Young Carer, by Miki Byrne

No child should have their childhood taken because they are a carer. This poem tells the truth of such a situation

I am not a silent poet

Megan does the washing and gets her own tea.
Makes Mum a cuppa when she needs.
Dad went away when Mum was diagnosed
and Megan misses him.
Tells her little brother what he was like.
At parent’s evenings teachers wonder
why they don’t see someone for Megan.
Pass comment on how tired she is
and sloppy with her homework.
Megan tries to work.
Clears the kitchen table but has to wash up first,
do laundry, help Mum to the bathroom .
Megan doesn’t get pocket money.
Mum’s disability benefit doesn’t stretch far.
On Saturdays Megan doesn’t play out,
or go to the park.
She has no dance class, swimming.
Only the TV for after school.
She does little any other twelve year old would do.
Megan works hard because Mum has MS
and Megan loves her Mum.

View original post

“The BeZine” – 100,000 Poets (and friends) for Change Facebook Discussion Page

Useful info

THE BeZINE

Artwork by The Bardo Group Beguines team-member, Corina Ravenscraft (Dragon’s Dreams)


Join us at Our Zine 100TPC Facebook discussion page. It’s unique:

2018 NEWS & GUIDELINES FOR POSTING ON THE DISCUSSION PAGE: We’re especially interested in filling a gap by collecting info on practical initiatives – ideas for taking action – from anywhere in the world, “best practices” so to speak that foster peace, sustainability and social justice, especially those that might be picked up and implemented elsewhere. Examples from the past include the churches that open their parking lots at night to the homeless, the barber who uses his days off to give homeless people haircuts, or the group that put out clothing for people to take if needed.

Other information:

FOR WRITE-UPS ON SPIRITUAL PRACTICE for Beguine Again beguineagain.com Facebook message Terri Stewart. We also have a FB page – The Bardo Group Beguines -where we…

View original post 317 more words

The Old Soldier – Ali Jones

Brilliant use of nature to describe PDST

The Old Soldier

He has a hut in the woods, well-concealed;
bounded by ash and thorn, linteled in ivy,
where he hides a Falkirk kettle and finds
a tin tea caddy stashed safely with the horseshoe
trivet and well-worn pan. It is not so small,
a familiar path of bird song leads him on
to dress in blackbird colours and sing of rain
while he works by the stream. A young buck
at his side asks who owns the forest?

He has no reply, only beckons, come and see;
the bounty of trees heavy with apples, a crop of nuts
netted with the fingers, a spring dancing
to offer a cup of water, the abundance
of berries and birds to pick them.

Tame a man and lie him down,
make him peaceful in crowds and muddy trenches;
at home he is quiet as a fox and prefers
the rowan tree…

View original post 173 more words

Raised Hands

THE BeZINE

Over oceans of ideas, cultures, countries
raised hands rise to support, supplant
the rulers whether democrats, dictators
oligarchs they face each other for a time
then time rolls on fading them into
sepia images rattling history.

They leave a thread of wounds and horror
littering the globe with tears, mourning hands
uplifted, pleading for justice, return of lands
even from long forgotten graves they rise:

but the hands unnoticed rise to comfort
from hearts torn in silent breasts
calling in deeds of kindness to the outcast
defying the power of the tyrant unopposed.

© 2018, Carolyn O’Connell

CAROLYN O’CONNELL lives in Ham, Richmond, Surrey in South London and started to write poetry after working in the Civil Service and the RNIB. She is a member of the Ormond Poetry Group and also a member of her local W.I. She works with Richmond Libraries to promote poetry and has lead workshops…

View original post 110 more words

On having enough messages from the dead – Abegail Morley

On having enough messages from the dead

Your name is paperweighted to my tongue.
Each time I try to lift it, it bangs to the floor
of my mouth, heavy as a sandbag,
or an iron girder from that old advert.
Your name trundles on wheels, heavy
in its criss-crossing skids, but like a glass
memory is always reflecting something else.

I decide to pin your name to the notice board,
stick another to the fridge with a magnet,
to loosen you from me. This morning I find
they’ve slipped off, parachuted down
and are hissing on an unwashed floor ‒
paper sun-torn, unbearable to touch.
I watch ink vacate itself from the present,
silently bleeding as it disappears.

Abegail Morley’s recent collection is The Skin Diary (Nine Arches). Her debut, How to Pour Madness into a Teacup, was shortlisted for the Forward Prize. In the Curator’s Hands is new…

View original post 31 more words

Oystercatchers – Jean Atkin

Oystercatchers

So, I squat down by his still-perfect stripes. Lift him, warm and limp
…………..and the vehicle has wrecked the other side of his head.
…………..Try not to look in his ruined eye.

A robin and a blackbird sing, a tractor grumbles half a mile
…………..away. Already I am in Wood Field, planning a shovel
…………..and thinking what words can take his place.

After school he’s stiff and fully gone. The children white
……………with shock, they’ve not yet seen the death
……………of something young. We stand in Wood Field round a grave.

The nights are drawing in, it’s getting late. I lay him good eye up.
…………..Their sobs stream on and on over the hills, and shudder
…………..off the trunks of trees. The distant village listens to their grief.

Up there the clouds are dark and racing. Here, we are in this…

View original post 59 more words