writing groups

A Pocketful of Penny’s – Guest Blog

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Penny Cull is my guest this evening. She is a popular and loyal member of our writers’ group and always manages to say far more in a few verses than the rest of us say in lengthy pages.

THE FORGOTTEN’S LAMENT
When the sun slips between her blue-green sheet
And the moon rises up from his bed.
When the stars come out to sparkle and greet.
They dance to the song of the dead.
Nobody visits this place where we lie.
No flowers to sprinkle their scent.
Long grass and weeds now look up at the sky
So we sing The Forgotten’s Lament.
Fresh from the battlefield, we were your yield
We were young and unready to die.
In shallow graves, in some faraway field
Away from our homelands we lie.
Cry us some tears, though our names you don’t know.
Murmur words which are heartfelt and meant.
Plant scented flowers here, row upon row,
Whilst we hum The Forgotten’s Lament.

Penny Cull 2024

Penny says ‘I was born in Dorset and live in Christchurch. I love writing, especially poetry, which is a dying art. Seeing graves without names prompted this poem. I like to think my poems make readers’ emotions surface.’

You can read a selection of Penny’s many poems in her first published collection, available as a paperback or eBook.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Pocket-Full-Pennys-collection-poems/dp/B0BLFWPMZW

Tuesday Tiny Tale – Meaningless

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Sean sat staring at the blank screen. This week’s challenge for the Poison Pen Writers was to write a story without meaning. Now he was regretting being the one to suggest it. There had been much philosophical discussion at last week’s meeting, could there ever be a story with no meaning at all?

He could write a story about himself; as far as he could tell, his life had no meaning, but that would be a very dull story.

Poison Pen Writers was a cutting edge group that met in a crumbling old hall the council were trying to demolish. They had been expelled from the library before Sean’s time when Jago had forgotten to take his medication. Sean  could well imagine that some members could be easily misunderstood, most of them were rather odd, but they were all very interesting and amusing. Sean was the only boring one and he took a vicarious pleasure from their chaotic and adventurous lives, past and present.

The screen was still empty as his mind wandered over the past year with the group. He forced himself to type.

John woke up to another day, at least he assumed it was another day as he was in his bed and sunlight streamed through the curtains.

As he dipped his toast into the soft fried egg, it reminded him of nothing at all.

On the bus to work he looked at the other passengers, they did not look at him.

As he walked into the large office building he heard a voice call ‘Hey John’ but it was a woman hailing someone else called John.

At his desk he logged on to the computer.

As he logged off the computer he wondered where the day had gone.

‘What are you doing this evening?’ asked a colleague.

‘Nothing’ he replied.

‘Nor me.’

On the way home he looked out of the bus window, but it was raining hard so he couldn’t see anything. He looked at his phone, it was Tuesday, so he would stop off at the fish and chip shop.

As he walked into Harry’s Plaice Harry greeted him. ‘Evening, usual?’

‘Yup.’

‘Good day at work?’

‘Same as usual.’

That night John got into bed, another day over.

Sean glanced through what he had written, then added the title Meaningless. Hopefully it was, he pressed Print.

Friday Flash Fiction – The Writer’s Tale

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‘How hard can it be to write a novel?’ thought Joe as he walked through the town towards the Job Centre. Redundancy could be the best thing that ever happened to him; a golden opportunity for a new career as a writer. Passing the library he stopped to look at a notice in the window WRITING CLASS. He went in to enquire for details, couldn’t remember the last time he had been in the library; the sight of all those books intensified his desire to write one himself. He gave his details to the librarian.

‘It’s your lucky day,’ she said ‘the class meets in ten minutes, you could attend to see if it’s what you are looking for.’

The morning flew by, Joe listened to the other people in the group and thought If you can write, so can I. When they did an exercise the words flew out of him. He signed on.

At lunchtime he sat down in the coffee shop to make a shopping list, then strode down the road to WH Smith. Much later he emerged laden with purchases; writing books and magazines, note pads, pens, pencils, Microsoft Word, six Three for the Price of Two modern paperback novels, a large piece of board and a packet of felt pens.

 

Arriving home he staggered through the front door.

‘How did you get on at the Job Centre dear?’ called his wife.

He faltered and nearly dropped his shopping. ‘Fine dear, I’m just going on the internet to look up some job websites.’

He closed the door of the spare room.

An hour later his wife called out ‘Dinner’s ready.’

With no response she stumped upstairs and pushed the door open. On the wall was a large board with strange plans in bright colours. Joe sat at the desk in front of the computer, open notepad by his side. On the screen were written two words Chapter One; absorbed he hadn’t noticed her come in. She looked more closely at the board; at the top was written Dove Street, below were drawn two rows of squares filled with names, she peered at them puzzled. ‘Mary and John White, Mr and Mrs Khan and their three children, young Polish workers, old Mrs Green…’

‘Joe, what are you doing?’ she exclaimed, startling him.

‘I’m going to write a novel,’ he exclaimed proudly ‘in fact I may well do a series, there are so many interesting people who live in Dove Street, the possibilities are endless.’