Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Clive Atkins

Clive Atkins was born in 1953 in High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire. Like a lot of people in High Wycombe his family worked in the chair making industry, his father being a chair maker. He had a happy childhood with his mother and father and younger brother and lived in a council house in the Micklefield district. Clive is married with three grown up sons and now lives in Northamptonshire.

His passion along with sport and music has been the written and spoken word. He has written lyrics and songs and likes provocative subject matter. His lyric writing has progressed into poetry and he has had numerous works published in anthologies and magazines. He has won the Writers’ Forum monthly poetry competition and has been runner up in the Forward Press poet of the month.

Clive likes to write about life situations and how they affect people. He likes to explore relationships, love, growing up, social injustices, environmental issues, but also has a sense of humour, which comes through in a number of his poems.

His influences are drawn from various modern forms, but music has been a major force, The Kinks, The Jam, Sting and Billy Bragg. His humour is influenced by Spike Milligan and John Cleese and Sir John Betjeman, Roger McGough and Pam Ayres are poets he enjoys reading. Clive has recently self published a collection of poetry entitled The Sighting and has created a website www.clivespoetry.com

Urban Housewife Werewolf

Each day offers a brand new twist
Wiping the venom from your kiss
Skirting ‘round the elements of bad taste
Indifference and resistance, what a waste
Camouflaged feelings hidden inside
Unfinished arguments left to ride
Picking up the pieces day after day
Surely there must be a better way
Melodramatic departures acted out each day
Like actors in a second rate play
An awakening of love real strange
You’re spitting feathers and beginning to change
But, I can see what’s hidden beneath
You’re growing hairy and clenching your teeth
And when the evening comes you’re full of charm
Commonsense tells me I should be setting my alarm
I cannot leave; I’m charmed by your spell
But, I’m on another journey to a living hell
Set me free before it’s to late
Set me free before I become your bait
You’re an urban housewife werewolf lady
And you’re driving me, driving me crazy

Top

Her Delicate (Cheating) Friend

She kissed an unresponsive cheek
For the second time in a week
Is this the beginning of the end
For her delicate cheating friend

Top

Did I See a Ghost

Spinning circles that unwind
Revolving endlessly in space and time
Layer upon layer of self-doubt
Screaming relentlessly to get out

A search for expression buried deep
Somewhere between sleep and a hypnogogic state
Question after question, a faithful leap
Which direction will our logic take

Shapes and forms that appear to pass
Our inner education tells us they cannot last
Mind blowing sensations we dare not believe
It must be a hidden memory that’s retrieved

Could it be residual energy in the stone that’s recorded
Do we question what we have always been told
Is it our subconscious mind where thoughts are hoarded
Or do we believe our eyes and keep our resolve

Top

The Safety of the Womb

Suspended safe and sound in his mothers’ womb
Encapsulated and protected from imminent doom
Twenty-eight weeks and perfectly formed
A fully developed homo-sapien, all but born

Familiar sounds heard but not seen
Oblivious to the future and what it means
An occasional kick and change of position
Destined to be born to prejudice and tradition

To be born to a world without any trust
To be born to a world with poverty and lust
To be born to an environment that’s killing itself
To be born with ambition that’s converted to doubt

Carbon neutral at the point of conception
Totally confused at the point of redemption
Influenced by doctrines and prejudiced preaching’s
Completely dominated by actions far reaching

The sanity of millions, the innocence of youth
Born to a culture that permits drugs and abuse
Stirred and bullied with a directional force
Full of regret, disappointment and remorse

Suspended and protected in his mothers’ womb
Attached by umbilical like the strings on a balloon
The latest member of the human race, finally born
To a world that’s fractured, split open and torn

Top

Memories of Britain

Memories of Britain they run in our blood
Leather on willow is heard with a thud
Misty spires that collide with the sky
Children with ice creams and a glint in their eye

A jaguar races down a country lane
And the smell of fresh rain water that runs down a drain
Sweeping autumn leaves into an orderly pile
Drinking home made scrumpy with a goggle-eyed smile

Hot cross buns at Easter with butter and jam
Newly born babies in collapsible prams
Picnics in summer on blankets of wool
Owls on high perches overlooking a pool

At the end of the day commuters travel home
To three bedroom houses with internet and phones
The black and white cows cross over motorway bridges
Their udders bulging with milk destined for our fridges

Sunday morning tucked up in our comfortable beds
The smell of crisply cooked bacon reaches our heads
Mushrooms and toast and tomatoes that pop
And a leisurely stroll for a paper to the shops

And then there are the relatives who always pop ‘round
The singing postman who delivers to the village and town
The friendly milkman whistling on his round
And the paperboy who delivers Sunday papers weighing a pound

British-ness is something we all share
Our European neighbours don’t understand, but then we don’t really care
Our community, reserved nature and eccentric behaviour
During our hour of need became our ultimate saviour

Top

Fields of Green

As summer left without a trace
There’s nothing left to mark the place
Where soldier fell and soldier died
Where nature heals and nature hides

Burnt earth and stubbled furrow
Hides the former cries of sorrow
Green shoots will emerge in spring
And fieldfares like trumpets sing

Until then the mists will form
Swirling like that fateful dawn
When young men and drummer boys fell
To the sounds of deepest hell

As the mist begins to clear
Sometimes if listening carefully one might hear
A distant battle cry of fear
While a church bell tolls forever near

Brave men hidden on foreign soil
There’s nothing left to mark their toil
But nature has a way to repay
By creating fields of green, where brave men lay

Top

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