you with dare

What are these beings? Are they beings at all? Are they imagination? Are they your thoughts?

Are they familiar? Someone you knew?

Something of interest? Or a nightmare come true? Do they frighten you? Or make you feel good? Do they REALLY control

you? Or do you think they would? Not sure of this The unfamiliar You hide under your quilt Close your eyes in fear For what you fear most Is what you cannot see The things misunderstood But you know it‟s real

So what are you afraid of? What makes you hide away in bed? This invisible entity? Or the demons in your

head?

Michelle Draper


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Michelle Draper

What I See I can see the sky above the brilliance of blue covering an endless space quiet through and through then looking farther down coming to the land seeing there the clear water and the finest type of sand further if we walk ahead

come to see the life around people standing everywhere awkward and profound beautiful in looks, their eyes gleaming in the light clothed in rags of colour against the pale face of fright staring down around me like a stranger from before someone not belonging at the island on the shore as I stand, the people glare their faces never change

they seem to know just who I am although I am estranged

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I open my own mouth to speak to explain how I got there I walked for miles around the world leading me to here I tell of everything I‟ve seen from life to death, to all and everything that is in between the smallest to the tall

I talk for what's like hours when a minute only passed and during this time, con-fusion set upon the faces of the classed gathered together, tribal like they stand their in a row standing there, still to glare emotionless they show

when at last, somebody speaks shaking voice it was when say my name, they gasp again into silence words are lost what was it they wish to speak? I wished they would just say only when I go too near

they back off right away I turn my head to walk away my feet turn just as quick when on the sand before me I see a dirty trick on the ground, so still and tame life no longer there I see the face, no mis-take

it's me who‟s lying there


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Pamela Clare-Joyce

Footprints You left your footprints on my heart, Or at least you tried. Oh, I felt it when you ground your heel, I nearly died! You tramped me down, so hard, so deep You thought you‟d won I saw the look of triumph on your face, To you it‟s fun.

But still I triumphed in the end! Because you see Mere flesh is just as strong as steel. You can‟t dent me. Chariots of fire transport me Beyond your power. And I‟ll rise way above you, Hour by glorious hour!

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WATER II On opposite banks of the water, We take off our clothes. Nude, air cups and caresses Without touching. We do not look. We are on opposite sides.

The water, a damp ruined mirror Would break if we dive, Would stun and shatter. We stand in separate silences Then stroll in opposite directions, Trailing clothes, disparate.

Pamela Clare-Joyce


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Pamela Clare-Joyce

Slip in, the water slicks, Film, liquid laps, Locks in a solid Silver oubliette. Now airborne an Arm sunders, sudden, The atoms glutinous gel Slide of surface splinters To rainbow shower In arcing spray.

This smug space, Subnatal safety, Observes shore-line Pantomime, land-locked Harlequin hues, Snatched back Toes, the screams; Scurries at eddies, And those who too far out to Scream, draw gasps that „O‟ their mouths And take them further,

Deeper in.

Now embody arrogant Glissandos; meld within this Solitary element; The senses stumbling, Falter; hearing swaddled, Vision smudging, And smell sated to salt; Touch sundering with Aqueous envelopment.

The land lies beyond belief. Atlantis nudges The furthest reaches of the Mind - horizon of Home and pain. Now this Genesis Accomplishes Another engendering.

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We spoilt our last time together. Perhaps it was necessary; You asking me questions about my lover And I listening to you talk of yours‟, Telling me things I didn‟t want to know

As if I was avid to hear it all. Tumescence was a long process. Neither of us were really present. Only the flesh‟s obsolescence Kept us there, the sultry air Making us sweat in the small bed. In truth, we had already said goodbye, Yet seemed to need to reassure ourselves Rather than each other, that there Was something else, something deeper And more real to return to, Knowing we‟d never meet again And being brave about it. How I regret it now!

Why could we not have been Silent together, knowing the slow Welling of feeling we had before, I finding your very lack of haste Miraculous, and incredible, Incredible, the rightness of it?

