Hi All

This month our subject was Travel and it’s true to say that the standard of your poems each month is getting higher.  I had great difficulty in judging the work you submitted, but hope you agree with my choice of Peter Collins for the Barnet Borough Times and Kusum Hars for the Harrow Times.

Next month the subject will be Remembrance and Poppies - entries of no more than 20 lines by 30th November please.

It is also the theme of our next Open Mic evening which will be held on the 15th November from 6 to 7.30 at Gayton Library.

Here are the winning poems, together with some of our runners-up:


Eyes closed, the train of thoughts

Travels down the memory lane

Stops at an iron gate, a path with boxed hedges

Leading to a house with a red tiled roof

And a garden full of flowers and fruit

A clear blue sky and sunshine around

I see myself, lazing on the lawn on the ground

And at times up in the trees giving wings to my dreams.

The train of thoughts moves on again,

A journey across the mountains and seas

I reach the spot where my house would be

Alas! no path, no garden, just a wilderness

A rusty mangled gate under the plant mess

A lonely deserted house in the distance

My dreams shattered, memory string broken.

Imaginary arms of mine go around my mate

I imagine my head resting on it, to comfort it

As it was my comfort of late

Once more the train of thoughts is on its way

This time to my present day

TRAVEL by Peter Collins

Who would have thought that one day our world

Would be as small as it is?

It's no longer known as 'the big wide world'

As, I'd like to tell you this

To think that now you can get on a plane

Go around the world in a day

Supersonic aeroplanes

Will soon be coming our way

Even trains now travel the globe

To places near and far,

They travel so fast, should you wake up from a sleep

You never know where you are

And then there are the cruise ships, the 'hotels on sea'

Will take you to an exotic shore

The Med, the East, the Hawaiian Islands

The Caribbean, and so much more

So travel has made this world much smaller

And not everyone wants to hike

So, don't sit there and think about it

Just go and get on your bike!

Some of the other entries were:

TIME MACHINE by Marvin Shaw

In my time machine

There's a rhyme machine

A place where I dream

I travelled afar

In my electric car

Took me to the stars

Then back to the past

Feeling so aghast

Feelings never last

I travel everywhere

Without sigh or care

Even when in my chair

In my time machine

I'm always so clean

Never a has-been

My secret cinema screen

TRAVEL 2 by Jeff Edmunds


Movement, forward projection

Speed, time compression

Experience change, vistas open up, disappear

Here in the reality, there in the mind, but where is here?

The world becomes ribbons, lines

The world is passing trees and fields,

The world is scanning factories, lorry load yields

The world is skirting a giant shopping complex, scattered

homes, ranked houses

The world is moving through sun-streaked cloud bases

The world is sailing moonlit seas, a lonely vessel, birds on

the breeze

Movement on a moving world

Sapiens move because the world moves through time and



TRAVEL by Joseph Smith

Hello from another place

Far from the safety of mission control

Trying to help the whole human race

To do something incredible is our goal

For tomorrow is a latter day

Preaching across land and sea

Whether in San Fran by the bay

Or Sea world and Disney 

Off to Uganda to help make the villagers glad

Not quite like upstate NYC

Now comes a part of our story that gets a little bit sad

But in the prophet I believe 

All I can do is turn it off

And leave behind me the Serengeti 

Hoping that I'll find salvation 

When I reach Salt Lake City 

A BRIEF JOURNEY by Patricia Tausz

During the night I dreamt I was in another world

It was as if through a volcano's vent I had been hurled

I was forced up into the black sky

But alas no birds around me did call or cry.

I found myself hurtling through space into the world of the stars

I travelled far beyond the Moon and even Mars

I had no idea where I was travelling to

It was possibly to a land undiscovered and new

Flashing lights of meteorites and asteroids shot by

I had travelled ever so high.

Then I found myself spiralling down towards familiar ground

It was to our planet Earth - I landed without a sound

I had been the first to make the journey into outer space

What of my adventures would I tell the Human Race

I knew I had been where no human had been before

On landing I wondered would I or anyone else ever see more?


