Something Imaginative

Category: Poetry

  • Midwinter Anthology, 2014

    So, for a long time now, I’ve been working on getting a small digital publishing house going. Not just as a show-case for the writing work that I do, but as a place where I can help other authors and poets get their feet out there. This is a long process. It requires building a…

  • The Wild Sea – For Dad

    The Wild Sea – For Dad. Gone beyond the wild sea, Where foam washes the shore, Storm-grey waters reflect your eyes. You stand on distant inaccessible land, the end of all journey, Look out to the stormy horizon, And I will look back. Beyond the storms, Beyond the calms, Where fair breeze blows, Ruddying your…

  • The Summer-Frozen Rose

    For those following the poetry on this blog, they will know that I’m trying to do more editing to my poetry. So, I thought I’d show a full working on a poem I’m currently working on. This is unfinished, and I’m not sure I’m happy with the result, but here they are.

  • Generation Right

    Generation Right.19-June-2014 (ver 1.1) They said on the radio, yesterday, that Generation Y, Is generation right. A generation so convinced of it’s own, individual superiority that they would rip up the welfare state, That they would deny health-care and life to the addict, To those not as fortunate as them, because they deserve it.

  • Love Bade Me Stay

    Love Bade Me Stay. Love bade me welcome, but my soul drew back, I weary, tired, unwelcome, unwanted, sat unengaged. Love bade me welcome, and the sun shone bright in my eyes, And I, weary, tired, mumbled through liturgical haze. Love Bade me welcome, but uninterested was I, worn down by constant onslaught of fractured…

  • The Walking Stick (V1)

    The Walking Stick, Abandoned, resting gently against white-washed stone, perhaps forgotten in over-busy haste to leave the sacred space, the walking stick, it’s warn wood moulded to a hand by constant use, Once an aid in it’s owners lonely pilgrimage, to a shrine of healing to ease their aches, their pains, their heartaches, Has it…

  • My First Grandchild, by Edwina Slack

    I had forgotten just how sweet it is, To hold a tiny baby in my arms, To feel the silken head resteing against my cheek, The fragile fet pressing against my side, Child of my own dear child, my thankful heart Echoes the murmmuring lullaby I sing. I see the blue eyes close, the lashes…

  • Modern Poetry Idea

    Recently I attended a beat-poetry evening, called Voicebox run by Un-deg-Un. There I had the pleasure of meeting the youth poet for Wales. I was not brave enough to share any of my work, beliving them to be unpolished, and unfinished. They were definately too short. However, it has occured to me that I write…

  • Hell.

    They sell hell is something you carry around with you. That it is not a place. There are many people who think that they have been to hell, or are in hell. This is, perhaps, true. Though it is only, really, a pale version of hell. An idea that is part of the genius of…

  • NaPoWriMo : National Poetry Writing Month

    As it is the first day of national poetry writing month, I am going to try to keep this blog updated with some of my offerings. I am mostly going through Steven Fry’s an ode less travelled, trying to expand both my appreciation of poetry and my skill. The man is a very good writer…

  • Blank Page

    Blank Page. There is a blank page, Where there should be verse, Empty space where there should be emotion, The words refusing to obey the crafter. There is a blank page, Stared at, begging to be filled, While hearts break, while emotions tumble, Yet nothing fits the meter.

  • This Too Shall Pass

    This too shall pass They say that this too shall pass, The pain and the grief, The long sleepless nights. They say that this too shall pass, That the birds will sing again, That there will be sunshine,

  • Cobwebs and Peace

    Cobwebs and Peace Aged hands, gently weave, sat on hard-backed chair, practised hands create cobwebbed beauty. Scarfed tied firmly against the gentle cold, Her bright-life filled eyes smile through olive-skinned face, The lace her fingers create weave through her life, A memory of peace-filled longing for a simpler time, To simply be. Carved wooden bobbins…

  • Her

    Her? I thought she was gone, Out of my memories for ever, And then I saw her reflection in the glass. No, not her reflection, but someone very much like her, And then it all came back, The pain, the joy, the laughter, The way that she used to smile, to stand, No, this was…

  • My Crime was Simply To be – A poem

    My Crime was Simply To be We walked the earth with everyone else. We spoke to them, We comforted them. We told them of God’s Grace; of God’s Love. We tried to show them the truth of what they already knew. They were afraid. Afraid of change. Afraid of being lost. And in that fear…