Pamela Clare-Joyce


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This is the charisma- Something of washed, worn linen And impeccable mending That nevertheless holds An odour, a rankness like Sweat, civet or musk. The feet and hands could Have holes, the blank, Bland flesh showing a Willingness to demonstrate Where holes could go

If necessary. The agony Is already there. The mouth, feeding greedy On ambrosial libations Professes an acceptance,

A preference even For hard tack, eschewing Even manna. The scape Goat in the wilderness, an Attractive role, thorns For succour, until thorns Become an inward Accompaniment to life, An outward characteristic.

And oh, the superiority Of such a stance, the preening, The self-satisfaction of Having good intentions, Of seeing the rainbow as a Sign from heaven, light Stretched on the sky as An exclusive omen! How strange to see This expectation of prefer-ence Begins, unconsciously,

Excluding love.

Pamela Clare-Joyce

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Flamborough Head Lighthouse By daylight it stands on the headland like a huge candle, a reassuring sight as it towers over the cliffs below wakening memories of childhood tales with the drama of men snatched from the turbulent waves. There's a constant boom and echo as the high tide is thrown up and returns sucking the loose sand and pebbles with it. On this still calm day it looks innocent and

magnificent dwarfing all around this well known landscape. But in the deep black of the night there comes a sharp stab of light rhythmic and steady for the watchers at sea telling them here are the rocks and the danger,

we salute you, stay clear and all's well.

Edith Holland


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Edith Holland

Day Dreams Look down into the stream with the wonder of a

child, Watch the light play on the ripples as the sun catches the tiny scales of a minnow. Movement is constant, forever changing the shapes of the pebbles. Hear the melody of the water swirling now gentle, now urgent in its need to discover fresh pathways flooding after rain changing colour with peat settling back to its gentler rhythm twinkling and splashing along the gravel bed.

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Joy Tilley

September Green drumsticks in the hedgerow

Half-concealed by leaves, The ivy is in flower. In monochrome, it has little appeal To our eyes, No array of lipstick colours, No arresting structure of fluted petals Nor frilled stamens. But to bees, it provides an irresistible feast, A banquet of nectar. Their eyes discern further beyond red Than our limited prism of vision; Their senses detect the scents

Hidden from our dull perception. Then, in the early half-light, Fleece-waistcoated crepuscular moths Hover above a discovered treasure-store.


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Joy Tilley

A Wayside Shrine

Austria

Scarlet geraniums glow in the sun, Above them a Calvary, carefully painted.

A shaded bench offers travellers rest And refreshment for body and spirit;

Well-chosen verses point to the beauty of Creation around,

And He who provided it, Along with hope for this life

And the next. Although no village or chalet is close, Someone has watered the flowers.

England

Taped to a lamp-post, The flowers are dying or dead

In tarnished and tawdry wrappings. A sun-bleached photograph, from which

No-one could recognise the face, Hangs beneath the hay of the stems.

Those who travel along the road ignore the sight; It is too familiar.

There is no rest nor refreshment, Only a wordless warning.

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Water Forget waterfalls, forget glistening droplets Let Water find its own way To tell its story of a landscape of water colour, diluted with whiskey to taste, to accompany the runner, drunk to ease cramp. racing to War for Water

Not War on Want. A woman without water in Africa The wealthy buy bottled water from an Himalayan spring. The smallest drop of water from a child's tear Into the ocean of inequality. Who will pay the water bill?

Paul Pittam


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Paul Pittam

LIFE Life as a tomato has its complications- Am I fed enough? Am I red enough?

Am I fruit or veg? Oh … What are the implications? Well I live in a greenhouse so I shouldn‟t throw stones And I can't use a laptop OR mobile phones! If only I was vineyard grown my price could be hiked I just want to be tasty - just want to be liked! Life as a Dog is pretty problematic- Does my coat shine? Are my manners fine? So many decisions - do I bark or do I bite? I don't want to hurt them just give them a fright! When do I offer a paw and where do I lick? But compared to a tomato my life is much better- Just do a bit of guarding and attack that bloke that brings a letter!

Now life as a Human is one big catastrophe- yes you get a lie in on a Saturday and there is the lottery! It used to be war and famine... Now it‟s AUSTERITY ! wages are stagnant and the prices have soared But until the pen is mightier... And the masses have roared.. "Freedom for dogs and tomatoes!" MANKIND NEVER WILL BE FREE!

