Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Mrs Ann Potkins

I have always enjoyed writing, and was encouraged by my English teacher at school, although it’s only during the last few years, after being inspired to enter a national competition, that I’ve had any of my poetry published. I didn’t win, but had the poem published in another anthology and felt encouraged to write more.

I love writing children’s stories too and hope to get them published. My poetic style is versatile, though I do prefer to write in rhyme. I like reading and writing humorous poetry and I’m a great fan of Pam Ayres work.

I work as a care assistant with residents who have dementia and some of my poetry reflects this. I enjoy reading all the old poets and one of my favourites is ‘The Donkey’ by G K Chesterton, it always makes me cry. If my poetry brings pleasure to just a few people then I’m happy, anything else is a bonus!

Remote Control

After all these years
you still have control

I’m powerless, listening
to your filthy, foul-mouthed rantings

I dare not glance away
lest you threaten to smash
my head to a pulp again.

Your lips curl with venom
as they spit more expletives

Fists clenched
eyes wide and staring
as you punch the wall

Shattered plaster drips blood
and I notice that hole in the door
needs filling

I want to run, but you’re faster

You goad me to fight back
but I’m numb, would say or do
the wrong thing

It used to take very little

A spilt tea-cup or forgotten
ingredient for lunch

Trivialities-but not to you

How is it I still want you?
Long for your weight on mine
Still desire those looks
that first drew me to you

then…

I am awake
steeped in sweat
my heart exploding
in my chest

You still wield control
Even from your grave.

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Apaturairis

Nature’s silken-painted tapestry
fluttering in the high green

Swift silent serenity
of purple-splendoured wings

blue iridescent iris
in certain light

He is elusive to the eye
oblivious to our chaos below

occasionally descending to imbibe
where murky waters lie.

Nature’s silken-painted tapestry
fluttering in the high green

A regal butterfly
Majestic in the sun.

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The Compact Mirror

More than seven years of bad luck
have come and gone

yet you have not shattered

you are my friend, yet sometimes
my enemy

You see me as I am-
well-mapped and ravaged by time

gradually changing shape
deep creases accentuating imperfections

features more prominent
jowls less elastic

patchy eyebrows
thinning lips of palest rose-hue

naked today-without the paint
that so appeals

You do not judge me
nor lie to me

You show me as I am.

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Flying Low

I dread it

and cower - foetal-like
hands shielding my eyes

heart rushes to my mouth
my body bleeds fear.

Pallid, shaking, nauseous
in dry-mouthed silence--inwardly screaming

as the yellow lava of bile rises within.

Overhead it looms, in monstrous silver,
an eagle-like presence, deafening, threatening.

Flying low
dropping its steel talons
ready to swoop

the plane

coming in to land.

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New Seasons

Spring will bring the sweetest flowers,
tulips drenched with April showers.
Blossom flows from windswept trees,
revealing all the fresh green leaves.

Summer comes with glorious heat,
producing blooms, that smell so sweet.
Enticing butterflies and bees inside,
where purest nectar does reside.

Autumn weather brings some rain,
but we know the sun will shine again.
Leaves now fall, as light as feathers,
the softest touch, in golden measures.

Winter arrives, with ice-cold breeze,
painting lace on bare-branched trees.
Not quite the season I recall,
when snow was guaranteed to fall

But climate change is here to stay

Let’s enjoy it while we may

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Dread

Dread coming home to this sad lifeless place,
dust piling up – housework I can’t face.
I just want to lie down and sleep till I die,
You’ve gone, there’s no purpose, I can’t even cry.

The garden looks sad and neglected by me,
The flowers that bloom – I can’t even see.
Weeds are surrounding them, choking their space,
And the bench where we sat, I cannot yet face.

I crave for your touch, as I lie in our bed,
I recall so clearly, the last words you said.
‘If I don’t wake tomorrow, you know I love you’
How could I know then, this hell would come true?

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Submission Guidelines: Poems of no more than 30 lines in length each will be considered.