From  Barbara Smith of Liverpool
Thank you Barbara for being our first contributor
 

SOUR GRAPES 
(I never meant to go anyway)

I was too late.
The horses, the bands,
The marching parades
Will all be in town.
I won't be there.

It's beginning to rain
So no one will be there.
Show off fools,
Serve them right,
And I don't care.

Colds, flues and pneumonias
Will have occurred,
Weather like this,
Dressed like that.
Totally absurd.

There will be
Five white horses,
A magic carriage,
A prince and princess,
A splendid marriage.

Wonderful!
But without doubt a washout.
So you see,
It was lucky for me.
I stayed at home.

The next poem is from Nicholas Hancock
Nick is a founder member of  The Inklings, a writers' group meeting in the heart of Liverpool.  He has had several successes in competitions, has had poems read on radio, a poem printed in the Daily Express, and has an anthology of his poems published by The National Poetry Foundation. More information about The Inklings can be reached by clicking the link above the first 
poem. 

INDECISION

 When I see her 
 I think of hard rock and bitter water, 
 when I see her 
 I do not want to forget her. 
 But with time, 
 turning and tasteless as old chewing gum, 
 she will become a part of the infernal ache 
 of what was hoped for and what nearly was. 
 Long after 
 I shall remember 
 the vile basic cowardice of waiting. 
 Long after 
 I shall long for her longing, 
 for the unattainable kiss of two strange bodies, 
 when I feel her 
 no loss is greater than her movement, 
 when I feel her 
 too much harm is done 
 to say I am in peace, 
 when, seeing her, I feel her, 
 my peace is warlike, 
 fruitless as children's games 
 but carrying flowers with pride. 

There is a saying about 'Manchester men and Liverpool gentlemen'. 
 Here is a poem from Bill Melrose, a true Liverpool gentleman, convivially  charming, continually cheerful with an  exaggerated sense of humour.  Bill claims that this is the only poem he has written . His amusing prose is not to be missed. 

FLOATING

 I want to float like a trailing cloud 
 And visit far continents 
 Without the fear of falling. 
 Or just stay aloft, heavy and damp, 
 Holding wet power in a humid sky. 
 I'd love to skim like a popped-up cork, 
 Bobbing and jogging on milky tops, 
 Surfing the seaways. 
 I'd like to float like almost anything, 
 Except a fish. 
 Drifting in a piscine silence 
 Would mean I'm dead. 
 

 And Bill adds as a PS 

 Was transmutation ever sillier 
 Than caterfly to butterpillier? 

THE GENIUS is one of JG's own (obviously written many years ago) 

The Genius 

I am a genius. That's what I am 
I'll not grow up to be a ham 
Posing on and off the stage 
I'd rather die a wise old sage 

I think that by the time I'm two 
I'll know all animals in the zoo 
And by the time I'm nearly three 
I'll know the name of every tree 

And what is more, before I'm four 
I'll write a book, of that I'm sure 
And at the tender age of five 
I'll buy a car and learn to drive 

By six I'll be a great sensation 
Known throughout this mighty nation 
From seven up to eleven 
You'll see me as a gift from heaven 

But by the time I reach a score 
You may not shout 'hurray, encore'. 
Because your brains are rather poor 
You may decide I am a bore 

Remember,  I'm a genius.  That I am 
Who else could write this in his pram

GINA RILEY is also a founder member of The Inklings. She has been successful in competitions and has published a collection of poems entitled 'Spirit Levels'.

Looking across the river

I wait for it to dissipate and it does

this overwhelming love 

of life. Lasting seconds 

hovering in the radiant dusk, exuberant 

over the river 

        the bridge 

and the city behind.

The aftermath is a let-down. 

it always is.

I wait, and muck-black arches 

of the bridge become unsightly 

clapped out barges along the bank 

begin to stink of rotten wood. 

Not much to love 

in squalid aspects of a city 

and its harbour. No depth…unless 

it’s in the gold flushed water 

lamplit eyes 

of a passing dredger. 

Light has the power to move us. 

It always did.

Reality is not so ordinary. 

I know this. 

I can’t get it 

to sink in.

So I stay till estuary 

             and dark red sky 

are lit by shimmering pin dots 

windows in a distant building blaze 

at the touch of a switch – 

till lighting up time 

is as heartening 

as it ever was 

and the river scene 

as deep 

as it will ever be. 
 
 

TED SMITH is a displaced Scot living in Merseyside. Unfortunately we are unable to bring you his intriguing accent which adds a special dimension to his poetry. 
 

In Waiting

The last Knight rode through the Bluebell wood,

And over the brow of the hill.

He looked down where the township stood,

In the dawn light all was still.
 

A hamlet was there when he was young,

And the Smith had a busy fire.

A Maypole stood on the village green;

The church had a gleaming spire.
 

The simple folk had all welcomed him

Knowing he would defend their cause

Against the robbers' band of men

Or the landlord's unjust laws.
 

The maidens had felt their honour safe.

His sword was ever keen and bright.

In their defence he'd challenge all,

And bravely fight their fight.
 

Now. a motorway runs through the town,

New garage workshops there abound,

The village green had long since gone,

There was concrete all around.
 

Each maiden now would defend herself,

Her story by her lawyer told.

And honour once beyond all price

Was judged in tribunals' gold.
 

The last Knight sighed a deep bitter sigh,

Vanished into the misty wood

And all chivalry was gone.

Then whilst singing a sweet sad song

Vanished into the misty wood

And all chivalry was gone.

Return to My Home Page or Index

Poem No 7

The Jazz Ship

The Jazz Ship glides across the waves

And in its wake the notes are blown

Across the stern to better days

Of youthful dreams and songs of home.

The sad and happy blues and rags

The songs of love and love's demise

Reach out beyond the moonlit flags

To where the dawn will gently rise.

Can you tell me?

A simple question from a child 

Can drive a sage completely wild. 

How could a simple question be 

The source of such complexity? 

Let the sun shine where it will 

Philosophers and sages still 

Cannot tell us why we're here 

Or where we'll be this time next year.

GINA RILEY'S 

TO MUSIC B.C.

We take it up

an ancient spiritual

buried alive in Delphi

thousands of years ago. Forgotten

by new centuries

of allegiance to the Lord's Prayer

endless nuances in the beauty

or vain glory of a musical note.

We give it more breathing space

you and I, listen to it with interest

approve of its transmission

on a silver disc.

For music was and is an old rite

of survival

anodyne for musicians

and those that listen in.

All power...

to music B.C.

and music of a third millennium.

If notes play down mauve shadows

                       like sick-room flowers

some good is in the gathering

and offering up. So you and I

can tap our feet

and with a smile go dancing

whoever needs a warmer hand

intrepid foot.  All power

to latent music

love songs that are coming.

All those hours

when harmony is brought to bear

and silence

can hardly touch us.

JG's   PAIN

Pain is a pain

is a pain.

Now I'm not the sort 

to complain

though life can be hell

when you're not feeling well

remember to laugh 

and to smile.

Pretend it's still all worthwhile.

It isn't

but keep a happy face

or you'll face disgrace

accused of lacking moral fibre

and exile

right up the Khyber.

Now if you had 

my aching head

you'd be in bed

wishing you were dead

pathetic, useless, 

a non-starter

unlike myself

a modest martyr.

Have I told you about 

my back?