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Ginger Haired Man A lonely man with ginger hair was partial to whiskey to deaden despair. He always was so arrogant

Always felt better than all the rest Never went out without a clean vest. And if there was something you wanted to know Then he was the one that always knew best. His life was ordered always tidy; Fulfilled marital obligations Once a month always a Friday. He found it hard to speak English plain His rhetoric was a major pain. He thought he was wonderful with his long words But on a misty morn he failed to see the trees or birds. So when his life neared its end - He had just the Daily Telegraph crossword

But not a friend. He used all his concentration for a single clue 5 letters " A Skeleton Crew" Ah it‟s "Bones" He moans and groans He's through.

Paul Pittam


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Penny Wheat

New Shoes Little feet grow bigger, Shoes too tight to wear. Time to take a trip to town And buy another pair. Little feet are measured, Width and length and size. Difficult to pick a style. She can‟t believe her eyes!

Shoes on shelves in boxes, Lined up in tidy rows. Shoes with straps or laces, Shoes with pretty bows. So many shoes to look at. So many colours too. Some practical, some sensible, In brown or pink or blue. Some shoes are good for walking, Some shoes are good for play, Some shoes you‟d keep for Sunday best,

And some use every day.

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Some shoes were made for ballet, While others were for tap. Some fasten up with laces, But others have a strap. Some shoes are made of leather, Some shoes are made of suede. Some shoes are made of patent, In every shape and shade. She tries them on and struts about Up and down the store. She sees them in the mirror And then she struts some more. Finally she chooses, And mother pays the bill.

“Would you like to wear them?” “Oh yes, I think I will”. The shoe box is discarded. She puts them on her feet And proudly she goes out the door. And squeaks along the street.


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Footprints Evidence of a passing A footprint In soft sand saying You were here- No denying it- For a while, Warm-blooded, Human. Live. A gentle wind

Sifting, shifting, Caresses the surface And smoothes the sides Making them liquid, Unstable, indistinct, Shallow. The shape morphs, Collapses, softens. Now it‟s hard to say Who made it? Man or beast?

Waves form on the strand, Whipped up by the wind. Echoing the surface Of the sea, Which makes its move, Encroaching Relentless. Climbing up the beach And filling up the cup.

You were here, for sure. Yet cruelly You‟ve been erased From the earth‟s face And live now only In my heart. You‟ve passed by.

Penny Wheat

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Penny Wheat

In the airy mountains of Nepal lurks a mysterious creature

HA

IKU

: YE

TI


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Late Snow March winds sculpt late Winter‟s snow into drifts along the road and balls of snow from laden trees plummet to the ground below. Slow, so slow the snow retreats, melting away, and underneath,

from icy death once more released Spring flowers, emerging unsuppressed, exultant, burst to life.

Elizabeth Leaper

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Elizabeth Leaper

The Stranger This network of interwoven streets is where my roots lie deep, and this the house where I was born though I have been long gone. Every year brought visits here, a pilgrimage back home to friendly neighbours, open doors, where I was known. Times change, those folk are gone, and I am known no more, just a stranger looking on outside this old familiar door, my name remembered by so few though family ties were strong. Now only whispered memories tell that I belong.

Yet still I find I‟m drawn back here, still I search these streets for memories of those happy times that seem just out of reach. You may wonder who I am, a stranger looking on, but for me this is my home, the place where I belong.


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Gravestones Ivy has taken over in the oldest corner of the graveyard, a dark green camouflage moulding itself around the armature of the monuments, the interwoven stems more structural now than the stones themselves. It preserves the form, the shape, a reminder to those that care to glance that once there were bodies buried here.

Crumbling decay remains intact, upright, held in place, vacuum packed, sealed hermetically, hidden from the light of day, shrouded in mystery. Whose lives were once recorded here no one can say. No living soul to mourn them, silent and dark they speak to us no more. Now Gaia swaddles them in secrecy beneath her great green mantle, takes them to herself, reclaims her own and in the dank, dark comfort of her caress they dwell in her eternal memory.

Elizabeth Leaper

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Highgate Cemetery


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Restless Night

A restless night tossing and turning, a small boat adrift on a stormy sea. Thousands of thoughts around my head rolling, sleeping and dreaming elusive to me. Each random thought comes blustering, billowing, following one and leading yet more. Wave-washed and weary I drift into morning

and find I have gently drifted ashore.

