September Poets

Poets of September 2011


Howard Luke

William Ball

Sasha Dee

Charles Browne

Ann Cole 

Brian Ring

 Peter Leonard Cox


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 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 smoke-wala  

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!

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.


Howard Luke

The table wasn’t there

He meandered through the town talking

An invisible audience listened with bated breath

An unknowable god jotting down every comment

A ledger, a weight for the scales of justice

He doubted he needed someone to talk to

So just talk and rant a long diatribe

Talk to the ethereal intelligences

Talk to the wind

Talk to the last sentence, talk to the atoms

A barrel full of words and images bursting

Talk amongst the tears the insane laughter

And the little children throwing stones


Scales of Death

Trudging through the undergrowth

An unkind sun cooking the climate

Sweat, a shower raining down on me

Is it true what they say about

The outsider, the misfit

All I perceive are the green brown

Hard scales of the lizard

The honey ochre of the snake

Eyes pointed at the ground

Avoiding fallen branches

Is it a branch or a sleeping serpent

Will its venom conjunct with me

At last

Just a tiny bite of the asp

To take me out of this furnace

And carry me to the gates of oblivion


Peter Cox


It’s urgent, urgent. Person is required

to do just nothing. Do you feel inspired?

You just sit still. Not easy, we agree.

You must not read the Sun or make the tea.

You’re not a model, simply Idle Jack,

and if you work, you’ll promptly get the sack.

Do you stand out for doing bugger all?

If we select you, you could have a ball.

When people ask, at parties, what you do

you tell them “I’m an idler..Yes, it’s true.

I’m rarely late, and idling is my trade.

I gaze at walls all day, and get well paid.”

They could restructure idling. Well, what then?

You might be one of three redundant men.

But now they want an Idling team of eight-

four gaze at walls, the others stand and wait.

If you’re the king of idler that we seek,

and not a hyperactive geek,

you then can pity people on the dole.

They’re poor, they look for work, this takes its toll.

No online applications do they shirk,

and then they have to say THEY DO NOT WORK



( about extremes in OCD- perfectionist neatness on the one hand, but hoarding and absolute chaos on the other.)

A hyperactive mind, and most confused at home,
with heaps of scribbled notes, and little thrown away.
If letters must be found, through many files I comb,
and as you might expect. confusion rules OK.

Well organized at work, with much more thrown away,
I’ll feel most useful, and I’ll have a busy day.
Confusion rules at home however hard I try.
So organized, and yet disorganized am I.

I saw this in a dream – a park with lawns well mown,
and nice neat flowerbeds too, but areas overgrown.
The grass was mostly neat, but was in places long.
While such a lot was right, what mattered most was wrong.

My cluttered office desk, when I went home, was clear,
and nothing had been lost. Of this I had no fear.
Supported, not alone, my work was mostly fine.
I handled money well because it wasn’t mine.

I lost the job I held for over 20 years.
“You’re old. You won’t find work”- such realistic fears,
yet still I sometimes work. Of course I seek to please.
I often dot my “i”s and always cross my “t”s.

A lot goes on in FUGUES, as I have often mused.
But order always rules, and Bach is not confused.
I think too many thoughts, but if I really TRY,
then oh so very neat and organized am I!

Sasha Dee

The Tolling Of Bells 

The bells keep tolling

The ringing sound exploded

In his head as if a buried bomb

The captain rose up in his bed

With a frightened start and yell


Nobody came; nobody heard it

What happened was all in his dream

A nightmare of being a shell shock


“Is it my turn now cap. ………

Blurted the private in weak voice

The captain covered his ears with hands

The bells kept tolling inside his brain


The private walked with his rifle bayonet

Into the bush in the left then in his right

Walked further on gingerly did the same

And boomed, the fire sparked in the bush


The captain kept hearing the bells tolling

In his bandaged head, maddened eyes wide

He could not stop the wretched ringing bells

One tow, three, four, five, six, seven, eight nine

In the smoke, in the thin air the battalion was gone


The bells kept tolling and he could not take in

Rose from his hospital bed and walked in dark

Night ward passed the nursed with a faint lamp

Asleep, head on the desk, medicinal smell damp 

The bells kept tolling in his head sounding harsh

The open window wricked at the lock arm long

The bells kept tolling with rising sound in the head

He jumped out of the window and hung on the lock

Strangled on his loose bandage and swayed in the air.

 The bells stopped tolling


I’m Not the Problem


You say, “I’m the problem”

I say, “You’re the problem” 

You want to send me to England

Where they use the “final solution”

But as you come in between me

And my election to the throne

I want to legitimately dethrone you

As all is not well in Denmark

The whole Denmark has become a prison

There is something rotten in the state of Denmark

This is easily said that done

When we come to the brink

There will be a carnage

Dead bodies on the stage

In gory state to satisfy the hunger

Of the onlookers that grew up on watching

The TV movies and serials of goodies and baddies


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