Len Webster's 'Winter Sun
I dreamed of the snowmaiden,
white and soft,
of endless warmth
her face was veiled
her mind cleared
of prejudice and hate
worry became my boast,
that the love we shared
would fade like snow
the hot Indian sun
beat copper snakes
to hide in shades
and my inner fears
they melted,
as did i
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poem by Len Webster
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Unseated At Clent
When Grandad fell off the horse
everyone laughed,
spluttering the event
into family history.
No-one was hurt,
nothing damaged
but his pride.
After all that time,
to be unseated
and made to eat his words
garnished with embarrassment!
If it had happened
forty years earlier,
he would have known about it,
trapped in No-Man's Land
with bullets flying,
and no-one would have been there
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poem by Len Webster
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Len Webster's 'Childhood Is...
Childhood Is
when the world to come
is an adventure to be met
Childhood Is
running and hiding
peeking around blind corners
hoping you have been followed
Childhood Is
ducking and diving
dreaming of being in the best
football team in the world
and scoring the winning goal
in the Cup FInal
Childhood Is
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Len Webster's 'The Editor
She pushes pen to paper nightly
says she loves to keep alive her diary
watches television and takes her drinks
with a Norman male
when day dawns in half-deserted streets
she rises tired and restless from her dreams
her mind turns toward the hours ahead
to subbing pages
she is the editor of the periodical
ORDER BY SUBSCRIPTION IT'S THE ONLY WAY
she lays out pages and acts as PRO
to visiting MPs
i know her still the same childlike eyes
which probed among my inmost thoughts
in an atmosphere of anticipation
many years ago
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poem by Len Webster
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Len Webster's 'On Reading Lorca in Thailand
We go on writing, beating ourselves up,
Shredding experience into words, fragments
To be re-shaped for a future self to read,
Or (ideally) some real other to replace the imaginary.
Like seeds set free from plant-heads,
Words drift in the air, less permanent
Than real seeds that at least have a chance
To perpetuate their own kind.
Powerless without people united in common language and sensibility,
Words become nature's drifters,
To be transformed through the intervention of others
Or dispersed onto rocks that will not welcome them.
Our myth is to be discovered, to survive, a remnant of an age,
An epoch, a race, a family, a simple self.
Symbolised by a name that is as much an invention
As our very identity, art and narrative carry us through,
Clinging to the low-lying islands
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poem by Len Webster
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