Committed writers dedicated to working together to produce excellent poems, short stories, drama, life writing, and creative non-fiction

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Sheila 01823 67 28 46

Valerie 01884 84 04 22

Monday 28 January 2013


Eyes brush.
Movement shimmers
across the forehead,
muscles lift, cheeks like apple curves.

Face, a map of mirrors
reflects itself in greeting
cemented by years of tradition.
Hands press - tight and warm.

Inner misery barricaded
beneath a greeting. 
The flood of joy, touch, smiles!
Good morning!  Shalom! Kalemeira!

Another human being!


© Valerie Taylor
All rights reserved


Felix the ghost cat
howling at the moon
let me sleep you stupid mog
dawn will be here soon
my throat's been rather
sore of late By God! the
thought occurs-suppose it's me!
I'd better go retrieve the boot
I flung, so cat-a-stroph-ic-le

© William Botley
All rights reserved

Thursday 17 January 2013

Supersonic fall– ode to Felix Baumgartner

He approached it like an Arthurian knight,
noble, courageous and slightly out on a limb. A big limb actually
 128,000 feet up and no firemen with ladders here.
He looked calm as he ventured on to the edge, balanced himself and then
leapt. Only one more supersonic life left now.

© Liz Redfern Jan 2013
All rights reserved

December Hoar Frost

Air ice hangs like wood smoke
burning my lungs.

This is no white moss,
softly blanketing tile and thatch –
a glassy shroud ensnares each seared leaf,
each seed head.

Intricate wrought iron, armed
with spikes and spears
will draw blood, if required.

Our poor designs
falter beneath
Nature’s imposing patterns.

© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved

"You have SO much in common!" trilled my hostess

Felix smiled blandly, a momentary crease in his almost tanned, almost plump face.  His extended hand was smooth and soft.

A pause.  Guarded, appraising eyes swept my face.  He sipped his wine as curiosity triumphed over inscrutability.

“What is it then?” he barked: “Morris Dancing, Mudwrestling or the Masonic Lodge?”

© Tim Scott
All rights reserved


Oh Felix I can see you from on high
Do you think the apocalypse is nigh 
Perhaps you intend to break the speed of sound 
Such friction in space may well confound 
I don’t believe I've tuned in a second too soon 
To watch you descend from that white balloon 

© Kenneth Campbell 
All rights reserved 


searching for an atmosphere
to tell my poem to
nothing that's too 'sultry'
no 'cut it with a knife
I don’t want one that's smoky
or electric or ice
I'd like a little frisson
something rather nice
a moment of your company
of undivided empathy
a piece of oh-that's good-a-sphere
sounds rather fine to me                                 

© William Botley
All rights reserved


     Don't look at me like that. All right, I know it was wrong. You don't have to be all snotty about it. Nobody saw, anyway - except you, that is. And you're no pussy paragon. What you did with that mouse - ugh! Poor little blighter. So don't look at me like that.

© Sheila Rogers
All rights reserved

Out of wedlock

At the font, the priest spluttered,
“You can’t name this child
after a cartoon character.”

(Didn’t he know there were
five Popes and seventeen saints who bore the name –
or Felix of Cornwall,
who communicated with all feline creatures?)

 I elaborated, demurely. 
“His middle name is Culpus   –
for Fortunate Fall.”

© Sophia Roberts
All rights reserved