Poets of June

June Moon



Two Spirits

These two ghostly spirits from our most popular Dickens Fashion show read their ghostly poems

Watch this space for our illustrated review of the show

Now back to our moony poets-

Brian Ring


A Bed of Veg ; High as a kite 

High in the sky,

The comma kite does fly,

The boys fly these things,

For the girls only want rings.

Such is the flight over the cliff,

When each comes to grief.

Higher and higher they fly,

A tale of do or die.

Some are little more than show offs.

The girls just want to go off;

The boys are showing off their skill,

Later on they’ll come in for the kill,

Not forgetting the later thrill,

Which scarcely seems all that  real.

Higher and higher over the drink,

Sagging not, yet later to sink.

The girls are losing their patience now,

Just how much they ask will they allow.

The darkness arises from the sea,

Surely now it’s time to go home for tea.

They only wanted a smooch and such,

It was not as if they were asking for much.

They would have been prepared to go Dutch.

They didn’t want to see a load of kites,

Not to perform  some kind of last rites.

‘Just one more shot’ said the leader of the gang.

‘I mean, let’s get this on camera, not a bang.

‘But it’s getting dark ,

‘Let’s put the bangers in the park.

‘No, we’ve lost the old kite,

It’s really not easy to see in this light.

By this time the lads have broken into a fight,

And the lasses fallen into a state of fright.

The talk of playing chicken with kites and cars,

Ended up with more than two or three scars.

Now at last they went home.,

Each and all resolving never moiré over deep cliffs to roam.



What a shock,

Was it when I saw

Someone or something that was not there.

Oh the horror at seeing it!

Was it a ghost? Was it a spectre?

Or was it just me looking in the mirror.

Oh! the terror of it all?

I don’t know for sure.

It was some kind of lurid zombie, perhaps.

Or a grisly gremlin of a ghoul.

There is no weather left,

Nor light; it’s all been extinguished

Into a perpetual darkness of gloomy night.

A blankness, nor even an end to this horrific tunnel.

Oh despair, desperation and dread!

Am I perhaps a deceased cadaver of a corpse?

What is this doomsday scenario meant to be?
Or is this kind of alter ego for me?

I don’t know what I am anyway

I can’t be it; yet it is I.

If I am departed, what have I got left and what left behind.

Such was my legacy; to leave the world behind in a worse state than I found it. 


Jean Wearn Wallace


Oh, blessed oblivion, how I yearn for you

to tread the path of feathered, downy sleep

Calling out, stretching forward to catch that nebulous cloud

fluffy and light, to rest comforted and secure

That place of tranquility fitted with rose pink walls

to shade the passing into greying sleep

The benign shadows chase across the lids

announcing the coming of drowsy rest

Relaxed of body, and of mind, the spirit ready

to pass the portals of day into the peaceful night

Lead lined lids craving the languor

to linger and loiter beneath the duvet.

Our appetite, hungering for the sedative food

with a thirst for the soporific drink of torpor

Longing to grasp the lullaby’s message

to aspire to the yawn’s suggestion

Cherish and relish the golden afternoon’s siesta

followed by the dreamy night’s slumbers

Sleep that blessed city in which to snore awhile

filled with streets of sheets and blankets

That place where everything is possible

and to pass into ephemeral fertile visions




Today it was the ocean drum,

Hundreds of ball bearings

Busily chasing themselves

Across the stretched skin.

I watch through the Perspex side,

Memorised by motion and sound;

Evoking the pebbles suck and pull

As they are tossed by the tide.

All that is missing is the haunting

Cry of the swirling, diving seagulls;

The buoyant laughter of children

And the scolding parental voices.

The strength and power of the tide

As it obeys its master’s lunar pull;

The ceaseless murmur of the shingle,

Cascading, never still, wearing away.

Ebb and flow drums in the message,

As the shingle becomes rounded,

One day eroding to ball bearing size,

Pulsating to the heartbeat of the sea.


Howard Luke

Hippy’s Rule

The dream of Timothy Leary never

Came to fruition

Daisy’s in hair, baubles and hoola hoops

Free love, the pill,  Janis Joplin’s completion

Woodstock once overtook the nation

A stitch in time

Parsley sage and rhyme

Star dust, who knew?

Happy days with flowing kaftans

Dancing in a fairy ring

In a forest on a mound

Innocence forever found

Dope and purple hearts

A golden dawn

Tune in, drop out

Bob Dylan’s pawn

In their game

It will never be the same 



I am a soul clothed in a

Slowly decaying unique carcass

Drifting 1000  metres  between

Birth and Death


Waiting for meaning for purpose

For euphoria for that leap into solid abstraction

I am a soul longing for definition and for

Life to take hold for more more  more

Looking searching for my id

Dominated by my super ego the family

Plastic surgery of the mind body and soul

Rolls of cobwebs and monthly injections

A feast for a shape changer

What’s left is a stranger



Sasha Dee

Wasted Death

Dying for a cause is

Not an easy peasy thing

And dying for no cause is

A hell of trouble as well 

A young bubbly enthusiastic boy

Was caught in the riot

And rode high

On the mob mania

Was shot by a trigger happy


Later on he died in the hospital

Did not know the difference

Between rebel without a cause

From the rebel with a cause


Acrylic Collage on the Cardboard

In the beginning

There was void

And the void was with the artist

Artist was void

His canvas was void

And the pallete was void


Then his wash started with a whitewash

With an artistic articulation,

                A tint here,                                a tone there,

A tinge here,                                                                           a smudge there,

A scratch somewhere                                         and dash everywhere

And the elements started showing their colours

Razzle-dazzle              colours in spin              assumed shades,

The shades showed the haloed hue of light

 Lo, there was light

In hotchpotch, mishmash

With the artist in a black hole


Eureka! Eureka!  

Eureka! Eureka!

Eureka! Eureka!

The artist with divine inspiration

Bubbling with spirit

In creative mood

Created an artwork

Acrylic Collage on the Cardboard

For the arty-farty critiques

 To interpreted it in archaic arty

And quaint palaver

Down the centuries

To hype the value of the art

Beyond his and anybody’s belief

When the artist was dead and gone

With depression deep in his heart

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