TRAVEL by Elliott Lever

To capture that feeling I will draw you a picture

That bright crisp morning with cool fresh air

A magical place by the sea from here to there

Where there is a feeling you just have to see.

A feeling you see?

You see and you feel.

A time for ourselves

Way off in that distant place.

Imagine seeing without feeling.

Like those blank white walls of your office block.

Now transformed into the most vivid horizons all day long.

With great clarity the mind sees and the

heart feels

Share that special time with cheer and zeal.

Capture the feeling seeing travelling.


She sits in a bay window with the sun streaming into the room. So welcome

Orange blossoms fragrance the light breeze. Birds sing sweetly, gently thawing her frozen grief

Benjy had fought illness for years. His last breath was her first breath of freedom

Guilty thoughts plague her. How she coped with so much misery,  beggars  belief

Must keep up appearances. Must hold on to dignity. Must smile when you want to weep

And in choir, while  singing  the golden oldies, must contain your  sorrow

Dozy  Daisy tabby  cat nestles into a warm lap and purrs her  mistress to sleep

Exhausting sadness, and  a bottomless pit  of challenges can wait until  tomorrow

Peace softens her features.  She dreams about a Bentley  whisking her back  to June  1957

There  he stands proud,  in a black evening suit,  and wobbly top hat  " Hallo Doll"

His nickname for her.  Radiant in satin replies,  "Hello Benjy". Is this  Seventh Heaven?.

Vows and wedding rings exchanged. Families overjoyed. Together at last.  Body and soul

Posh honeymoon in  Bournemouth. The Cumberland Hotel.  Uninvited cheeky friends appear

Everyone  boogies  and rocks  until hot Salt Beef sandwiches are  served at midnight.

After tucking into afternoon tea of Strudel  and Cheesecake, their pals wisely disappear.

The newly weds only  have eyes  for each other.  Their future looks  bright

In the bay window, Dozy Daisy stretches and licks her velvety fur. Time for me

Gently she pats  her mistress's kind face.    Nudges turn into a frantic mew

Don't worry. There are usually  biscuits in my  dish.  She wanders off to see.

Family arrives.  Lots of crying. Daisy greets the Paramedics.  They will know what to do.


More muggings on this route, more commuters

with their lack of compassion, more adverts

for fertility clinics, dental floss, new tartan effect

seating which nullifies piles - so they say.

But never a bright, sunny day.

I heard today that the deepest station on the

line is at Hampstead Heath, always a steep place

for reflection. But when you've got aggravation

it means little.  A man selling tissues is the issue

of lies as he smiles near the station.

From Morden to Bank and Mill Hill heights you

climb embankments, see Art Deco wonders and

even archers at East Finchley in silent procession.

Air conditioning is not here or there.  Transport police

with frowns of trouble make their impression.

Every day the sweet, sickly journey is the same.

No pleasure as you glimpse dark eyes and

forget mere assault. The noise assaults your

senses but the unraveling sound in your head

could be a terror of a Jihadist thought.

                           TORMENTOR by Melville Lovatt

                           Old and crabbed in a squinting sun

                            he travels  down my vision’s aisle,

                            darkening every youthful corridor

                            with peevish tongue and vulture smile.

                            Like so many grey old men

                            breathing on for moans or prying,

                            poisoned by a waiting time

                                          of wanting death though not the dying,

                            he claims his image demands respect,

                            is quite inevitably correct,

                                         my inheritance awaiting.

                            I hate him. He thrives on small depressions.

                                Any cosier visions of an ancient self,

                            strangely alert, eccentric and kind,

                            sporting quite trendy jacket and trousers,

                            with  adoring young wife to cheer body and mind,

                            are always reduced to a whimsical blur

                            by something lurking, deep in his stare.

I hope you enjoyed these poems - and why not enter the competition and perhaps your poem will feature here next month.

Judy Karbritz