Memorial
Graveyards
Are sombre places
Solid stone monuments
Line up grey
Row after row
In perfect alignment
All facing East.
Over grown hedges
Ivy crawling,
Clinging to stone
Covering written footprints
Indented inscriptions,
Hard to decipher.
Towering examples
Of craftsmen’s art
A bibliotheca.
An address book
Of past lives;
Often long forgotten.
A bright spray of colour
Signifies remembrance,
Honour and respect.
Graveyards
Are sombre places
Reminders-
Lest we forget!
Graveyards
Are sombre places
Solid stone monuments
Line up grey
Row after row
In perfect alignment
All facing East.
Over grown hedges
Ivy crawling,
Clinging to stone
Covering written footprints
Indented inscriptions,
Hard to decipher.
Towering examples
Of craftsmen’s art
A bibliotheca.
An address book
Of past lives;
Often long forgotten.
A bright spray of colour
Signifies remembrance,
Honour and respect.
Graveyards
Are sombre places
Reminders-
Lest we forget!
July 2017
For one of my exercise to help get the creative juices flowing I wrote about a visit to a café that I had in Amsterdam. Using this piece of prose I turned it into a poem which is another good idea for helping to create new writing experiences. What do you think?
Amsterdam Café.
Looking out over the icy canal
Amsterdam’s famous landmarks
I sit cosy and warm
Inside a student café,
Surrounded by the young and vibrant.
Quiet murmurings echo gently
Around the small space.
Spontaneous laughter erupts
Bringing fresh happiness.
I order tea and Dutch Apple pie,
With golden crust
And thick, sweet, apple pieces.
Replica blue Dutch Delph
Crockery appears
Enhancing my Amsterdam experience.
Amber liquid - pale brown fills
The tiny, feminine teacup.
Steam whispers,
And my cooling breath
Signifies contentment.
I slice into the pie
Expectant; excited even
Anticipating the burst of joy
As the sweetness explodes
On my taste buds.
Slowly the murmurings fade away.
The sun glistens, sparkling
On the icy water outside.
Peace reigns.
Suddenly!
CINNAMON-
Ugly and bitter
Floods my senses.
My equilibrium shattered
And the atmosphere in the cafe
Turns sour.
I’m surrounded by
A cacophony of strident voices
Disjointed – out of synch.
My taste buds are numbed;
Paralysed.
I quickly drink the hot scalding tea.
Now grief stricken
And leave the café.
Sue Westcott(C.) 2017
For one of my exercise to help get the creative juices flowing I wrote about a visit to a café that I had in Amsterdam. Using this piece of prose I turned it into a poem which is another good idea for helping to create new writing experiences. What do you think?
Amsterdam Café.
Looking out over the icy canal
Amsterdam’s famous landmarks
I sit cosy and warm
Inside a student café,
Surrounded by the young and vibrant.
Quiet murmurings echo gently
Around the small space.
Spontaneous laughter erupts
Bringing fresh happiness.
I order tea and Dutch Apple pie,
With golden crust
And thick, sweet, apple pieces.
Replica blue Dutch Delph
Crockery appears
Enhancing my Amsterdam experience.
Amber liquid - pale brown fills
The tiny, feminine teacup.
Steam whispers,
And my cooling breath
Signifies contentment.
I slice into the pie
Expectant; excited even
Anticipating the burst of joy
As the sweetness explodes
On my taste buds.
Slowly the murmurings fade away.
The sun glistens, sparkling
On the icy water outside.
Peace reigns.
Suddenly!
CINNAMON-
Ugly and bitter
Floods my senses.
My equilibrium shattered
And the atmosphere in the cafe
Turns sour.
I’m surrounded by
A cacophony of strident voices
Disjointed – out of synch.
My taste buds are numbed;
Paralysed.
I quickly drink the hot scalding tea.
Now grief stricken
And leave the café.
Sue Westcott(C.) 2017
2nd May 2016. I have this poem printed in a small anthology that I put together as part of the Salford Pocketbook Series many years ago. I remember also being a member of Salford's poem swap scheme and I sent this to another poet who wrote back that she had been there! I thought she meant literally but she didn't! Ha! Ha!
A Visit To Heywood.
In the Bacon Butty Bar,
nostalgia revisited;
with sixties style music,
complimentary furniture
and original furnishings.
