Earlier this year I took part in collating and producing a collection of poetry, “Diverse Verse,” which was sold to raise money for charity. I’m now pleased to announce I’m looking for poets again to contribute to a similar project, entitled “Diverse Verse 2.” As usual I’m working with the talented folks at the Walsall Poetry Society.
Here’s how you can get involved and see your poems in print
All you need to do to be involved is to email me two poems to the email address below and they will be considered for the book based on the following rules. Please note entry is free.
- All poems must be the authors own work, please don’t submit something that isn’t yours.
- Poems are welcome from anyone, anywhere in the world.
- Please submit no more than two poems
- Submitted poems must be in arial font in a format free word document. If you are unable to do such then just paste the poems into the body of your email.
- Poems on any subject and theme are welcome, however sexually explicit poetry and poems with extreme bad language will not be considered.
- Poems should be no longer than 400 words approx.
- Previously published poems can be submitted as long as the writer holds the copyright.
- When submitting poems please include your full name for inclusion in the book’s contents.
- Email your poems to Diverseverse@aol.co.uk
- If I receive more poems than I can fit in a reasonably sized book then I shall do one of two things. Firstly I shall endeavour to put at least one of each contributors poems in the book, failing that if there are too many poems I will select my favourites and publish those.
- The book will be published via Lulu the online publishers.
- Closing date for submissions is 31 January 2017
I hope to have the book out in 2017 by the summer at the latest, money raised from sales of the collection will go to charity.
Buy a copy of the first Diverse Verse by clicking here, now at a special low price
Click here to see how well the last book did.
The copyright of any published poems remains with the author.
Standing tall in Walsall town,
Is our art gallery looking proud.
Visited by a million folk and more,
Flocking through its inviting doors.
Noddy Holder’s in the lift
Welcoming you to this artistic gift.
There’s marvels inside for all to see,
Bring the children, bring the family.
See the celebrated Garman Ryan collection
All lined up for your inspection.
View its famous statues and pictures,
All fabulous artistic history.
Or take in the work of Jacob Epstein,
Walsall Art Gallery is a shrine
To marvellous sculptures and letters,
You’d travel far to find better.
There’s all that and so much more
In the gallery’s many floors.
But this building needs your support,
Or maybe one day it won’t be here at all.
So visit it today, show it some love, come on,
Or one day soon it might just be gone.
A quick note. The Art Gallery and libraries in my home town of Walsall are under threat of closure due to funding cuts. I think it would be a shame to see these buildings shut, so here’s my poem of support to keep them open.
The Wi-fi at home went down the other day,
Then all the phones crashed as well.
So me and the wife had to entertain ourselves,
It was complete and utter hell.
I asked the wife, “what can we do?
I feel like I’ve undergone electronic castration.”
She replied, “well there is one thing,
We could have a conversation.”
“Is that like Facebook?” I asked.
“Think of it like that if it helps, ” she said.
“But instead of typing,
We talk to each other instead.”
“You mean like I’m doing now,” I replied.
My wife nodded, “that’s a start,
But you’ll need to talk more,
To master conversational art.
Try asking me how my day went,
Or let’s talk about what’s for tea.
But you don’t have to text these questions,
All you need to do is speak to me.”
I felt odd, “I’ll wait for everything to work again,
It’s all very complicated, ” I said.
Then I’ll get my phone out,
And comment on your Facebook status instead.”
So the wife and I sat there all weekend,
Struck it seemed deaf and dumb.
Unable to communicate with each other,
Waiting for the Wi-fi to come back on.
Yes at last my Wi-fi is back, thank you for all your messages the blog was just on a technological hiatus, normal service is now resumed.🙂
Emerging from a phosphorus cocoon,
Comes a crackling blue and yellow moth.
Unfurling flickering wings
It strains to reach the sky.
Flailing, it fails to break free
From its wooden shackle.
The first rider raised a withered hand,
Unleashing infestation non could withstand.
Nations fell at his command,
As Pestilence rode out across the land.
The second rider wanted more,
So unleashed conflict with a mighty roar.
Brother slew the brother he once adored,
Falling before the rider War.
The third rider gave a vile grin,
Crops withered, people grew thin.
Bones pierced skin,
All bought low by the rider Famine.
The last rider was mightily pleased,
With all the destruction he could see.
Those left begged for mercy on their knees,
But Death was immune to their pleas.
Who owns this poem?
Have I without knowing,
Given away I think
This blood, sweat and ink.
When I hit the enter key,
Did I unwittingly.
Sign an invisible dotted line,
Giving away what I thought mine.
So read these words for free
A poetic present from me.
Because I think it’s absurd,
To believe you can own words.
There’s a dreary mist on the canal,
As the moon shines brightly down.
On shopping trollies and ducks,
Drifting silently all around.
Then suddenly without warning,
A scaly head comes up for air.
The Beast from the Black Country,
Is leaving its watery lair.
The creature’s nose twitches,
On the breeze a scent it’s catching.
The monster knows its prey is near,
It can smell pork scratchings.
The Beast creeps down the road,
Its webbed feet silent on the street.
It claws scratch at the pub window,
As in for scratchings it tries to reach.
You’ll never notice when you drink a beer,
That outside the beast is lurking.
Then when you pop out for a cigarette,
It gobbles down your scratchings.
So when you return to your table
The arguments will begin.
You shout “who ate all my scratchings?”
As outside the creature grins.
Stuffed the Beast retreats,
Sinking back into the canal.
No clue left to its presence,
Except a fried pork smell.
So if you see the Black Country Beast,
Feed it scratchings or crisps but.
You would be very, very unwise,
If you let it nibble your nuts.
I am the faint sound you hear on the breeze
I am the creek of your door at night
I am the one tapping on your window
I am the hand that turns out your light.
I am the chill on the back of your neck
I am the sigh only you can hear.
I am the silence on the end of the phone
I am the thing you should fear.
I am the grip you feel on your throat
I am the noise that makes your heart race.
I am the static on your TV screen
I am the unseen touch on your face.
I am the one that will end your days
I am the one that on your bones will chew
I am the one that will snuff out your life
I am the one coming for you
They said my Halloween poem needs to be deep,
They said it also should be dark.
But how can I embrace this poetic style,
How can I produce a poem so bleak and stark?
I had an idea, so I went into the garden,
Then found myself my spade.
If I wanted to become deep and dark,
Then a hole needed to be made.
Then once dug I began,
Into the deep dark hole I leapt.
To hopefully compose,
A deep dark poem I expect.
All I found in the hole was dirt,
Mind you it was certainly deep and dark.
I passed the time by teasing a mole,
Then I annoyed a worm for a lark.
But despite being brave and bold,
I was no closer to poetry.
All I was getting was cold,
Plus soggy jeans up to my knees.
So I decided right there and then,
That today deep dark poetry wasn’t for me.
So I went back to bed,
But I didn’t fill in the hole you see.
I thought if I ever need inspiration,
Then back in the hole I’ll go.
To hopefully write a Halloween poem,
If I do you’ll be the first to know.
Catch me doing my Halloween poetry at Waterstones in Birmingham this Friday and Southcart Books on Saturday. I promise I’ve come out of the hole with lots of new scary poems and some old favourites.