Writers Block by mauveone.


 For eighteen months,

I have written every single day.

Little poems, epic poems,

Tumbled from my brain

Onto paper, without thought,

Without effort, almost

Writing themselves.

Little stories, epic experiences,

Written simply, written quickly.


Then, without warning:

The flow, it stopped, it went.


I was reduced to staring

At the blank paper, pen poised.

Blank paper and a blank mind.

My brain disengaged, its power lost.

My thought processes

Held in suspension.

My brain turned to mush,

Empty of ideas or, inspiration.


Will it come back?

Or, has it gone forever?


There is only one way to sort it.

Like when I was young

My mum said,

“You’ll sit there until you eat it!”

So, with my pad and my pen,

I’ll sit here until I write it.

If I can write a word,

a line, a Stanza.

Slowly my brain,

May see the light.


Might my writer’s block free itself?

Before I know it,

My poem once started,

Will have a beginning,

Middle and a triumphant end.



Whale. By mauveone.

What a beautiful creature is the Whale,

Using the fin like a sail.


He glides through the water

Just like he ought to,


Such a glorious species to see

Bringing delight to you and me.


I have called him a HE

But there must be some who are she’s.


I have not even seen one for real,

There are T.V., programmes that reveal.


The underwater life that they inhabit,

Free in the sea, or so we thought.


Until Sir David Attenborough showed

The unholy mess we have created.


Many plastic drowning creatures

How ashamed are we when we see.


In our rush for plastic covered products

What the effects the Supermarkets causes.


Lady, Depression Hovers! By Jan Holliday.

I can feel it like a noxious cloud.

Threatening to envelop and enslave,

I must take action, or drown.


Please, I beg treat yourself with respect:

Do what has to be done,

Walk away from the rest.


Dust doesn’t hurt, or eat anything.

Dishes in the sink, washing in a pile?

Dunk them in hot water,

Dormant, to soak until later.


Shower, bathe with scented lotions,

Dress up a bit, beads and lipstick

Perfume to give you a lift.


Go out, walking like royalty,

Head up, breathe in, blow out.

Look all around and about.

Shoulders back, pace evenly, at your pace.


From the door, down the path to the gate,

You’re unique, be brave, think proud

Go somewhere, it’s your world.

It belongs to you.


A Cafe, have a coffee, smile,

Smile at a stranger, say “Hello”

You may have met a friend,

That you don’t know yet


BIOG: I am 70 + Was made redundant, became depressed (again).

Went through self-neglect and all the rest. Started at a Writing Group,

After much encouragement and never looked back (I wish) but things

Are much better. Jan.

I Can See Clearly Now, by mauveone. (10.10.2018).

When I first started driving,

I had to have glasses,

I was

Twenty three years of age.


Now, at 80 years of age,

and two Cataract operations

later, the Optician has said


“Your vision is so good,

you are now 100% legal to

drive night or day,

without glasses”.


Absolutely fabulous!

How crisp. How clear the

ridge tiles of the houses

opposite, the hedges,

fences and dogs.


How brilliant the sky is,

what a wonderful thing,

that after a few minutes of



Have created my new world,

gone is the yellow fog

and how now I do not need glasses


Well yes, I do, for reading,

I do read and write a lot.

BUT how happy am I?

Yippee, I can See!!

Some One by Walter de La Mare.


Some One.

By: Walter de la Mare


Some one came knocking

At my wee, small door;

Some one came knocking;

I’m sure-sure-sure;

I listened, I opened,

I looked to left and right,

But naught there was a stirring

In the still dark night;

Only the busy beetle

Tap-tapping in the wall,

Only from the forest

The screech-owl’s call,

Only the cricket whistling

While the dewdrops fall,

So I know not who came knocking,

At all, at all, at all.


NOTE: This was a poem that I

learned at school, I found it again


Harvest Moon by Stella Armour.

The night is flushed yet mellow,

soft with the scent of sweet apples and cinnamon.

An antique gold, shimmering of burnished meadows,

sensual as silk on skin bleeds its warmth like red wine.

The whispering seduction of an intimate stranger

in caress of a lover, yet the kiss is a keepsake, a

forget- me- not to remember in the springtime.

When twilight comes the honeyed tones of summer love

will be lost as Harvest Moon slips serenely into

the sunset sky

Sparkling summer dreams lost in the long shadows

of autumn.

The flame dies to a hazy glow as russet hues and spider webs

cover the curled leaves like a veil of goodbyes.

© Stella Armour 2018


Everybody, Somebody, Anybody and Nobody. Anon.

Everybody. Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody.


This is a little story about four people named

Everybody, Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody.

There was an important job to be done and

Everybody was sure that Somebody would do it.

Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it.

Somebody got angry about that because it

was Everybody’s job.

Everybody thought that Anybody could do it,

but Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn’t do it.

It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody

when Nobody did what Anybody could have done.  



NOTE: For years, our small daughter used to call

herself Everybody, her brother was Anybody, while I,

mummy was Somebody. Her father was Nobody.

Which shows you that she was not impressed at all by men!