July Poets

Poets of  July

Brian Ring

Howard Luke

Jean Wearn Wallace

Sasha Dee

Peter Cox

Jean Eearn Wallace



He is striving for physical perfection;

Total fitness, bubbling vigorous health;

Strength of body and strength of mind.

There are no doctors, emergency services

Nor hospitals in the vastness of space. 

Every day he makes the time,

Usually before appearing for training,

For his daily visit to Church. 

When the moment comes for blast off,

He will leave this beautiful planet,

To journey into the unknown. 

His comfort is that out in space,

He is physically closer to God,

Than in his daily visit to Church. 

What a privilege!



What happened next….

With apologies to Ogden Nash 


I am the pirate the dragon ate;

But this was not to be my fate.


With my cutlass and pistols too

Making Custard’s stomach go poo;


Indigestion growling round and round

Soon the dragon can’t take the sound.


Custards tummy is bubbling bad

Making the dragon awfully sad;


Woops, woops, woops, up I come,

Frothy, but better than out his bum.


But my cutlass is now rusty,

My pistols no longer trusty;


At least I can try again,

After my holiday in Spain.


St George didn’t have this problem.


Brian Ring 


There they go ..spectres in the night sky

Shimmering and shining amidst the pristine stars,

Leering and leaping lights in the nocturnal ether

Peering at these we fancy that these ghastly residues

Are either figments of our imagination or UFO’s  

Somehow  really up there

What else can explain those eery entities?

In the mind’s eye or really in the dark night firmament

I don’t believe in any ghosts myself,

But sometimes I discern strange visions up there.

And cannot imagine what on Earth they might be

But that’s just not it; they are not here in Earth,

But in an aethereal, empyrean, ecstatic realm,

A panoply of weird luminescent superlunaries.

What would have convinced me that they

Were indeed ghosts, would be if they spoke or uttered sound—

But, no! Dim, dumb and drearily quiet they just seem.

But they are not seemly –merely spectral sparks or somesuch.

And at night they are distinguished from stars –

Because, amazingly, they whizz about like

Effervescent physical presences in a patchwork quilt of astral bodies.

The eerie science of the night skies shows me,

There is far more in the heavens than  can be

Seen at first glance  – and yet I.m not even

Looking through a telescope at the time,

But just seeing things –Are they not there then?

Yes, I’m dreaming it all

There really are no ghosts in the sky’

On earth, or underneath it.


The Smoke-Walla

There was an old boy – I think his name was Charlie

Who used to run what we regarded as a vital service.

He lived in a villa (or ‘group home’) in the hospital grounds,

And people came from everywhere all day and even at night

To pay him a visit.

Why, you may ask , did so many patients and others make tracks for his door?

Well, he was a cigarette wala, a fag vendor

And how was  it ,  he did this,  and made no profit to speak of?

Well he collected the coupons or vouchers, and ‘sold’ his wares cost price.

So that’s what the smokers did especially when the shop and WRVS. were shut;

They used to make a beeline for his door,

And out of the vouchers, at a value of £20


He bought a state-of-the-art, mega-wave-length band

Transistor radio of which he was very proud  

So he’d open up his fag packets, take out the vouchers,

Collect them and over a period of a couple of years send them off.

This is what I would call socially viable entrepreneurship!

…And the beauty of it   was that he did not have

To make a profit as such and he provided a vital service

To all of us smoking-addicts.

And the authorities were happy about what they

Regarded as providing a therapeutic activity for all

Who used to socialize at Charlie’s villa – Furzedown, wasn’t it?

So he had no competition as such, and very few other clients and

Residents had any other notions for gainful ‘therapeutic’ actions

And yet…what is there that’s so marvellous about fuelling what is after

All a distardly activity  which helps no-one not even thinking

About who helps themselves!


Howar Luke

Lucid Dreams

They solved the puzzle that perplexed

In a land far removed

Yet only an eye-blink away

A hug that lingered in to waking

And a joy that travelled across

The river Styx

An adventure where the hero is both

Victim and villain, puppet and martyr

Flying both high and low and in between

A welcome escape from the mundane jigsaw

Or entry without exit into

The realm of Nightmare

A lover of dream and not reality

A friend of Morpheous and not David Cameron


If I could turn back time

If I could turn back time

I would have burnt my bridges

I would have saved my bundles

Worked harder at school

Took care of my mind

Worked on the railway for years and years

Took care of my mind


 Sasha Dee


Blond willow

By the river

Bending over

Looking at the mirror of water

Drying her wet hair


Willow searches for

Her Narcissi’ beauty

And finds the broken image

On the ripples; a mirage


Willow weeps

Cries a river

Dries her tears


Water whirls a while

Twirls a moment

Iron out the ripples

Swirls and flows away




The noises in my head

Started fighting with each other

To get their word in edgeways

That made me, leave my bedsit

To rush out and find a peace

In some secluded countryside


Outside on the street

There were so many traffic sounds

People talking on their mobiles

Children yelling in their games


The noises in my head could not

Stay quiet were about to burst out

I entered into the nearest railway station

And bought a ticket to Lake District


The train was full of all sorts of tourists

With mobiles and cameras around their necks

They talked and clicked, clicked and talked

It was a horizontal Tower of Babble in the Bible

Speeding on the iron wheels to my destination


In the Lake Districts I found a lonely spot

And breathed in fresh air and looked at the view

Flowing water, green hills, chirping birds

All the noises in the head slowly quietened


I heard a strain of a song, notes coming from distant

Was it a The Reaper, the highland lass who enchanted?

The great romantic poet William Wordsworth

I romanced my ears and listened with more intense


The song came near and near and it was a chorus

All was soon revealed it was the tourists group

With open mobiles and clicking cameras all around

“I wander’d lonely as a cloud

That floats high o’er hills and dales”


The vale profaned overflowing with the sound

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