A meeting place
for blonde women
reminiscing
with peroxide generations.
Youths playing on the eighties equivalent
of pinball machines;
Space Invaders.
In the corner,
a Rowan Atkinson's impression;
skeletal almost
sad yet not pathetic
drinking hot, brown, wet liquid,
Life giving tea.
Smoking a matchstick thin cigarette
Drawing, dragging deeply
in a place; a time out of step
with modern designer décor living.
A blast from the past.
I felt uncomfortable!
Sue Westcott(C.) 2016
A Visit To Heywood.
In the Bacon Butty Bar,
nostalgia revisited;
with sixties style music,
complimentary furniture
and original furnishings.
A meeting place
for blonde women
reminiscing
with peroxide generations.
Youths playing on the eighties equivalent
of pinball machines;
Space Invaders.
In the corner,
a Rowan Atkinson's impression;
skeletal almost
sad yet not pathetic
drinking hot, brown, wet liquid,
Life giving tea.
Smoking a matchstick thin cigarette
Drawing, dragging deeply
in a place; a time out of step
with modern designer décor living.
A blast from the past.
I felt uncomfortable!
Sue Westcott(C.) 2016
25th April 2016. I having been looking through some of my older poems which haven't seen the light of day for many years and I came across this one which I liked. I hope you do too!
Windy Night.
Sheets of metal wind
Rippling through the street
Thundering, wave after wave
Of repetitious whiplash.
A giant's breath exhaled.
Rumbling, rolling
Slurping at window cracks
Weaving intricate patterns
With the night air.
In the lull,
I hear my husband's
Steady breathing
And I feel safe.
Sue Westcott(C.) 2016
Windy Night.
Sheets of metal wind
Rippling through the street
Thundering, wave after wave
Of repetitious whiplash.
A giant's breath exhaled.
Rumbling, rolling
Slurping at window cracks
Weaving intricate patterns
With the night air.
In the lull,
I hear my husband's
Steady breathing
And I feel safe.
Sue Westcott(C.) 2016
12th April 2016. You can write poetry about anything. I looked at a wall in the school playground and saw these images so I wrote them down.
The Wall.
It stands strong and sturdy,
Forever vigilant, through aeons of time.
It forms a secure blanket around lives, hopes and dreams.
It protects all those within.
It surrounds you with a sense of security and peace.
And the colours!
Opulent oranges, rich reds, earthy browns,
Golden ochre’s and sunlit yellows.
They merge and coalesce in a wonderful kaleidoscope of patterns.
Bricks stand uniform straight.
An ordered army of solid permanence
As they hold up generation upon generation
Of human endeavour.
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016
The Wall.
It stands strong and sturdy,
Forever vigilant, through aeons of time.
It forms a secure blanket around lives, hopes and dreams.
It protects all those within.
It surrounds you with a sense of security and peace.
And the colours!
Opulent oranges, rich reds, earthy browns,
Golden ochre’s and sunlit yellows.
They merge and coalesce in a wonderful kaleidoscope of patterns.
Bricks stand uniform straight.
An ordered army of solid permanence
As they hold up generation upon generation
Of human endeavour.
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016
6th April 2016 Personification is often used in poems. I wrote this many years ago and self published it in a small booklet called Second Thoughts, which was part of The Salford Pocketbook Series.
The Grandfather Clock.
Old Father Time
Stands regal and proud.
His ebony suit
Richly brown.
His face
Square jawed and solid.
His steady heartbeat
And booming voice
Fill the house
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016
The Grandfather Clock.
Old Father Time
Stands regal and proud.
His ebony suit
Richly brown.
His face
Square jawed and solid.
His steady heartbeat
And booming voice
Fill the house
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016
31st March 2016 I sometimes like to challenge myself so I had a go at writing a couple of limericks. Not too sure if I succeeded. What do you think?
There was a young man named Frank
Who was told to sit on a plank.
He sat on a nail
And let out a wail.
Frank didn't see the point of the prank!
-------------------
There was an old lady called Daisy
Who did things that were often crazy.
She jumped in a pot of jam
Sailed over the Hoover dam.
Did she come to a sticky end? That's hazy.
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016
There was a young man named Frank
Who was told to sit on a plank.
He sat on a nail
And let out a wail.
