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www.ilkestonlife.com                                                                                   ILKESTON LIFE                                                                                     August 2021     8

                      Email your poems,
                      short stories,   Our Victoria Park                       Listening to birds singing sweetly above,  Towards wholeness and happiness, so we can
                      cartoons, etc., to                                       Calling their mates, calling their love,  say:
                      poems@ilkeston-  by Janet Reeve                          Often hidden away among canopied trees,  Our Victoria Park has inspired us, and fired us,
                      life.com         A lock-down haven for the young and the old,  Occasionally glimpsed in the whispering
                      or send to Ilkeston   Where drinks from the café keep out the cold,  breeze!                    Where firm friendships have blossomed among
                      Life, 1 Bath street,   The “Bare Feet Cafe” with great friendly staff,                          us,
                      Ilkeston, Derby-  Welcoming walkers and friends, having a   Keeping so fit walking around and around,  Brought smiles from tears in troubled times,
                      shire, DE7 8AH
                                                                                                                      And inspired ME to write this verse that
           YOUR                        Delicious ice-creams when the weather is hot,  ground,
                                                                               Admiring the flowers springing up from the
                                       laugh!
                                                                                                                      rhymes!
                                                                               Following the tree trail, eighteen species In all,
                                       Putting on weight? We don’t give a jot!
                                                                               Our favourite, ancient Oak Tree, majestic and
                                       Sitting round tables in the bright summer sun,
                                                                               tall!
                                       Imagine being at the seaside, having some fun!
           SPACE                       Cheeky robins and blackbirds, all having no   Victorian bandstand, standing so proud,
                                                                               Where some Sundays, brass bands play aloud,
                                       fear,
                                                                               Echoing so musically around the park,
                                       Hop after spilt crumbs, coming ever so near,
                                                                               Lifting our gloom, igniting a spark.
                                       Wagtails strut comically on the Bowling
                                                                               A spark of hope in this pandemic year,
                                       Green,
                                       Stop suddenly, unexpectedly, their feathers to
                                                                               Helping all participants along the way
                                       preen!                                  Dispersing despair, dispelling our fear,
       The Wicked Wild               start,                         Vibrant in the early morning sun.   My first thoughts were of safety of   Thin End of the
       Web                           Don’t let this problem vex your   Clinging to the foliage    our mother earth
                                                                                                  Could this be a new beginning, for  Wedge
                                     heart,
                                                                     Spray painted by nature,
       by M. S. Harvey © 2021        Just ask a poet for his aid,   Burning like fire,            an alien sky rebirth.          by Ian Scott © 2009
                                     Courageously, don’t be afraid,
                                                                    Each petal, perfect,
       The internet is full of scumbags  He may be pleased to let you   The scent illuminating    It could have been a picture, torn   It was the thin end of the wedge,
       Criminals, scammers and thieves,  know,                      The sight empowering,         from a science fiction book    But it hit me like a sledgehammer.
       People just out to do others down,  And if you’re lucky he will show  Warming to the new day,   But this was happening here and   It came like thunder, spit me
       And many, many more to deceive.  The rhythms of his carnal art,  Welcoming the first sighting,   now, so I took another look  asunder.
                                     And offer you chance to take part,  Showing her beauty,      Could this have been a bad dream,   Doctor said, “man you should be
       There’s no-one online can be   In forming stanzas physically,  Like a new beginning, exposed,   will I awake in my bed    dead.
       trusted,                      You too, could make love rhyth-  Naked like a newborn.       I then pinched myself and realised   Oh, and six feet under.”
       Just like the dark world outside,  mically.                  The sun highlighted,          it was happening instead.
       Everyone’s out for only them-                                Onto every single petal.                                     Chorus:
       selves,                                                                                    A loud shout from a friend on the   But hey, hey it’s only a little
       In no-one, is it safe to confide.  When Conservation         Observe                       other side of the road         whisky.
                                                                                                  Began to reassure me what was
                                                                                                                                 Hey, hey it’s only a little booze.
       So trust no-one on the internet,  was Normal                 by Steven Michael Pape        happening as I stood froze     I only take a shot or two,
       And do not trust anyone you meet,  by Mary Taylor            © 2021                        It’s one of nature’s phenomenon’s   To loosen up the blues,
       There is no-one with character   Friday was Bath Night,                                    quite normal when ever seen    chase away the blues.
       pure,                         The boast, “ I’m the cleanest in the   Can you see us? We softly ask,   As the winter sun rises its red   Once a shot was good enough.
       Just wickedness, malice and   house”                         That lone walking man,        wavelengths create this colourful   One sniff, I didn’t need any stuff
       deceit.                       Siblings shared one bath of water,  Who treads the green path   scene.                      harder.
                                                                    Always observing,
                                                                                                                                 But then nuns were praying around
       Do Poets Make Love            And so it went, until all were   With a furrowed brow,       As the dark cold night approaches   my bed,
                                                                                                  the sun’s rays disappear
                                     doused.
