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 25 March 2013

I Remember …

… Jack Frost`s spirographs inside my bedroom window: beyond lay the monochrome, muffled moors.

That day a flurrying helicopter came to take our pinch-faced neighbour to hospital; a what-a-lark soldier delivered bread – and then was gone into the sun-leached sky.

It was 1963 and my four-years-old self had forgotten the summer.

© Tim Scott
All rights reserved

First Dance

I went to my first dance,
wearing a dress of midnight blue
flecked with tiny silver threads.

glasses left on the dressing table,
I was a blind Cinderella
waltzing in a forest of dark
suited boys in pale shirts,
blurred and never
to be recognised again.

© Valerie Taylor
All rights reserved

The birth day

I remember the magic of birth.
I was 30, you were new
A black haired, blue eyed beauty
Your brother’s first visit, Papa weeping.
Dopey finger and Ice Cream Queen
Too soon a city chick
Fun, friends, fashion in between.
Now you’re 30
Happy birthday, our beloved Alice!

© Helen McIntosh
All rights reserved

I remember

I remember when
we ruled the world
danced high on rainbows
built castles in the clouds.
No need for words;
we knew the way,
knew where utopia lay.

Where are you now?
What do you see
in fireside flames
that dance delusion in your mind?
Do you remember me,
still here
together yet alone.

© Sheila Rogers
All rights reserved


I remember Venice:
February froze
under summer skies.

Old buildings, honey mellow,
peered, like Narcissus,
into the Grand Canal.

Carnevale crowds thronged.
In St Mark’s Square
a monstrous screen blasted out Queen.

whose gorgeous costumes
and bejewelled masks,
concealed all flesh -
more mannequin than man.

Impossible to tell
saint from psychopath.

© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved


My name is Magic
I champ at the Bit  
But my libido’s tragic

Only 11 hands high
Moor No more
A change is nigh

Refills my manger
Cleans my tack
Stranger & stranger

Didn’t hear a sound
My ears were pricked
Spread-eagled on ground

© Kenneth Campbell
All rights reserved

Poem for Austria

From Africa I came.. as a wild Vulture
To a land that sourced mankind's culture
Let the church bells of Austria continue to ring
So I can hear the mountains sing
Let the music of Beethoven resonate around me
Whilst the images of Klimpt will always surround me
Let trotting racing last for ever
If only to restore a Kayser's pleasure
Let Austrian medicine, to the world bring
So my shoulder has no further use for a sling
Let the beauty of Baden come alive
So my memories of you will always survive
Let me always remember the Austrian people
In the way I can picture St. Stephan's steeple
Oh Austria, I can feel your incredible zest
Making you and your people amongst the best

© Kenneth Campbell 
All rights reserved

My Name is Magic

A face turns towards me,
uttering my three special syllables

teeth press lips for the initial consonant,
then - tongue caresses vowels, lingering on ‘l’.

soft tone, resonant singing,
ringing through my ears,
warming my brain.

My name sounds,
the sun radiates
spinning circles
around my heart.


© Valerie Taylor
All rights reserved

My Name is Magic

My Name is Magic

Fickle human: the girl who named me adored me, left for somewhere called Uni. 
When she returned it was with a boy, whom she stroked and kissed.  They rolled together on the bed where once I held court. 

“Shoo, cat!” he said.

Later, I sourly marked where they had slept.

© Tim Scott
All rights reserved

What's in a Name....

Hi, I'm Sheila. Not just any old Sheila, 
not your Steal-my-Thunder from Down Under,
your Tease' em with Grief on the Barrier Reef,
but a cool, classy bird from the Upside of the world.
Yes, Sheila: Irish for Celia, from Latin Caelius
which, of course, means Heavenly.
That's me.

© Sheila Rogers
All rights reserved

My name is magic

My name is magic
It calls me:
But sometimes it calls you too –
Are we the same?
What’s in a name?
It’s female, suggests origin, class and age.
And it defines who I’m not –
Like Fifi Trixibell or Tiger Lily.
Now, there’s magical!

© Helen McIntosh
All rights reserved