Frank didn't see the point of the prank!
-------------------
There was an old lady called Daisy
Who did things that were often crazy.
She jumped in a pot of jam
Sailed over the Hoover dam.
Did she come to a sticky end? That's hazy.
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016
18th March 2016 I visited Salford Quays and walked along the canal. I sat for a little time whilst images and words surfaced and I wrote them down. I put them together and created this poem.
Salford Quays
Like dollops of liquid black ink
Undulating across a slippery surface
The water flows.
Macabre peacock eyes compete
With lava lamp splodges
Like some 70’s style geometric wallpaper.
It swirls, floats
Coagulates, coalesces;
Smooth, hypnotic flowing.
Then
From the depths
Peace is disturbed
By the appearance of
Twentieth century packaging
Despoiling the calm;
Universal to water.
The flotsam sits
As an anathema,
To the work of the canal.
Urban decay rising
From its depths
Slowly gathering momentum
Now sidles away
Leaving dollops of liquid black ink
Undulating across a slippery surface.
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016
Salford Quays
Like dollops of liquid black ink
Undulating across a slippery surface
The water flows.
Macabre peacock eyes compete
With lava lamp splodges
Like some 70’s style geometric wallpaper.
It swirls, floats
Coagulates, coalesces;
Smooth, hypnotic flowing.
Then
From the depths
Peace is disturbed
By the appearance of
Twentieth century packaging
Despoiling the calm;
Universal to water.
The flotsam sits
As an anathema,
To the work of the canal.
Urban decay rising
From its depths
Slowly gathering momentum
Now sidles away
Leaving dollops of liquid black ink
Undulating across a slippery surface.
Sue Westcott (C.) 2016
8th March 2016 I was on a coach trip when the coach had to stop to let a car pass by and out of the window I saw this tree at the side of the road and quickly wrote down my thoughts.
Snapshot of a Tree.
In the dense, tropical jungle
Lizard leg roots
Cling to the volcanic soil.
Bark stripped bare
Back to bleeding
Blood red.
Tangled vegetation struggles
Towards the sunlight.
Sue Westcott (C.) March 2016
Snapshot of a Tree.
In the dense, tropical jungle
Lizard leg roots
Cling to the volcanic soil.
Bark stripped bare
Back to bleeding
Blood red.
Tangled vegetation struggles
Towards the sunlight.
Sue Westcott (C.) March 2016
6th March 2016 Beaches don't just have sand on them.
Beach Litter.
Like a sand crab
A leaf- brown and arched
Creased and moist
Like supple leather.
Sits on the white sand.
A pyramid; poised
Delicately.
A work of art.
A breeze!
A blink!
Gone!
Sue Westcott(C.) March 2016
Beach Litter.
Like a sand crab
A leaf- brown and arched
Creased and moist
Like supple leather.
Sits on the white sand.
A pyramid; poised
Delicately.
A work of art.
A breeze!
A blink!
Gone!
Sue Westcott(C.) March 2016
1st March 2016 I take a notebook away with me on holiday and often spend time writing. I wrote the first poem on a holiday in Ibiza some years ago and the second one on my Caribbean cruise holiday a few weeks ago. I hope that you notice the difference!
Ibiza..
Row upon row
Of
Sunbaked sardines
Grilling in the sun.
Shiny, oily bodies
Glistening everyone.
Is this a panorama
Of
Some delicacy to eat?
Oh no!
It's only holiday makers
Sunbathing on the beach.
I actually put music to this poem and sang it at one of my performances! ( Back in the day! LOL)
Antigua
Fine, white sand
Softly hugs a curved bay.
Sunbeds and umbrellas
Dotted along the lazy stretch,
Fused in between
Tropical palm trees.
Horses riding along the shore
And the whirr of a helicopter overhead.
So you settle
To turquoise waters swirling and swaying.
Crashing waves pound the sand,
Leaving wet shadows.
Colours merge into a translucent cerulean hazy mist.
A rocky headland frames the picture
And sailing boats
Are visible on the horizon.
Under a sky surprise of ice blue
With the obligatory white, fluffy clouds
Hovering above the quiet stillness of the bay.
Sinking sand between your toes
And cold; unexpected cold water;
Too rough for a hesitant mermaid.
Footprints washed away quickly
Leaving a moment;
A memory!