Elizabeth Leaper

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Steph Spiers

Holly Bank

Sank in 1890, closed in fifty two, Earthborn hell, hewn where no light shone. Dust hated pit, air thick „n blue. Do widows grieve Holly Bank is gone? Far beneath fair Staff‟s clay, red face, Lurk yawning shafts which drop to gloom.

High above, the bracken-covered Chase O‟ the King‟s gorse „n saffron broom. The Chase‟s timid Fallow frolic „n play seek, on heath and ringed birch forest. Concealing seams without God‟s day. unmerciful takers of our dearest.

Littleton, New Essington Holly Bank, reapers of mere boys „n solid men. Collieries, sweat hot, black and dank, Echo our dead boys, every soul worth ten.

(First published 1994)


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Steph Spiers

Reasons not to be cheerful: 2 0 1 3 Moan about the weather; we‟re all in it together: darker roots Bankers playing roulette; now we‟re on a budget: no reproof Nippers queue in foodbank; mums in tears „n heart sank: tinned fruit Shame on DLA atrocity; blind „n crippled no phi-losophy: sui-cide Blocking up the doorway, bedroom tax; kids con-

fused ‟n hungry, lots o‟ smacks: St George‟s picking up the pieces; real blokes now in creases: just wrong No jobs, no trainin‟ places; upside down smiley faces: NEETS Got a mobile? Y‟can Twitter; one brain cell to chat-ter: game shows Red ants in the garden, multiplying thriving: Blumbly bees are dying: pesti-cides I‟mallrightjack Tories going off on cruises; tangos and boozes: gold handshake Cooking‟s nice on the telly; all we‟ve got is jelly: no cake Bromide that‟s Daytime TV; post a letter 50p: Bar-

gain Hunt Email beonashow: how does your garden grow?:

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family tree Standing still: running in the gym; don‟t let the daylight in: sweaty palms Bidding wars on ebay; didn‟t want it anyway: online bingo Kids dressed up like brasses; high heels „n eye-lashes: Jimmy So-vile Soldiers: homecoming heroes; ten fingers but no toes: wives‟ heartbreak Wheelers „n dealers; knock off fags and DVDs: dodgy car-boot

Billions for Trident: train lines we don‟t want: N.H.S. Too many old folk; growin‟ old is no joke: no mealsonwheels Frozen: no mealsonwheels, Frozen: no mealsonwheels, Slap it the micro, gran‟ma, No ... Mealsonwheels, No ... Mealsonwheels.


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Steph Spiers

A white cockatoo Feathers as cream floats on milk, Talks with humanity – to its despair. Abused for its gifts of mimicry Cleverness its ruination, Caged, shackled to a perch: A short chain, a long life of misery.

Still Waters

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footprints

Steph Spiers

Pray good sirs if our verses did offend Worry not, no more we‟ll send If our ditties weren‟t up to snuff Tell us no more, once was enough. Taking offence that‟s what we‟ll do For we don‟t give a fig for you There ain‟t much trouble now at Mill But Midland voices ring out still Just „cos them clever folk in southern climes Don‟t know our tongue with our strange rhymes On the net we‟re right well known 55,000 readers on laptops and iphone So take your rejection of our book and place it in any receptacle or nook

where it will comfortably fit. Sincerely Yours, an Aged Wit. Ditty thus proving some folk really don‟t take rejection well ...


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Pauline Walden

Four poems from a woman’s life 1. I'm not much of a cook

But a pretty good – well, you know – So he used to say In the good old days, Both young and sprightly, Did it thrice nightly. But priorities alter, And that‟s when we falter. Our confident skills Don‟t quite fit the bill. So what does one do, Learn to make stew Or soufflés or, better still, A Hecate style brew?

Ah! The recipe‟s here - No, it wasn‟t King Lear. Just goes to show We forget all we know Trying to fit

The conventional slot. Sod that!

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footprints

Forget making stew

Or even the brew, Take care of your looks, Go back to the books. He‟ll have to accept That you‟re not a good cook – And may realise His exceptional luck!


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2.

