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

Why not contact us for more details about our small, mutually supportive monthly meetings? Don't be shy. No need to be brave!

Sheila 01823 67 28 46

Valerie 01884 84 04 22

Friday 22 November 2013


Eyes dropped on a thousand threads of gold across the cerulean waste
watch, silent, fluttering moths caught in moonbeams, guardians of the human race.

As morning seeps softly over earth's eastern rim the night eyes linger, still ajar,
then close, yielding father-love to the warm embrace of daylight's star.

© Sheila Rogers
All rights reserved

A lucky child?

On trains across wind-swept plains.  Boys herded, hungry, afraid.  And David’s Star
dealt death in that land; fractured families and the forsaken Bar Mitzvah.

Yet there was a lucky child: Thomas Buergenthal, who shunned the waste
Of lives short lived and through love and luck escaped the chambers others faced.

© Helen McIntosh
All rights reserved

Monday 11 November 2013

The Boarding School Survivors Group

Eyes burning while he told his story
Disabled with anger by memories
Suspended for ever in their web of hurt
Triggered by the arrival of autumn
Taking him back

Warmth and understanding from the others
Palpable through common threads of pain
A rare moment of shared experience
Haunting them
Holding them back
from moving on with their lives

The boarding school survivors group hugged each other and left.

© Liz Redfern
All rights reserved

Three Kings 2013

Their famous presents wrapped in Christmas paper bought from the bazaar
Three camels strode with kings on their backs religiously following the star

They could not foresee how the story would unfold and tragically end in waste
A life full of potential and inspiration causing jealousy, suspicion and fatally defaced

© Liz Redfern 
All rights reserved

Quatrain: Outpatients’ Clinic, RD&E

In the waiting room anxious hands are interlaced;
the clock ticks, doors open: time goes to waste

on dated magazines reviewing makes of cars.
Finally called - Good News - thank your lucky stars!

© Tim Scott
All rights reserved

Outside Me a Star

When I look outside myself, instead of God, I see a star,
How can I hinge my unworthy poem to an object so far.

It is alone, incomprehensible and will seem such a waste,
Yet I fear I could easily choose wrong words in my haste.

© Valerie Taylor
All rights reserved

The Hours

Once, on another shore, I had eternity to waste.
Shed moments, careless as the wind-blown cherry blossom, bridal white, which 


the lawns in spring.  When did I cross the line where time, a shooting star,
burned fierce?  Was gone.  I yearn to grasp - but have let slip my hour.

© Gill Dunstan
All rights reserved


Moonlight deceives, paints
Sooty shadows, silvers, shifts
Perceptions, unnerves.
In the park, lovers
Sit entwined, believe, for now,
Eternity’s theirs.
Fluffy goslings sleep
Unaware the fox is close
Needing to feed cubs.
Only the ocean
Forever restless, remains
Unmoved by moonlight.
Close the curtains, dear
I prefer creeping darkness
To the moon’s pretence.

© Gill Dunstan

All rights reserved

A streak of Light

Sometimes what we see is just surplus to the gods’ requirements - waste;
mere cosmic rubbish.   But this debris – hurled hard - reflects Mars’ 
     profound distaste

for Venus’s tasteless new underwear (her neon stockings, suspenders and 
Over the heavens it goes; momentarily recycled and become a new 
     shooting star.

© Sophia Roberts
All rights reserved