Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

In this place was a lake, where the rivers once came with the soil they had scoured from the mountains above. Here they joined, became still and relinquished their load, so their brown, rushing water became blue and clear and the pine trees grew tall by the wave-caressed shore.   Over time, those same rivers, the rain and the ice ground the mountains to hills and the hills into plains and the water was filled with the dust of their bones. Then the trees and the rivers all faded away as the lake became mud, and the mud became stone.   Underneath, the old earth gave a shrug in her sleep. The plain was now folded and thrust to the sky and the sandstone laid down in the lake that had died, made from dust of forgotten hills long worn away would be moulded like clay into peaks of its own.   And of course, there is rain, there is ice, there is snow and the flesh of the mountain is bitten once more by the streams that emerge, like the sweat...

  Time moves slowly – tick tick tock Staring at that hospital clock.   The days are long and endlessly boring The nights even worse, ‘cos everyone’s snoring. It’s supposed to be a restful place But the level of noise is an utter disgrace. Nurses talking all night long And soon the dawn chorus will break into song.   6 am – night staff still chattering 8 am – breakfast trolley comes clattering. Blood pressure, temperature readings again Followed by tablets to mask the pain.   The new admission has never stopped talking I’ll try and escape, but it’s so hard walking. I suppose I could hobble across to the loo. I don’t really want to, but it’s something to do. Better not fall whilst dragging my drip Last thing I need is a broken hip.   Back watching the clock – soon be visiting time A little nap, and I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s 8 pm – I’ve slept too long Just been informs my visitor’s gone. Another long night now l...

  First day of the school holidays. Bliss, thought Jacqui. The sun was shining, birds sang and she sunbathed, with not a care in the world. It lasted at least twenty minutes. The sudden, prolonged jarring from the front doorbell startled her and she tried to leap to her feet, rocking the deckchair. She was tipped unceremoniously onto the grass. Rex, her lovable Labrador joined in the fun, racing to find a toy to bring her, skidded on Tracy’s skates and crashed into the rockery. His howls and screams cut into the quiet of the summer day, reaching a crescendo as Jacqui tried to pick him up. ‘What are you doing to that dog?’ Mrs Frazer demanded, from the other side of the fence. ‘Skinning him!’ Jacqui snapped, trying desperately to sooth the frightened animal. *** ‘What a lovely dog.’ The vet was new, young, with a starched, washing-powder-white coat. ‘Let me have a look, lad.’ He patted Rex, who gazed back soulfully, whimpering quietly. ‘I like Labradors. My pare...

When I heard the poetry open mic, When a poet, performer, went up on stage before me. When I caught their rhymes and quick puns, delivered at volume with props, When I, standing in the doorway heard that poet finish with much applause in the bar room, How quickly I turned to flee, Pints in hand and in need of a wee, Round the other way, back to the boys and laughed about all that bohemian noise. This is a shameless parody of When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer by the American poet Walt Whitman, which you can read here .

  Sorry about the rent. I can’t stay here. John Star sits in his Vanguard, thinking about Archie the tenant at number 11 who’d left that very brief note and disappeared. And the man claiming to be Archie’s son had just done a runner. He should phone the police, except he knows they’ll just ask a load of pointless questions and then tell him there’s nothing they can do until Archie’s been missing for a while longer. So, if anything is to happen, he’ll need to do it himself. Mrs Coles walks slowly down the street towards number 1. Back from the doctors. Star watches as she slowly fiddles with the key to get it just right to open the door. He gives her a few minutes to settle in, gets out of the car, crosses the road and rings the bell. She’s pleased but surprised to see him.     “Everything alright John? Is there a problem with the rent?”     “No, no, Mrs Coles. Everything’s tickety-boo. It’s your famous local knowledge I’m after. Have you got ...

  The Coffee Machine. Hear it scream! Hear it wail! Every rasp an ennui gasp to finally be heard.   It curdles its milk to be unkind, to interrupt poetic verse with its outbursts of blistering steam.   But this is release for pent-up machines, bothered and hot, spilling froth, choked by cloth, voice muffled by The Man.   So let it squeal, trill and feel, spout its spiel, find its words grounded and heard. Rhapsodic Caffeine!