Memory It starts With a slither Of muted colours. The top edge Of a faded photograph. It hovers At the peripheral Of consciousness. Its stillness Is surprising Its shyness Perplexing. It’s a tantalising thread A short breath away…
It starts with a slither…
Sue Westcott (C.) 2020
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!
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?
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
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!
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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!
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)
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
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