Great Collection of Poems

Perhaps it is the child in us, saying
come, hold, do, even please,
seeking incantatory possession
of the uncontrollable.
But of course the storm has its way,
as does each silent soul
like so many trees
with wide green heads
both bending
and waving.

© Mark Kerstetter

Hurricane Sandy's U.S. death toll climbs to 33; at least 7.4 million without power

Mark Kerstetter steals time away from restoring an old house in Florida to write and make art out of salvaged wood. markkerstetter.com 

The doormen policing Egypt's morals

Michael Ray  is a glass artist living in West Cork Ireland. In 2011 he won the RTE John Murray National Poetry Competition. His work has appeared in The Moth, Asylum, The Independent and Cyphers.

Remembering poet Sylvia Plath

Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.

Hallowe'en is imminent, and autumn is slipping its leash, allowing us to slide into the shorter days and darkness of winter. The current rash of news stories are doing little to cheer us up, and this has resulted in some pretty sombre submissions, this week.

Anthony Baverstock started the ball rolling with My Name was Amanda Todd, a harrowing poem about a 15 year old girl who killed herself after being bullied online. We included the link to a video she posted on YouTube, where she tells her story in a set of handwritten notes. One of the saddest things I've witnessed in a long while.

On Tuesday, Jane Slavin brought us, Who Killed Cock Robin… the sorry tale of how the environment ministry licensed the killing of two robins and a wren, after they became trapped in a food factory and were considered a threat to public health.

Next, Not On the 9 O'Clock News!  Philip Johnson was disturbed by the apparent reluctance on the part of the BBC, to deal with Jimmy Savile's alleged paedophilia, despite rumours of his inappropriate behaviour as far back as 1973.

It's more than three weeks since five-year-old April Jones disappeared whilst playing near her home in Machynlleth, mid-Wales. David Subacchi tells how "‘STOP’ is the anguished word on the lips of everyone,"  as the town's clock tower is lit up up in April's favourite colour, pink.

On Friday, Abigail Wyatt highlighted new advice given to doctors and health and social workers by Liberal Democrat Care Minister Norman Lamb at a conference on end-of-care, on how to select candidates for a "living will."

And Anna rounded out the week with Black Holes and Worried Souls, inspired by a German woman who feared the Earth would be sucked into oblivion in a black hole, caused by the Large Hadron Collider.

Touching wood that we'll all manage to get through the coming week, please don't let the prospect of black holes stop you from writing news-related poems for us. We are extremely low on submissions, so now is a good time to tell you about our new email address. All submissions should now be sent to us at Poetry24@hotmail.com Clare and I decided that this would make the submission process easier for everyone. All we need now, is for you to try it out. So, bracing myself for a flurry of topical poetry (Clare's on her hols until next Friday) I'd like to wish you a great week ahead.

Martin.

Try as she might
she cannot quell the fears
that exist deep inside her,
that man with one twist of a knob,
one press of a button
could permanently turn out the lights,
turn day to everlasting black of night
as they play God,
attempt to recreate creation
with the Large Hadron Collider.

She knows nought of elementary particles,
of quantum fields and symmetries;
her understanding of her world
is what she feels and sees,
mass to her is not something acquired by vector bosons
but something she attends on Sundays;
her worry is that one day mans inquisitiveness
(with one push of a button) will decide her fate,
her demise as they attempt to recreate creation
with the Large Hadron Collider.

It matters not to her how matter attains mass,
whether Higgs boson exists or not,
what matters to her is that she is, she exists
and the worry deep inside her very soul
is that with one twist of a knob,
a scientist generated black hole
will suck the Earth into oblivion
as they play God with the Large Hadron Collider…

© 'Anna'

German woman fails to prove atom-smasher will end world

Anna is passionate about her world and writes about her feelings in both poetry and prose.  She lives in the UK and for personal reasons, prefers to remain just 'Anna.'

With apologies to William Blake
(who, on reflection, probably wouldn’t mind)

Norman Lamb who made you?
Do you know who made you,
Gave you votes and gave you wealth,
Placed in your care the nation’s health;
And clothed you in a sacred trust
To put our health and welfare first
And let you loose to do your will
Only to find you’re dressed to kill?
Norman Lamb, it shames you.
Don't you know who made you?

Norman Lamb, I’ll tell you.
Hear me and I’ll tell you:
We’re the ones who worked to make
The wealth for all your sorry sakes,
The ones who scrimped and saved so you
Could live as you’re accustomed to;
And yet, when we are sick or old,
If we can’t pay, we must be culled;
While you, meanwhile, will make the most
Of savings made by our poor ghosts.
But Norman Lamb, we’ll fight you;
Don’t think that we won’t fight you

© Abigail Wyatt

Family doctors asked to identify patients likely to die

Abigail Wyatt lives in Redruth in Cornwall where she writes poetry and short fiction and does her best to remain positive.  She blogs at abigailelizabethwyatt.wordpress.com. She can also be found on Facebook.

The word on the road at Machynlleth
Reads ‘STOP’, here before the great clock
That dominates the town, traffic
From the east must halt if only
For a second, checking for vehicles
Approaching from the north and south
Before moving on

And for many who don’t know it
That’s all there is, ‘STOP’
Stop by the clock, perhaps
Pause at Glyndwr’s parliament house
Or pick up petrol at one
Of the garages that guard
Each entrance to this place
Maybe a visit to The Plas
Or the Alternative Technology Centre

But today this modest
Mid Wales market town
Is catapulted into the spotlight
As a child fires a stone at the sun
By evil deeds committed
Against a girl that never
Did harm to anyone

And in Machynlleth now
‘STOP’ is the anguished word
On the lips of everyone.

© David Subacchi

April Jones: Clock Tower Lit Three Weeks On 

David Subacchi’s first English language collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian Press earlier this year. He is a regular contributor to ‘Poetry 24’.