Informal Writing - hightide poets

Informal Writing

From afternoons in a member’s garden overlooking the sea when we write poetry and socialise.

Group poem		A RAINDROP ON A BLACK TWIG
		COWES FERRY
Michele Busk		AUTUMN
Ed Hinsley		THE WALKER
		A POET'S DREAM
Mark Mordey		THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE FLIP CHART

	A RAINDROP ON A BLACK TWIG Diminuendo of pressure Wall of wind, oaks resist A laughter of hail; skin stings Tarpaulins take off; anchors drag A shriek of shrouds; a swearing of sailors Socks soak, boots squelch, slip and slide Icy water in cuffs and collars Temperature up and down on a trapeze A treachery of light It hasn't finished with us yet. Group poem
			COWES FERRY It's cold and rainy and misty. The East Cowes ramp is barely in sight. The noise and smell of diesel pervades Foot passengers bemoan their plight. It's time for departure right now, The crew on the bridge peer through rain, The ramp creaks and groans as its raised And the dripping wet chain takes the strain. Car passengers gaze through their windows As warm and cosy as can be, Windscreen wipers on maximum thrust, Oblivious to the hostile sea, East Cowes at last and down goes the ramp, Cars, and passengers make a dash Mingling with ongoing commuters On the quay, then vanish in a flash. (to be attributed)
	AUTUMN Awash with wind and draughty rain The place where we shall meet again After a spell away from it all, The wind of the reluctant fall. The wind moans and howls its way Along the paths where we held sway, The clouds sliding across the sky Dragging the moonlight slowly by. As the leaves fall relentlessly I walk the pathway silently, With a shriek and a howl it fills The rain drenched earth and spills Into the drains blocked with leaves. As it wanders and it weaves The world weeps its tears. Michele Busk
			THE WALKER All girls and boys who love the joys, The rewarding joys of walking Are sometimes meek and often seek A rest, or resort to talking; Myself I do not care a jot Whether here or in Minorca , I love to explore far and wide I'm a compulsive walker. I do not strive to cycle or drive Or rely on public transport, I choose the routes, then don my boots, Carefully chosen for comfort, A packing mac and rain-proof cap In which I look ma corker. Confidently I set off I'm a well prepared walker. Quite cock-a-hoop I join a group, They're eager and excited, As I count them all up blows a squall, Their countenances are blighted. 'Fear not', say I, 'Look at the sky it's going to be a scorcher'. Then I cough and lead them off, I'm an optimistic walker. We trek six miles, climb many stiles, The rain comes down in sheets, Slush dilutes inside my boots And dank, icy water secretes. The mud's a quagmire, I start to tire And think about sun in Majorca Then recite 'Grecian Urn' by Keats I'm an optimistic walker. I stop and gaze, as if in a daze, Surveying the land en masse, Now there's a rumpus – I've lost my compass And I begin to feel quite an ass. As I search in vain in the pouring rain, Displaying my gear like a hawker, I raise my eyes up to the skies, cry 'I'm a sad and well lost walker'. Ed Hinsley
	A POET'S DREAM As I trudge through an unknown wood at about the hour of midnight , the blackened sky hosts a full moon and the weather s cold, sharp bite. A vixen's cry make my hair stand; leaves from the trees cascading form a quagmire of soggy ground its dank earthy smell pervading. Now, the hushed sound of padding feet and a dark silhouette approaches translucent in the misty air, I freeze as the spectre encroaches and I stand stock still as it passes, eyes petrified and alert, I glimpse a coal scuttle bonnet and a long Victorian skirt. As I watch, the vision pauses and as leaves fall like confetti, a faint voice whispers, 'I am the ghost of Christina Rossetti.' Ed Hinsley
		THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE FLIP CHART The first window of the Advent calendar welcomed openly The day we put up the Christmas Tree We waited hoping - every window was a new day Cards and presents arrived - the usual delay I flung the last window wide Happy Christmas we all cried The Bank - their generous window in the wall Slams shut - pay up now - their seasonal call. On Twelfth Night the tree is gone Recycled into Product CC0401 The A1 flip chart the Debt Counsellor uses To remind us of our abuses Of the thirty seven days of Goodwill to all men Resulting in disastrous overspend. Mark Mordey

Updated Mar 2008 by Simon McAlister