Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Charles McInally

Hi I’m Charlie,
I was born in Dundee on the East Coast of Scotland and I am currently aged 48. I landed in Yorkshire around 1989 as my final posting in the Royal Corps of Signals. When I was leaving I saw an advert for Signalling and ended up working for the railway (slightly different but just as interesting) so I stopped in York and have lived in that area ever since. 

English is a great language to write in but I am a purist and like to see it grammatically correct and spot on with regards to spelling. I got interested in writing poetry from a man who has a great history of it in York and runs competitions there (thanks Adrian). I love trying out different styles and have had a bash at most for specific competitions. However I always come back to rhyming poetry and particularly like writing about life as I see it (through windows, on buses, on the Tube etc).

Generally my poetry has humour but I also write poetry about love, the countryside and my favourite place Whitby. I found a few on my works computer and hope they make you smile.

The Smokers

From John O’Groats in Scotland
To Lands End in the South
You’ll always find employees
With cigarettes in mouth

You can see them through the windows
Of any city street
At predetermined meeting points
Where others they will greet

They will be there in the morning
And when their day is done
Never bothered by the weather
They smoke through rain or sun

A tightly knit society
Their movements always planned
With their leader giving signals
That all can understand

They move as one towards the doors
A common theme in mind
To puff upon that cigarette
That helps them to unwind

When you add up all the smoke breaks
Non-smokers never win
For they have to man the workplace
Till the smokers file back in!

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Hey Snowy

As white as snow his fur so fine
Where is that rascal cat of mine?
He scraps and plays through rain or sleet
He bites your toes and scratches feet

His beds are many, I count six
Incalculable are his tricks
Like springtime lamb with crooked tail
He leaps and through the air does sail

He isn’t fussy what he eats
When we come home he always greets
If strangers come he runs away
And in a darkened hole will stay

To see his face your heart would melt
A feeling we have often felt
But human patience he can test
For he can be a bloody pest

He growls when things don’t go his way
You want to sleep he wants to play
He’s fell in ponds and been wet through
I’ve cursed him till the air turned blue

Hey Snowy what the hell is that
He won’t be told that pesky cat
So why is it I love him so
That’s something I will never know!

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Howling At The Moon

Alone and aloof from the world again
His well kept secret hidden deep inside
Awaiting the return of four horsemen
On black hooded horses he knows they ride

Approaching they come with thunderous hoof
Terror, Frustration, Bewilderment, Fear
He waits beneath star filled sky-lighted roof
For those dreaded horsemen as they draw near

Howling at the moon behind the locked door
The book of wisdom was his only hope
Looking through pages as he crossed the floor
Praying those words would cast him a rope

A calmness descended his fingers froze
Another magic the table did hold
As shivers ran from his head to his toes
He stopped in his tracks as his blood ran cold

Wispy clouds passed by the silvery moon
The horsemen dispatched to return to Hell
The music returned form the Dylan tune
The book gave him strength that he that he lived to tell

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The Messenger

The Messenger at the top of his tree
Announcing his news to the world for free
Chirping and whistling and looking so proud
Turns this way and that way calling out loud
The song so sweet, sublime in waking hours
Radiates across the lawn and flowers
And breaks the silence of the sleep-filled night
Reverberates as morning brings first light
The redness of the sky as dawn now breaks
Brings colour to the scene as man awakes
His silhouette now fades as high in tree
The Messenger is clear for all to see
Resounding now come all his friends’ replies
The noise increases from their feathered cries
The joy I feel today allays my fears
As the Messenger from sight disappears

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