2009 Time Banks National Poetry Day Celebration
2008 Time Banks National Poetry Day Celebration
2007 Time Banks National Poetry Day Celebration
2006 Time Banks National Poetry Day Celebration
2005 Time Banks National Poetry Day Celebration

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JUDGING THE JUDGES:

Some of the poems in the Tree House were sent in by people who could not be with us on National Poetry Day, some were from time bank poets who read at our Writers Reading Parties, some poems were entered the West Euston Time Bank's 2006 Norah Platt Poetry Prize.

Although we are happy to give prizes to good poets, Poetry is never a competition. I consider every poet who enters a contest a winner, having created something where there was nothing before.

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Kim Morrissey

I am writing this poem
to two eyes and a mouth
a turned head
I remember from dreams

eyes dark as a pool
flecked with leaves
face open as sunlight

writing the soft crease
down the cheek of a face
I could love turning
dreams into words
to be spoken




from Kim Morrissey's Poems For Men Who Dream of Lolita  (Regina: Coteau Books, 1992) page 52

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Wendy French

RACE COURSE




It is not the size of the voice that is important:
it is the power, the truth, and the beauty of the dream.
Ben Okri



The beauty of the dream is that God can be

whoever you want him to be for the night.

Look, she says, take the race course,

the on-lookers wondering who is God.

Maybe, says one, it's that man with the broken umbrella

because he's six foot three and unsure of his next move.

Watch as he fiddles with a spoke

and then runs round a field, the umbrella flying

to the wind as he tries to win a race that will never be won.



All seems perfect in the ring

the owner, the trainer giving instructions

and the customary leg-up. A canter to the start

and people finding their bookie, placing their bets

between a bite of hot-dog, plate of noodles.



Once again she tells me all of this -

talks throughout the night,

says it's all right really -

that memory and dreams play jokes

like a jockey who loses the one race he always

wanted to win,

the turf slips away from the horse's feet

but

she says you have to hold on

and believe that the horse will keep on galloping -

will run like the man with the broken umbrella.





Or so she tells me.

................................................................................................................
11Maria Jastrzebska

Maria Jastrzebska
from United Kingdom -- Poetry International Web
http://uk.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=9761&x=1

Biography:
Poetry International Web

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Just For Fun! 2007 National Poetry Day
"Dream" is the theme for Babushka

DREAM


I can DREAM of summer days,
Of fragrant, sun-kissed flowers;
Of the country garden where we spent
So many fun-filled hours.

I can dream of summer days
When you were by my side.
Then your life had just begun,
And you were my delight.

My little boy, you were my joy,
Your childhood days I treasure.
Now memory lane brings back again
More love than I can measure.

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11

BREAKING DORMANCY




Time passed and I forgot

the envelope labelled in your precise hand,

'Welsh Poppy seeds from my garden…for yours.'

Forgot the fine dust filtering through my fingers,

settling on stubborn soil.



Three years on, the ache of your death

has dulled…a little.

I have learned to speak of you without weeping.



Now you are back, you…and your poppies.

Pendulous buds expanding, shaking out their creases,

opening bright as suns,

           spilling yellow petals

                                             seeds

                                                       memories.






Mavis Gulliver

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11Patsy Futatsugi
29.09.2007

THAT IN-BETWEEN TIME


I should write down my dreams
Colour is always in my mind
Music too.

Time and pictures tumbling through time

When I wake
I feel wow
What's going on?

You know that in-between time
That in-between time
between sleeping and waking

You only remember when you wake.

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Biti Das
2007

DREAM


The very five letter word we call Dream
No matter King or Beggar, Rich or Poor
Young or Old
Everyone cherishes dreams in their life.
Dream to establish, dream to have nice house
Dream to have nice partner
It is all Dream, Dream, Dream.
But the question is how many times it comes true?

Dream can be melancholy or dream can be happy
The good thing is when you dream in your sleep
You hardly can remember when you wake up
That's the Dream you never feel sad
Because its not true.
But you have to Dream
Because it is part part of your life.

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11

Snow



fell all night,

covered the beach,

waited

for the world to wake

and make its mark.



Otters left the holt,

raced and chased,

drew interlacing patterns

spelling joy.



A heron

penned perfect prints,

long toes leading

to the grey sea's edge.



Flocks of gulls flew in,

left a confusion of footprints

and a flurry of feathers,

white on white.



Hooded crows probed

heaps of buried seaweed,

scattered dark strands

obtrusive as ink blots.



Patterns in the snow,

transient as thought,

needing only a burst of sun

to erase their poetry.






Mavis Gulliver

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Jean Watt

WATT DID YOU SAY


What's your name?
Yes that's it! You said it.
Pardon what's your name?
They think I haven't heard.
Jean Watt ... I spell it out.
Oh yes I see: ha! ha!

I've been called
Pot Watt! Watt Pot.
Wot no what!
--- And Watty

Which isn't quite so bad.

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Florence Knight

no farewells were spoken



no farewells were spoken
no time to say goodbye
you were taken so suddenly
and only God knows why
we think of you in silence
and after speak your name
but all we have are memories
and your picture in a frame

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Alan Frederick Smith

SQUIRREL



Creature of impulse
that starts and sudden stops,
pausing to propel,
and posing like some mini-kangaroo;
Oh, what an Arch-Dissimulator are you!

On hindmost legs you seem to beg,
whilst holding and keeping your sweet nutmeg,

You shake out your brush
- the magic rug you fly upon -
to rush the tree you seem to hug,
embracing bark and branch
- the natural ladders of your trade -
only to scar and wound instead,
and sometimes even leave for dead.

You harbour nutty treats
in arboreal retreats
where hazels magnify your greedy eyes;
then switch your head about
for undetected spies.

This done, you bolt towards the hole,
the hidden hole,
that is your secret cache and treasure trove.

Such ingrate cupboard love
to home so near the trees you have despoiled above.

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Bithi Das

REBIRTH

If I die this winter
My body will die but I shall be alive
and come back to your garden.

You will see the white snow-drops,
the first blossoms in spring
after the harsh snows in the winter.

The snow will melt
but the snow drops
will be everywhere.

As the spring brings new life and hop
you will hope that the garden
will be alive again.

But you won't know I am there
and it is me who has born again.
The bird will sing and I will dance.

You will smell the fragrance of mine.
But you won't know.
I am there.

I am born again in this beautiful world.

Bith Das is a founding member of the West Euston Purple Poets.

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11end

TBUK
Time Banking UK,
The Exchange,
Brick Row,
Stroud GL5 1DF
Tel: 01453 750952
Email: info@timebanks.co.uk

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