Am I on Mute? - Exclusive preview
The City of Sanctuaries workshop facilitated by Eileen Earnshaw, is going strong with some great work done by the group over the lockdown, the publication of which, is currently ‘in production’ as they say, so look out for what will be some very special offers on their poetry and prose booklet entitled ‘Am I on Mute?’ soon to be released.
Here is a selection of some of their work from the upcoming publication.
Low morning sun skims across a tilting world.
Eye height light, sliced by tree branch shade
flashes strobe-like as I move.
Birch trees scatter a mottle of leaves,
paving the path with a patchwork pattern.
Like an open mouth with grass blade teeth,
the lawn prepares for a feast.
An orb web spider
perches head down in the gap
between a perishing rose bud and scruffy bush.
It twitches one leg, clings on tight,
It’s web like the skin of a drum,
played by the wind.
Bernie Jordan Autumn 2020
A DAYTIME REVERIE. *
The tissue paper is stiff and crackles with age as I carefully unfold it.
Inside, is a hand, stitched muff, once held by my mother’s bridesmaid.
It is the palest lilac with deep purple bows, flanking each frilled side
And the satin material is embossed with silver flowers.
Lifting it to my nostrils, I inhale it’s scent, curiously acrid,
Perhaps a residue of a perfume worn long ago.
Tentatively, I slip my hands inside the muff, registering the feel of the cool silk lining,
And I recall the sepia wedding photograph of my parents.
How wonderful it would be to see them all again.
I stretch my hands inside the muff as if reaching out for them ,
And I slip into a reverie of past scenarios,
As shadowy images flit through my mind.
I wander through a half lit world
Where no one is recognisable, identifiable,
Yet I know them from their presence
And in my soul there is contentment.
Sometimes, a face is glimpsed, familiar, solid,
Then disappears, just as quickly,
But it doesn’t bring disappointment.
I am with people I cherish, trust and who care for me.
Unconditional love seeps through my pores, warming, consoling,
Lifting me from nostalgia for a time gone by.
As I regain consciousness, I ponder on my dream
And conclude that although gone, these people are with me in spirit.
Packing the muff away again, carefully, reverently,
I reflect on my present living family,
Hoping, dreaming that they too will be surrounded
By the same unequivocal, familial love that crossed time’s boundaries to me.
Don’t Move the Mouse *
Sharing this dugout with me
Is the mouse, beautiful, small,
Still, limp, lifeless, dead.
Oh! Don’t move the mouse
For she has my soul
Contained within her.
Short days ago she lived as I lived,
Ate my food with me,
Slept when I slept.
Cowered with me when the shells exploded.
Friend, confidante, comrade.
Don’t move the mouse
© Ray Stearn 18th November 2020
I hear it as I approach.
Intermittent. Muffled. Indistinct.
Almost silent, a snuffling and then a quiet sob
from the other side of the tree.
I dismount, and then I see her.
An old woman, all by herself.
White tee shirt, cropped jeans. Hiding
On a beautiful summer's day in the park.
She looks like my grandma.But she's not.
I can't put my arms round a stranger.
I should carry on. This is not my business.
But she could be someone's grandma.
Should I cycle past on the other side?
A bad Samaritan? She has not seen me.
I blurt out, "Are you all right?"
A stupid question. I know she is not.
She raises her hand to cover her face,
"Yes, fine thank you, "she says, lying.
And then she is quiet, waiting for me to go.
I have invaded her space, I have intruded.
I get back on my bike and move on with my life
I am fifteen. It is my birthday,
My first outing on my new mountain bike.
I ride off. I do not look back.
But the sun has disappeared.
Poems and Haiku Pam Spurling Bolton. *
The perfection Sparkling diamond beads
of an early morning cling
spiders web to the rain flattened grass
Pure silver threads by the hedgerow
Unbroken on the narrow country lane
An intricate lattice ==================
Glistening and swaying
On my prosaic Covid chrysalis
Washing line. Deaths head hawk moth emerges No happy ending
Now night-time lengthens
The oak leaf shades and rusts to brow
Summer is over.
NIGHT ON OUR STREET.
Silence sings, the song lonely
heavy with nostalgia.
Aimlessly wandering, she
lingers by cars, vans,
drifts into the garden
passed shirts, tops, socks with holes
dreaming on the washing line
This is the world of nocturnes,
of hedgehogs and the urban fox,
of spiders weaving silver webs,
of winged death and scurrying life
whispering its stories.
Soon silence will retreat
fold the night into herself
sound and light once again
regaining place of dominance.
Eileen Earnshaw Autumn 2020.