Spring Showcase – March 2024

Sunday, 10 March 2024

Archive of all previous showcases

Edited by Susan Jane Sims








Eternity spun and translated.


Schönberg wrote in cellular form,

a fragment to be played with,

a few notes to be spun,

or translated, dropped or raised,

whistled or bowed, crashed or whispered.


I take a fragment, nine words to play with.

‘We glimpse eternity,

 light and dark,

harp and lyre.’


I spin them:

‘Eternity glimpses us, 

specks of light playing tunes.’


I translate them:

‘We see into the beyond,

beyond clock, beyond cloud

where heaven and earth meet.’


I drop them to a new key:

‘We glimpse the pitch-black melody of the skies,

 the purple of eternity,

the white of time elapsed.’’


I raise them to new heights:

‘We hear the tunes of heaven,

with harmonies in the key of love.’


I crash the words:

‘Light explodes, overwhelms 

our sense of what we know.’


I whistle the words, float above their meaning,

sounding neither shine nor shadow.

I bow the words, add vibrato to minim and crochet.

I whisper the words, soft as sleep, downy as dust.


I return to the home key and say again:
‘We glimpse eternity, light 

and dark, harp and lyre,

playing in the key of hope.’


Aug 2012

 The “freely” atonal pieces of 1908–23 which, though “free”, often have as an “integrative element…a minute intervallic cell” which in addition to expansion may be transformed as with a tone row, and in which individual notes may “function as pivotal elements, to permit overlapping statements of a basic cell or the linking of two or more basic cells”.


Judy Dinnen


New Beginnings

Winter bids farewell, leaving its frosty footsteps in the past,
A time of new beginnings, for Spring is here at last.

The days get longer, the mornings and evenings become light,
The sky once grey and dull, turns a blue so bright.

The sun starts emerging, along with a gentle breeze,
The trees start coming to life, slowly gaining their leaves.

In gardens, hedgerows and fields, bulbs and shoots emerge from the ground,
New life appears, bringing splashes of colour all around.

Hyacinths, blossom and bluebells, give off a sweet perfume,
Crocus, primroses and snowdrops, just some of the flowers that bloom.

Daffodils and tulips, stand tall against the breeze,
The flowers start attracting, the butterflies and bees.

The bees start buzzing, the butterflies start fluttering their wings,
Lambs frolic in the fields, the birds chirp and sing.

The grass grows greener, nature comes alive,
All welcome signs, that Spring has arrived.


Becky Bishop


Making of the Ganges


( based on the legend of the river Ganges)


Man prayed

 for water ,to cleanse, nourish and renew.

Ganga,the celestial mother answered,

I will come.Be prepared, for the strength of me

 may submerge the earth and all in it.


Man prayed.

Shiva, God of the mountains answered.

I will stand beneath the heavens, 

 tame her force as she falls,

Contain the water in my tangled hair,

let it ease into the thirsting earth.  


Man prayed.

Lightening unzipped the burdened sky,

Thunder boomed.The Himalayas trembled.

Ice crashed down.His head caught the fall.

Streams formed,merged,a river appeared.


Man prayed.

The water bounced off rocks,waltzed through forests,

gurgled along plains,fed the land,and all who lived in it.

Man gave thanks,immersed himself and rose,

cleansed,nourished and renewed.


Leela Gautam

April 2023





Dear Dad

Now that you’re gone

We are left wondering

What we shall do without you

Near us.


Dear Dad

Can we forget

The tears and grief we feel,

As the lion’s roar will be heard 

No more.


Dear Dad

You left us with

Fond memories of you.

Gave us the courage to be strong,

Not wrong.


Dear Dad

Your love surrounds

And knows no earthly bounds.

So we give thanks here for your life.

Dear Dad.


Joyce Walker





For all the things I could have been,

For all the things I might have been,

For all the things I should have been,

For all the things I would have been.

If I’d only been a tad more brave


For all the things I could have done,

For all the things I might have done,

For all the things I should have done,

For all the things I would have done,

If I’d only been a tad more brave.


Joyce Walker


He can feel the heather scratch his legs can feel a breeze coming down the valley and freshening his face
this his kingdom he its lord but today on his own for once can he not be but a man
he knows somethings don’t respect position or power don’t bow or curtsey don’t even knock on the door
he can almost see the towers of Balmoral his mothers, no, his house but not quite, he can see the summit and the valley beneath and from here he can choose either.
he prays to a God he doubts all the time with eyes open and hands clasped and climbs to his feet
Onward I think, he says and resumes the path to the top of his old friend.
Andrew Scotson
Night is a sing song quilt
of scattered lights as various rooms on various floors wait for dark arms to wrap them tight. The voices as they pass the window are a musical mix of Eastern European and Jamaican. Head down they leave the warehouses and walk Rugby streets. Sparse clouds are scudding above chased by the latest storm of mid December. Christmas decorations already look like an apology rather than a greeting as I wait counting the days and wasting the hours. In the morning a new week in an old world war on the West Bank and an invasion in the East. What was it the carol said and when did we stop singing?
Andrew Scotson


You think you can come back,

Dim the lights play the music,

Take my hand, make me stand,

Hold me in your arms

The way you did when we first met.

You think the kiss you give me now,

That you didn’t give me then,

Will make me forget what you have done,

The hurt, the separation, the lies,

That looking in your eyes will change my world.

That being here where I belong,

In this moment I have wanted far too long,

Will lead to passion and delight

And it might, just for tonight.

I’ll be the wife I used to be

And dance the dance of life.

But come the daylight, will I blink

And you be gone, back to her, 

To a new life I’m not part of?

Do I share these hours while I can?

Be a lover, not a wife 

In this fickle dance of life.


Joyce Walker