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

Sunday 17 April 2016

Mona Lisa

She smiles; the world surveys in wonder
wondering why;
why the fabled enigmatic smile
so sad, serene, naïve yet wise,
harbinger of some atavistic yearning
held deep within her soul.
What worlds lie cradled behind, inside that smile
we’ll share yet never know;
the universal smile that says all
but tells nothing.

©  Sheila Rogers
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In a quicksilver moment; 

At the corner of my eye,
I see a blank mirror. 

I invented a story about me
and God to alleviate my invisibility. 

But it is a fine cloak for observation,
giving time for thought and reflection. 

Knowledge of what I don't know
is my final visibility.

©  Valerie Taylor
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Monday 11 April 2016

The dearly departed

A Cornish cove at magnolia time,
wildflower paths zigzag to water’s edge
and cherished church
within whose orb the beloved recline
beneath their worthy epitaph,
lest we forget.

Where is the graveyard of the less lovable,
the curmudgeonly and mean?
Is it that we blossom in memoriam?

© Helen McIntosh
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Santa Claustrophobia

The carousel of chavfests over, Peter retrieved lights from the lock-up.

Soon Santa’s reindeer scorched across the rooftop of No 42, whilst LED elves lit up the bay windows like Amsterdam hookers. The drive’s ‘No Turning’ sign was flanked by sparkly unicorns.

“Can’t beat the spirit of Christmas!” he sighed.

© Tim Scott
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On a lighthouse keeper’s last day before retirement

Callum considered the clock glumly.

His marriage had been on the rocks from the outset, so he was used to living alone and communicating by shine language – a friendly wave from time-to-time sufficed.

Could he face the noisome world outside? No: he was between a rock and a hard place.

© Tim Scott
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Ambivalence … Near North Petherton, as I recall

Aged 15, Wazzer – gamesome and stocky - told me of a barley field near his village where he met two kittenish hoydens, drank cider and snogged them both. He’d arranged to meet them again, but now couldn’t:
“Why don’t you go instead?”

And for a moment my blood sang …

© Tim Scott
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The infant was fractious
and the waiter had just shimmied
to avoid the gaze of the fretting father.

It was then that a mumbling man approached,
stretched a balloon, inflated it:
a few dextrous twists and
hey-presto - a dachshund!

Sharing a smile, he bowed
and left, his bill unpaid.

© Tim Scott
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