Poetry and Creative Writing for All

Dave Sanderson

Born in 1949, the second eldest of four children, an older sister, and two younger brothers. My childhood was slightly turbulent in the early years, one brother had severe medical, and mental problems, and my father had a variety of jobs, some well paid, others not so! We tended to move around quite a lot, our own homes, caravans, relatives homes, until my teenage years, when we finally began to settle down somewhat. As a young child, I was taught to be creative by my mother, who was always singing, writing poetry, or playing her beloved piano, so I took to writing poetry myself. Several of my childhood poems were even published in the children's section, of the local newspaper, along with one of my short stories. As I grew, and eventually left home, I stopped writing so much, and followed my parents example, of moving from place to place, never settling for too long, until I reached Cumbria. There I hoped to stay, and did for ten years, until the break up of my second marriage, and so I moved on again. At the moment, I am living in Lincolnshire, where I was introduced to a poetry site by my brother, and re-started writing poems, something I have come to enjoy again. I write in several differing styles, but prefer the old way that I was taught, basic rhyming poetry. Here, for your assessment, are two examples of my poems;

A Final Dream

I close my eyes, I see a face,
Close my ears, yet hear a voice.
So many things, I can't replace,
So many times, I had no choice.

I hear the splashing of a stream,
Reach out my hand, it's just a dream.
I smell a sweet, and soft perfume,
The scent of woodland, month of June.

I hear a haunting lullaby,
The song of skylarks, flying high.
A gentle whisper, in my ear,
A lovers promise, draws me near.

But then I wake, and look around,
At four grey walls, that keep me bound.
A gentle preacher, comes to lead,
For my crimes, to pay, I need.

They strap me in my final chair,
The preacher blesses, says a prayer.
My mother sheds, a silent tear,
My soul will soon, be far from here.

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The Storm Is Over

Tendrils of clouds reach down to tease the earth,
Like ghostly fingers
As they reluctantly follow in the wake of the storm.
 Softly brushing the fronds of bracken,
And ferns, bedecking them
With sparkling diamonds of raindrops,
Glistening, multi coloured,
As the watery sunlight breaks through
Once more.
The storm is over, peace returns
To the high fells.
The warm peat creates a thin veil of mist,
Drifting over the landscape.
Phantom shapes appear, swaying in the breeze,
Then melt away again.
Life returns,
A stag, leading his concubines,
A fox,
Stalking an unwary grouse,
Kestrels hovering on an up draught,
Buzzards wheeling, mewing like kittens,
Both seeking
Their last meal of the day.
As the storm passes,
The fells remain,
As they have for aeons,
Wild, desolate,
Unchanged.

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