Week 24- entries and results

Tuesday, 13 May 2014

Week 24 – Photograph by Chris O’Connell


Well what can I say, a fabulous ten poems in this shortlist, some humorous, some dark, however there can only be one winner and this week the vote has gone to Jenna Plewes for Centred. A close second was All things come by Michael Docker.Well dome to everyone who entered and to those who took the trouble to vote. Congratulations to Jenna Plewes.


Poem 1



A fossil preserves a life that is long dead.

Deceit preserves a love which is not fed.

It is fool’s gold around an ammonite

Where truth is sealed in coils of stone

Whose gold is lost but never gone.

To reach this find a web must be undone,

A spider’s web which sparkles in the dew

Reminding me how trapped I feel with you.

An empty husk drained of all true emotion

Made of things past, devoid of all devotion.

Which to save, the permanent or transient?

An ammonite preserved in pyrite or

the gossamer strands of beauty infinite?

Spider you can weave your web a new,

Just as I could leave and find a love that’s true.


Clint Wastling


Poem 2



In Australia you frightened me,

I would back out of a room

or freeze by a fence,

but here at home

outside in my garden,

my safe space,

I allow you freedom,

admire the complexity, precision

of gossamer threads.

It is your choice to stay,

to entertain and enthral,

to refuse to go kiting

seduced by a jet stream.


Eileen Carney Hulme


Poem 3

All things come…


I wait.


Waiting is what I do

While light rises in the air,

Stillness settles

And my careful work surrounds me

With its light-catching

Beauty for those who see,

Life catching

Terror for those who don’t.


I wait.


My life is made of waiting,

Waiting and watching,

Making and mending,

surrounded by light,

centred on darkness.


I wait.


All things come to those who wait.


Michael Docker


Poem 4



Gone by the time I wake

she leaves a dew drop dusted

Silver shimmering web

glittering in cold morning sun.


Concentric circles

anchored from the centre

by high tensile threads

hold the fragile firm as a breeze blows.


In a concrete corner

spider sits waiting silent

patient watching for

a jerk on the line.


Sure enough by mid morning

a line of tiny still carcasses

small but tasty

line the walls of the web.


Andy Scotson


Poem 5

Black Star


She has spun a galaxy from her star

and hangs, a black hole, at its core

silent, waiting for ventures to enter

the netted lattice of her constellation.

Dew stars hang in the zodiac lines

as a misty nebula radiates its white

birthing cloud of chaste pearl stars

obscuring the thin trained lances of

lustred green wands, Chiron shadows,

on which her galaxy hangs invisible

to the unwary insect star ships seeking

sustenance as their day explodes.


Carolyn O’Connell


Poem 6


The moon is full

I cut the threads that cobweb my mind

balance myself in the centre of my world

reach into the core of my being


spread my limbs like a dancer

float in space

anchored by the few essential threads

that keep me safe.


My web lays silver veins

on the orb of the moon.

Intact and separate

I wait.


Jenna Plewes


Poem 7

I am The Spider


I am

Like the spider –

The Araneidae.

You see a woman in her home

And you are deceived, just as the fool fly.


I built,

Like orb weavers,

With what nature gave me.

Disguised in the environment,

Is a predator patiently waiting.


The fly;

I’ll catch in time

My prey here in my trap.

Wrapped in sticky silks, strong and soft.

He will struggle…

And fail!


And he will die.


A.E. Nicholas


Poem 8


Dad didn’t like them either: unpredictable,

wriggly things, frizzy in their busy-ness,

with seeking feelers and bended legs;

their quicksilverness in turning into ball

or escaping in swathed veils of web;

and abseiling down on air in starts and stops,

their snapped trails snagging in his hair.


Their suddenness from box or pot

ambushed his gangling walk; threw

shadows where he dared to square his boot.

That dash of black or brown panicked him:

he feared to tread – squelch, squish – in case

he slipped: their death somehow anticipating his.


So trapped them under clarity of glass:

that way managed their activity. Fitted lids, screwed

fast, and watched them skirting the curve

and scrambling crab-like in some tragic dance.

His eye bent level with the held-up jar,

he fed their fear. Must have seemed like Gulliver.


They stayed alive for days on dusts of nothings,

till dried to skin, paper-thin; pale veins;

stick limbs dangling, angular, akimbo

as if caught mid-stride to freedom.


So it became with him those last three months

of bed-baths: his trailing web of being; limbs

hanging hopeless/helpless; staying alive for weeks

on nothing; trapped by the clarity of where he’d

slipped, panicked by the suddenness of his

sliding path to death; his freedom-fear.


Roger Elkin


Poem 9

A Good Simple Structure 

A spider’s web twinkled at me

When a blaze of autumn sunlight

Came through the gaps of the weave.

All, could see how you made it appear

Imposing style and exactly how many rooms,

An extraordinary snare attracting many?

Weaving is normally two distinct types of yarn

Such a great job, a fine art of a seamless web.


Poem 10

Sleeping Beauty


She succumbs to sleep –

dreamless, weightless being,

barely brushing

distant whispers of dawn’s milky breath.


He fears her darkness –

an unconscious spirit,

subtle snuffling

lost amongst the closing garden gate.


Vibration spins her –

drenched in pearls of morning light,

her body coils

belly swollen with a thousand eggs.


Revulsion bates him –

sticky fingers sucked wrinkled white

shred silken threads

heart dancing with spinning beats.


She succumbs to sleep


Hannah Teasdale