We are the lovers
of this kaleidoscope
this ride we’re on
As we twist, we write
of the myriad colours
the fireworks dazzling our eyes
of tears, tantrums, seering sunsets
the veins in leaves
the storms between people
beautiful and terrifying
all at once

We are the lovers
of words on lips
their taste on tongues
and turns of phrase, delicious
The flick of nib on paper
the trail of i...

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There’s a café down the hill
where I do my wistful Sunday dreaming
Sitting in the front bay window
hypnotised by raindrops
as they whisper against thin panes
I watch the people out in the street
pull their coats over their heads
and dash from shop to shop

Eavesdropping on the other diners
and the occasional glance towards the crossword
I let my mind wander freely
and chat with the wee...

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I’m wearing blue, you’re dressed in red
lit by the dancing candle light
in the depths of some back table
at a late night poetry evening
Our only hope to stay safe tonight
is to keep this table between us

Some wily orator spills their guts
before the hallowed microphone
but all I care to know now
is do you smell as good as you look
Each of us wills the other to go too far
with a ‘what’...

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Emily Dickinson 

Dried roses and loneliness 

Damp musk, juniper gin

A sweet secret kept well

E. E. Cummings

Modern buildings made of his words 

Falling oak leaf, smoker’s cough

A feeling of getting away with murder

Henry David Thoreau 

Wading boot lifting from the muck

Abandoned shed, rotten wood chopped

A longing for sapiosexual chemistry 

A...

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poet's dilemma

staring at a white sheet of paper

can be frightening to a writer

or it can bring joy

that is if the words start to flow

okay, I am staring

where are the words

fingers long to write

come on words

materialize

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Tonight, I eye the wind 
as it dances on the water
singing of the distance
that no longer can be closed

Well, I told you I was selfish
there were no children in me
Unwilling to stir for a moment
from this endless daydream
where I father my creativity

You told me that you knew me 
our hearts beating to that same drum set
and no one must wake you either 
That carving pretty worlds
b...

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A writer yearns to tell their story, any story

that will stand the test of time

full of hardships conquered

and inspires generations with hope.

The story shall feel whimsical,

not so much with fairies dancing 

but that there is a happy ending.

The story shall have brevity,

not so much as a long weathered tale

but one that details just enough.

The story shall...

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Standing your turf
wielding a giant pen.

Power serving words,
determined to win. 

Into the net,
foot-faulted
out of bounds,
disqualified.

Will you be the 
pinnacle of calm
or pull a McEnroe? 

Steady your pace
or steamroll every 
opponent you face?

Time tames 
the temper
as many 
professionals
know. 

Love,
match point,
grow. 
 

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I use pseudonyms 
because I like to, 
because I want to, 
because I can! 

It’s one of the few things 
I feel in total control of 
in this chaotic world. 

I like the sound 
of my pseudonyms,

they fit in with famous  
pen names like 
Eliot, Bell,
Orwell, Wilder, 
Voltaire, Vautaw... 

See, besides the obvious
can you tell 
which ones are me?

Sometimes I write
anonymously...

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To you, readers, I say

I am no writer -

these words

placed themselves

on my page

to tell a story

To you, writers, I cry

I am no chronicler -

these tales

spun their web

through my mind

to make a memory

To you, poets, I sing

I am no rhymer -

these lines

etched their pattern

on my paper

to form a psalm

To you, who come, I whisper

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Books make visible the writer's soul

Which bleeds its angst by pen:

Spread thin across life's whited bowl  

A thin red stain of madeleine

Books may offer us an author's eye

That ensnares the reader within its brail

Or should writers light the reader's sky

And tear apart the shadowy veil?

Books will hold the writer's thought

And bridge the gap twixt pen and read...

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It starts with that

the feel of paper

between the fingers

the paper worn by touch

the ink a little faded

but the weight of

the incorruptible text

resting on the eye

retaining its worth

for ever

Even before that

there was the heft of it

in the hand

the boards scuffed

the jacket torn

but the perfection of

that binding

resting on the palm

is ...

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~~In The Beginning

leaving marks
that’s all we’re doing
leaving marks

daubed on cave walls
scratched on parchment
prodded into submission
on a plastic keyboard

blood ink
drying
becoming permanent

or
crossed through
with a graphite swipe
erased by rubber
white paint
lost

ideas and musings
bold statements
of intent
waxing lyrical
outpourings
of joy
of hate
of love
...

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Grand Words is a one act play writing competition run in conjunction with the Grand Theatre Blackpool for people in the north west of England and Yorkshire. It has run at the Grand since 2009 and is about to launch its search for plays for 2014. Winners receive £100, a trophy they keep for a year and a presentation of their work in the Grand Studio theatre, Blackpool. Work should be written for th...

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https://plus.google.com/communities/112619643260718091723

By its nature writing is for the most part a solitary business which is why sites like WOL are great to keep in touch, share ideas, post poetry etc.

For this reason I've started a *new* community over at Google +. You may love or hate social media and personally I detest the whole Facebook thing but I have fund that the new...

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