Words by A Wensley

Carted away From the drudgery of my kitchen sink I hear the sound of distant speakers Reverberating Slade off the homes On our estate, Oh I wish it could be Christmas everyday! It's a carnival cart, A Bridgwater carnival cart, And as it draws closer I feel compelled To witness this spectacle up close, To see the awe lit up by bulb-light In the faces of my neighbours' children. My teens seem not as enthused as I, A blankness on their faces when I suggest we go out to see. Perhaps their childlike wonder has passed away, Never to be seen again? But mine? It needed testing… So, picture the image of a woman in her late 40s Striding out of her back gate  And up the cart-bulb illuminated street To stop and wave As Father Christmas  From his wooden, community-created-car Sits high above a cracker-converted tractor  and waves back, with gusto! There is joy! Maybe not in the passing eyes  Of the empty donation-bucket carriers, But yes! There is joy in this perimenopausal world...

  For Mike, on what would have been your 70th A smile, That's what I remember. A smile, Laughter, cheekiness and fun, A joker in the pack of Higgs'  As we sat around the table playing cards Each Boxing Day, In-laws and out-laws altogether, Your wife Sue an out-law like me, Wedded to a Brother of a Brother of a Brother of a Brother of a Brother, A sister-in-law of a Sister of a Sister of a Sister, Such a big family, But we were all welcome at the table. Cold meats and pickles  Bags of coins, drinks and giggles, Grandchildren, nieces and nephews, Billy the Bulldog, All sharing gifts and Playing on the rug. The years go by so quickly, Young ones with their own young ones, Elders gone, Sue and a year or so ago you too, But the smile, I'll always remember that of you, I hope you knew how much it meant To all those in that Sydenham semi's rooms. And how, just like your Brother Ant Celebrated his 70th, when we last saw you in '22, You deserve to be remembered dearly On wha...

They say water holds memory He began in the salt-watered reflection where  His father saw his heart knotted like rope In his Mother's eyes. She who had mended fishing nets, Short legs dangling gaily over the harbour wall at West Bay. He, an evacuee from the banks of the Thames. She began in the milky reflection where Her father saw his heart skipping like a shiny 12" Vinyl In her Mother's eyes. She who had sold the sounds of the seventies From behind the counter in Minehead's Woolworths. He, a dairy-hand of Somerset's green pastures. She, and she, began in the murky reflection where Their father saw his heart swirled like a paint-water jar In their Mother's eyes. She who had studied nudes at the college along Bridgwater Bay In the early stages of a Foundation Degree, He, a mature student, a wood-turner by trade. The years they pass But the waters remain, glinting within, Mixed by the tumultuous tides and tribulations of life, Ruminated in stomachs, milked, And ...

Imagine This… A white piano in a white room. The first bars of ‘Imagine’ rousing hope, A bearded white Englishman With his Asian bride, Imagining all the people living life in peace. A bed-in of love, Yet, assassinated. Imagine This… A Tibetan monk in his bright kasaya robes, A smile as wide as acceptance should look, Spreading the word of Buddhism, Peace and love. Elderly immigrant; Seeker of refuge,  Exiled. Imagine This… A black South African man Nurturer of equality, Apartheid activist, Nobel Peace Prize winner, President. Yet silenced, Imprisoned. Imagine This… A black American man who had a dream; Proud, in full colour, A King among men, Speaking up and speaking out Against racial injustice, Also an activist. Another assassinated. Imagine This… A white (fake-tanned) American man; Gun-totin’ news-dominator,  Vindicator of alleged Christian values, Divisive not inclusive - Seeking justice for the average white guy, In the land of the free He sets the precedent. President. ...

A poem from the Jawbone workshop I attended yesterday on the prompt Peter provided of 'What's in your heart?' - did you know we have 30,000 independent neural cells in our hearts? Thinking from the heart is a real thing! I later found this heart shaped rock on the beach... What's in your heart? My heart is a vessel  For feeling Everything; A world full of woes and love. Like a blender it mixes emotional juices Which I pour into Everything. Sometimes I feel so liquidised, Others lumpy, Others smooth, And at other times like someone has unplugged me. My heart is a vessel  From which I pour Emotions into Everything, Or not; Sometimes my vessels feel empty Devoid of feeling, It's then that I have to replenish  They say you can't pour from an empty cup. You fill me, nature, love, You fill me right up - Until the flow increases And I can speak again Of hearts and juices. Keep beating. Keep beating. Keep beating. A Wensley 25.10.2025

A writer's demons (After a performance of 'Christabel Released' - by Ralph Hoyte) There once a weary writer free Found solace by an old oak tree, She found within its outstretched branch An air of grace to write carte blanche. Her poetry encroached, did sin her,  A mind trapped fast fly-like in amber. He found her in a state of flux A mazed dear maid now there's the crux. Her neck was bent o'er like a snake It fair did make the knight a-quake! But wake her from her trance did he,  Here starts this tale of poetry... Her pen is sharper than his sword She knows no fear, is untoward, She casts a spell on his dear heart, Deeper than home-made apple-tart. He walks on clouds he floats upon Not knowing when love will be gone. The moon it shone down yonder vale And moved her from beyond her pale, Of cheek she blushed to see him ride Chestnut his steed against the tide, But lo the comet streameth cometh! Universe collideth someth! Saddled up the writer's bosom heaved,  He...