                                                                    The sun in his eyes,
       Rhythmically?                 Wash Day was Monday,           Refreshing the dry earth.     Leaving this vast winter sky, for   And papa said, “son you need
                                                                                                                                 rehab”.
                                                                                                  the moon and stars to appear
       by M. S. Harvey © 2021        Boiling first the whites,      Will he notice our arrival?   This natural act of nature as once   I was feeling under pressure..
                                     Nappies, sheets and towelling,
                                                                    Our colour and vibrancy?
                                                                                                                                 Chorus Above:
       There is a thing that puzzles me,  All fresh and clean and bright,  The change from green to yellow?   again explained
                                                                                                  How it’s hidden forces around our
       When my thoughts turn literary,  Mother wore an apron,       The show we’ve developed,     world will forever reign.      Well time passed, like time always
       That might affect reality,    For cooking and messy jobs,    From growth, to our birth,                                   does,
       In ways that anyone could see,  Children wore Dads old shirts  Come closer, Caress and smile at                           I got! I needed a bigger buzz, oh
       A poet set on metered verse,  For cleaning thingamabobs.     us,                                                          brother.
       Could be a blessing or a curse,                              And as you finally recognise   The Final Price               And two went to four; I’d lose
       When coming to a carnal bed,  There were school clothes,     The change in surroundings,   by John Wright                 count on the floor.
       In passion’s flow, set full ahead,  And best clothes and Dads old   And marvel as you forget,                             And the barman said, with a grin
       For whether quick, or whether   overalls,                    The inner world you inhabit.   Did you ever stand upon a field,  as he did, “dead?”
       slow,                         A new coat at Easter, and shoes,  Come closer still,         Where once there was a war?    But I’d cry out, “one more”..
       There is one thing I’d like to   Gazing down to admire them   Smell our sweet scent.       And did you feel the presence,  Chorus Above:
       know,                         “Look out! Mum would call.     We’ve been dead for a year,   Of those who went before?      So, the bar turned into a hospital
       A question that keeps vexing me,  Dad making one of his slow fires,  Awaiting your presence,                              bed,
       Do poets make love rhythmically?  Adding leaves to the compost bin,  But we have risen, briefly,   Just the ghosts of long lost  sol-  Barmaids to nurses, and a priest
       It seems that rhythm plays a part,  Making Jam to preserve the fruit,  For your pleasure, your eyes,   diers,             said the lord’s prayer.
                                                                                                  Who knew not that they were
       In every person’s carnal art,  Brewed Elderberry Wine and Sloe   The beauty you see,       dead,                          And the demon drink went down
       The beat’s important for both   Gin,                          Is the beauty you feel inside,                              the sink.
       things,                       Oh! those tasty Apple Pies,    Our gift to you. Observe.     And wandered around the battle-  And the surgeon said, “your liver’s
       In rutting or good metering,  Fish and Chips and Bangers and                               field,                         quite dead”.
       The poet’s quick on metered feet,  Mash,                     Alien Sky                      The shouting echoing in their   I said, “the new one’s dying for a
       His magnum opus to complete,  Stewing Steak cooked slow, I can                             head.                          drink”...
       He crafts his words with playful   smell it!                 by Thomas Hosker                                             Chorus Above:
       skill,                        Excuse me, to the Butchers I’m   It all began at sunrise, as flecks of    What was it that the Sergeant said,
       And bends each phoneme to his   making a dash.               snow danced in the air         Before they went ‘ over the top’?  Defeat
       will,                                                        Frost was slowly thawing from the    “Away then, lads, we’ll be home
       And when he makes his words to   English Roses               wintry sunlight glare         for tea”.                      by Robert Anthony
       fit,                                                         Far off on the horizon a strange    Just before the ‘big drop’.  What a shot
       In rhythm’s structure by quick wit,  by Steven Michael Pape    bright glow appeared                                       From the spot  Once more
       It seems to me that it should be,  © 2021                    Lighting up the sky copper red as    Now, a few years later,  Fails to score  We couldn’t score
       That poet makes love rhythmical-  Yesterday there was nothing,   it crept ever near         With peace upon the land,     No crowd roar  When it mattered
       ly.                           Just several small buds bursting,   The sky now looked on fire, with    All that’s left is the crosses,  Player sad  Feeling shattered
       So, if like me you want to know,  Like a corset too tight to contain.   no sun or passing clouds   Standing mute in bloodstained   Yobs mad  Penalties beat us
                                                                                                                                 We lose the game  Italy defeat us.
                                                                                                  sand.
       The answer to this question though  Today, English roses red,   Which felt like hell on earth, as I                       It’s a shame  Worse to come
       You are not sure, quite where to   Crafted like art in the night hours,   stood there opened mouthed                                    Hate has begun.
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