Poetry in Motion

Poetry can be many things ~ and many styles ~ Romantic, Political, Urban, Free Verse, A Voice ...


A poem can be many things to many people

It can convey Information …
It can portray Vivid Images …
It can be a Story written in Verse …
It can be Lyrical …
It can be a Declaration of Love …
It can be an Idea - an Opinion - an Experience …
It can uphold Identity: Gender – Culture – Sexual Orientation ...

I can hear some groaning …Yes, Poetry can be full of heartache and loss [maybe why many of us don’t want to read it], but in a time of suffering, we might relate to ‘loss’ in poetry - in a similar way that we might relate to a Trauma in a Soap Opera - or a Letter to an Agony Aunt [or Uncle].

Writing poetry can be Constructive, it can help us assert our own Identity, Authority, Ideas, express our Emotional Selves, Voice Opinions, even be a Place to Rant.

We can go back as far as primitive man who chanted to externalise emotions for the tribe’s well-being.

… So, Poetry can help be Uplifting:
          It can be a window into our inner selves
                    An outlet for pent-up emotions
                              It can take us forward …

Let yourself free on the page – It’s a Place to Grow Ideas and Hope

So, Yes, Poetry does have a future, in us.

Gillian Hesketh 2007/10

Living Room

In gem-stoned carnival,
a newborn baby cries
red in transportable cradle

his mother, singing the blues
in soft hues, tears for naught,
she aught to pull herself

together, scrambling over foam filled
cushions her toddler clambers, tips
the murky stench of springtime daffodils
over self and

sofa, now patterned with grey wet
patches, a slice of swirling jam roll
squashed between the cushions, marking
the place where the mouse dared to go,
seeing its tail, leaving its trail

impromptu clientele nipping in
for a quick manicure
before the school run, pushed past
by puppy skidding in from the rain
on lacquered wood floors
jumping up with brown muddy paws
at white polished doors,
sniffs out the crumby jam swirls
licks them up, curls up
on the chair just as

eliminated toys make way
for dinner, beef and two veg served on
a tray; baby soft babbling
replaced with football chanting and
the murmuring of a mother’s milk
with the swish of beer.

all sleeping now,
the news ends with a flash.



Peeling onions makes me cry
I think of you
Layer after layer
Lie after Lie
Heart Felt Drops


The Contents of my Fridge are Lonely.

Leftover lasagne for two
lurking at the rear,
alongside, one can of beer.

A half-empty bean tin drying,
sharp lid lying
on a slimy mushroom head
beside the solitary bacon, one slice left,
curled up, out of date, hate
being lonely.

The chalky egg sits
lopsided in its crate, awaits
ready-grated cheese, anticipates,
what a state.

Slam the door.
No-one is hungry.


Socks in the Laundry

Odd Socks in the laundry

Teaspoons in the bin

Teenagers with headphones

Listening to that din

Lights left on, doors unlocked

Shoes on stairs, parents mocked

Half empty juice cartons

Where’s the gin?


You just can’t win.