There are moments in a woman‟s life Designed to cause extremes of strife:

What do you do In a public loo

Wearing trousers?

There‟s „stuff‟ on the floor,

No bolt on the door, So you lean at an angle

Shirt tails a-dangle, Clenching your knees – Makes it harder to pee

But your turn-ups are safe!

Amidst this confusion Avoiding intrusion Poses a choice:

To let go of the door – Relying on voice

To ward off invasion – Or,

Hang onto the door, Trousers fall to the floor As your knees unclench,

Which of course will occasion

Discomfort – And worse!

Still Waters

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footprints

2.

There are moments in a woman‟s life Designed to cause extremes of strife:

What do you do In a public loo

Wearing trousers?

There‟s „stuff‟ on the floor,

No bolt on the door, So you lean at an angle

Shirt tails a-dangle, Clenching your knees – Makes it harder to pee

But your turn-ups are safe!

Amidst this confusion Avoiding intrusion Poses a choice:

To let go of the door – Relying on voice

To ward off invasion – Or,

Hang onto the door, Trousers fall to the floor As your knees unclench,

Which of course will occasion

Discomfort – And worse!

What a dilemma!

With no time to ponder You hear over yonder

A door slam – And wonder

Why dogs fare much better: They pooh in the gutter So why shouldn‟t you?

What madness is this? All you want is a pee! It‟s turning your brain,

What you need is a drain! But then you remember

You don‟t have the member For such an endeavour –

Or even a long skirt!

So what will you do Now you know there‟s a queue?

And the answer to that, Who knows?

Only you!

Pauline Walden


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3.

Two men in my life, To neither a wife; To neither a lover

So why do I bother?

One is unable, The other unstable, The latter is willing, The first unfulfilling

My partner too long

Trilling his song Of undying devotion,

Unaware of the notion

That some like it hot – And that‟s not what I‟ve got!

I‟m bored by his pace, Doesn‟t make my heart race.

Pauline Walden

Still Waters

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footprints

Friendship‟s all very well But truth is to tell A roll in the hay

Is a far better way

Of providing excitement- Along with contentment;

Not one or the other, The whole lot together!

So I‟ll have to rethink;

Should my loyalties shrink Would it all be in vain And end up in pain?

Hopping over the fence

Without a defence, Should I desist?

Oh! To hell with the risk!


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4. „Change your image‟, he said,

„Go ethnic instead‟ So, aiming to please, I buy Nepalese And the colours all run The first time they‟re spun – What a shame he doesn‟t like pink y-fronts!

Pauline Walden

Still Waters

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Acknowledgements Front Cover: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/

File:Cheirotherium_prints_possibly_Ticinosuchus.JPG Sandstone slab with Chirotherium storetonense trackway, displayed in Ox-ford University Museum of Natural History. The slab is from the “upper foot-

print bed” of the Storeton Quarry near Bebington, Cheshire. Geoffrey Tresise (2003): Chirotherium and the Quarry Men: The 1838 Discoveries at Storeton Quarry, Cheshire, U.K. Ichnos: An International Journal for Plant and Animal

Traces. Wikipediai GFDL-SELF-WITH-DISCLAIMERS; Released under the GNU Free Documentation License

Page 4 Child soldier in the Iran/Iraq war photographer unknown Wikipedia image Page 48 Cockatoo image Faith Hickey

Page 29 Flamborough Head Lighthouse Wikipedia image (Keith D) Page 37 http://www.clker.com/clipart-black-pointe-shoe-1.html esther Page 39 Yeti Wikipedia image (Philippe Semeria)

Page 40 Highgate Cemetery image Wikipedia (thegirlwho) Page 47 Bee image C Massey Pages 57/58 RBW‟ own images

Back Cover: Ian McMillan image A Mealing

Where possible RBW uses open source graphics where the source permits

not-for-profit educational use. Should anyone‟s copyright be accidentally infringed please let us know and we will willingly acknowledge the source in any reprint or remove the image.


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is

Rising Brook Writers’ seventh poetry collection

of work by contributing poets who participate in

Rising Brook Writers’ weekly

library and online workshops.

Our Patron: The Renowned Poet Ian McMillan

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk

Documents

RBW: Footprints 2014