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

Friday 19 December 2014

Christmas Eve

I transport myself to the Middle East;
the exhausted donkey ride,
hooves tramp in warm, dark night,
as I listen to clear glass voices rising up
into frosty vaults of King's College;
quivering light of candles piercing cold;
on the bleak flat lands of East Anglia.

© Valerie Taylor
All rights reserved


With perfect poise
he enters stage left,
placing the suitcase aside,

while gymnasts perform
pirouettes and arabesques,
svelte nymph
unfurls, spreads chrysalis-like
from case cocoon,

tumbling, twisting, wheeling
silken ribbon blazing
from baton waving
abstract fluidity
across blank canvas

to end again
repackaged and recycled
to perform anew
© Helen McIntosh
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Beyond belief?

Letters posted in fireplaces?
Jingling red-nosed reindeers
Streaming through skies?
Rubicund Santa
Shimmying down chimneys
To delight and surprise?
Turkeys voting for Christmas,
Getting stuffed en route;
Piggies wriggling in blankets,
Devils astride horseback;
Filthy lucre buried
Deep in puddings boiled?
A virgin birth and…
Three wise men?

© Helen McIntosh
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Marley’s Regret

"You were always a good man of business, Jacob," faltered Scrooge.

"Mankind was my business!” cried Marley. “And yet at this time of the rolling year I never roved beyond the limits of our money-changing hole. Chances squandered! A false and commercial festival, devoutly to be squeezed!

"Humbug!" said Scrooge.

© Tim Scott
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Christmas Eve

We fixed our fairy,
sparkling in sequinned gown.

Let there be lights.
Dad tore his few remaining hairs, drove
jehu-like to town.

Returned.  Worked, twisting wire with clumsy hands.
Then light there was.

Yet, at Midnight Mass, his fingers
danced across organ keys
swelling our church with glorious sound.

© Gill Dunstan
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Monday 15 December 2014

23rd December, 2010

In Tesco’s, from the tanks of gasping fish, with barely room to swim, he chooses three.

Our shopping is on the back seat.

“Don’t worry; must be very fresh; Polish tradition. We eat when the little star comes on Christmas Eve.”

Until then the condemned carp are in the bath.

© Sophia Roberts
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Christmas secrets

Silent night, holy night
all is sad, all is quiet
round his death bed everyone weeps
jolly grandpa his memory to keep
only I know his secret

only I know his shame
Silent night, holy night
all is calm, all is right
round his memory everyone grieves
jolly Santa on Christmas Eve
only I know his secret

only now it's mine to tell

© Liz Redfern
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Christmas Eve Shopping

He cut
a sorry figure in the flurry of the street
he knew
she wouldn't like it whatever he picked
he imagined
her saying ‘thank you’
with that smirk upon her lips

He hated
Christmas shopping and all that it entailed
he’d rather
wrestle Amazonian crocodiles or eat garlic snails.

© Liz Redfern
All rights reserved

Wednesday 10 December 2014

Seven Years On ...

... We unlocked the musty garage that was your office,
To sift through bank statements, newspaper clippings, photos, self-help books, correspondence about parking, Appeals to politicians, poems, plays and songs.

The skip filled, the shell sold, we were left with just
one suitcase - and the still gnawing absence of you.

© Tim Scott
All rights reserved