Sue Westcott(C.) March 2016
Ibiza..
Row upon row
Of
Sunbaked sardines
Grilling in the sun.
Shiny, oily bodies
Glistening everyone.
Is this a panorama
Of
Some delicacy to eat?
Oh no!
It's only holiday makers
Sunbathing on the beach.
I actually put music to this poem and sang it at one of my performances! ( Back in the day! LOL)
Antigua
Fine, white sand
Softly hugs a curved bay.
Sunbeds and umbrellas
Dotted along the lazy stretch,
Fused in between
Tropical palm trees.
Horses riding along the shore
And the whirr of a helicopter overhead.
So you settle
To turquoise waters swirling and swaying.
Crashing waves pound the sand,
Leaving wet shadows.
Colours merge into a translucent cerulean hazy mist.
A rocky headland frames the picture
And sailing boats
Are visible on the horizon.
Under a sky surprise of ice blue
With the obligatory white, fluffy clouds
Hovering above the quiet stillness of the bay.
Sinking sand between your toes
And cold; unexpected cold water;
Too rough for a hesitant mermaid.
Footprints washed away quickly
Leaving a moment;
A memory!
Sue Westcott(C.) March 2016
30th Jan 2016 Often my writing ideas come to me at night. I can wake up with an idea or can't get to sleep until I have written my idea down. This poem arrived at 2am !
A Room With A View.
I sat in the room for minutes
And saw four grey walls.
I sat in the room for hours
And saw the disgust on their faces.
I sat in the room for days
And saw a cage with bars.
I sat in the room for weeks
And saw hope slowly disappear.
I sat in the room for months
And saw black despair.
I sat in the room for years
And saw my life pass me by.
I sat in the room for the last time
And finally saw remorse.
Sue Westcott (C.) Jan 2016
A Room With A View.
I sat in the room for minutes
And saw four grey walls.
I sat in the room for hours
And saw the disgust on their faces.
I sat in the room for days
And saw a cage with bars.
I sat in the room for weeks
And saw hope slowly disappear.
I sat in the room for months
And saw black despair.
I sat in the room for years
And saw my life pass me by.
I sat in the room for the last time
And finally saw remorse.
Sue Westcott (C.) Jan 2016
28th Jan 2016 I have a friend who also likes to write. I visited her one evening and as soon as I arrived home this poem just 'flowed.' I hope you like it.
Sylvia - To cheer you up!
A champagne bottle of exuberance full of fizz just ready to pop!
A spiritual soul who inspires, and refreshes mine
Thoughtfulness as deep as a well
A blinding light of bubbly goodness
A lively eccentric filled with life
A giggly mess of happiness that collapses from sofa to floor
An unbound curiosity, unfiltered and unfettered
Not afraid to ask the harder questions: to question life and existence itself.
Sylvia -she makes my head hurt!
She makes me laugh!
She’s wonderful!
Sue Westcott.(c.) Jan 2016.
26th Jan 2016
This was the first piece of writing that I shared with my writing group. We had to write a poem and we could choose our own subject matter. I wrote this as a bit a fun!
I’VE GOT TO WRITE A POEM.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Oh! No! It’s getting late.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Come on now, concentrate.
I’ve got to write a poem.
I think I’m going to be sick.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Come on, let’s write it quick.
I’ve got to write a poem.
I’ve got to write it down.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Come on, stop messing around.
I’ve got to write a poem.
I need some inspiration.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Where is my imagination?
I’ve got to write a poem.
Find ideas inside my head.
I’ve got to write a poem
Too late! It’s time for bed!
Sue Westcott (c.) Oct.2015
This was the first piece of writing that I shared with my writing group. We had to write a poem and we could choose our own subject matter. I wrote this as a bit a fun!
I’VE GOT TO WRITE A POEM.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Oh! No! It’s getting late.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Come on now, concentrate.
I’ve got to write a poem.
I think I’m going to be sick.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Come on, let’s write it quick.
I’ve got to write a poem.
I’ve got to write it down.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Come on, stop messing around.
I’ve got to write a poem.
I need some inspiration.
I’ve got to write a poem.
Where is my imagination?
I’ve got to write a poem.
Find ideas inside my head.
I’ve got to write a poem
Too late! It’s time for bed!
Sue Westcott (c.) Oct.2015