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Lockdown the Green


Plastic screens
Covid-19

Keep hands clean
Covid-19

Don’t make a scene
Covid-19

Lockdown on the green
Covid-19

Face masks mean
Covid-19

Covid-19
HAS BEEN 

 

by Joe

 

 

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Very Important Invitation

V VULVA! Did I capture your attention? E Each of us have our own experiences, relevance, compliments & complaints to mention R Race, religion, gender – cervical screening has little constraints it’s about prevention and Y You are in control. I Investment in your health, time to talk, education about look & feel M More talking about our bodies, knowing the facts and questions we have all tried to conceal P Putting it frankly, simply and laid bare O Out in the open and then you find yourself sat in the chair R Red rosy cheeks, being asked about your periods, dryness, sex, safety and infections T That’s an odd question A And did the nurse forget to mention? N Not only do we want to do your cervical screening but we want to check your safe at home too T That’s the aim of our holistic game. I Invest in your time to learn, to read, to look after what you need N Now if you ARE in need we can promise you one thing can be guaranteed V Very Important Invitation will be here to advocate,...
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Ghosts Walk Across The Sky

Covehithe road cut short at the cliff sailors now see its ghosts walk across sky John
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Feathers

It’s as if all the birds In every weather Had dropped every feather The weight sometimes Of all those why's A ton of lead Or a ton of words unsaid Down on a feathered bed The weight belies The width of squawks When the birds are dead And they sing remembering When a ton of song Weighed the same as Fly away Autumns Flu away fall Feather or not Bird at all. Stephen Kirin
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Castaway

If my cast was made of moss I’d be content With the spring of reassurance. If my emotions were made of clay I’d mould them Into a ball. If my ball rolled Far away I’d rescue them Without fail. Natasha
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Patient Waiting

Waiting patiently, Post-covid chest In West Suffolk hospital every two months. Physical barriers To recovery I face, with mental and financial scars cutting past my breath. I seek reassurance From other patients, Stangers to me- To lessen my symptoms We laugh and recall. Conspiracy theorists I say, should live with my cough And pain to re-judge, I wish it was. Bryony
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Covid Nature Alert

My friend I noticed during lockdown the class in shops a mask turned quiet and shy. Our only contact during stay at home was texts on your phone he was most alone. Jase went to the woods in his black hood he came back with a ruck sack. His sackful of leaves from different trees he started to draw and I looked in awe. He's now an artist with lots of commissions through natures' editions no hospital admissions. Archie
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Erosion

Unerring yet erratic The weight of water never waits for readiness Sandstone is proven to be a two-faced liar a pretence of solidity written into the features of its rockface which crumbles under a wave’s supremacy and we wave goodbye to all we knew Lynne Nesbit
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Ash Scar

Grey, lofty, sombre ash Fissured cracks monumental, fraxious ash. Porosity bedded in stone, with far receptive views to craggy tableland plateau. Deaths’ shadows brush a mysterious and scarred graveyard. Amplified crackles of pavements of gloomy fissures, dissolved joints. Bedding planes rubble underfoot, crunch on the broken ridge, speared and bony ash deaths’ whispers a skeletal calling. Stephanie
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A Grave Experience, Horringer Church

Into the yard I walked At dawn With winter sun’s warmth On the frosted stones Of forgotten folk And deeply-saucered lichen. Flint walls Like sweets in a shop Lining the church Solid mass of Untold stories overlooking forgotten memories. Sarah
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Stones of Old

Tell me your song oh stones of old of the summers that warmed you and the strike of the cold the voices of song absorbed in your heart the anger and fear that tore you apart. Speak to me of church bells and whispered dreams the rough hands that gathered your broken seams the waterways that carried your bones of lime the soft crunch of bread and red rivers of wine. Who did you cradle in your shadowed arch as the songbirds heralded the soldiers march as battles raged in the skies ahead and you sheltered your spiders in a stony bed? Is the wear on your shoulders the marks of the wild or the scrape of a heel from a venturing child? Discarded windows frame the dance of time Oh tell me your stories great stalwarts of lime.     Emmalene  
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