Over 18s NPD 2024 poetry competition: 'Counting'
Winner: Seconds Count - Keith Willson
Winner: The Counting of Sheep - Kevin Scully
Winner: Countdown to Life - Di Hills
____________________________________
1. One Thousand Daffodils - Peter Wathen
2. Life and Death and the Spoils of Time … in 30 lines - Peter Wathen
3. Lucky Thirteen? (Superstitions) - Peter Wathen
4. A Mother's Score - Sylvie Rushford
5. Achievement - Sylvie Rushford
6. Bruckner - Chris Ralls
7. Heads or Tails - Chris Ralls
8. The Characters of Numbers - Rosie Mellor
9. Counting 2 - Keith Willson
10. Hey! - Keith Willson
11. My Five a Day - A P Staunton
12. Counting, Counted, Count - Glynis Hall
13. Counting One Day - Jules Winters
14. When I was Young - Jules Winters
15. Counting the Years - Di Hills
17. Counting Them Out - Zac Thraves
18. Vita Brevis - Sylvia Fennell
19. Count-Teen Machine - Mark Durbidge
20. Downs and Ups - Hazel Elrick ​​
23. Hopscotch - Annett Freeman
24. Lament Of The Scientist Who Spent His Life Counting Quarks - Elizabeth Davis
25. The Poet's Word Count - Elizabeth Davies
26. A Counting Poem - Linda Jackson
27. Blessings - John Demetriou
28. Miscalculations - Teri O'Neal
30. Counting the Years - Teri O'Neal
31. Counting Not Counting - Steve Simons
32. Villanelle Hell - Steve Simons
33. What the Hell Are We Counting For? - Steve Simons
34. A Countdown of Tragic Events - Megan Lofthouse
35. Let Me Count the Ways - Chris Goode
36. Countdown - Philipa Coughlan
37. Two Dead - Philipa Coughlan
38. The Whale Oil - Robin Dalglish
39. Noah's Reunion - Robin Dalglish
WINNER
Seconds Count - By Keith Willson
Counting how long I could hold my breath
underwater
I lost all fear and learned suddenly to swim.
Counting how many kilos the scales showed
I was slaughtered
I gave up beer and suddenly got quite slim.
Counting how many degrees the world heated
I was tortured
I gave up nothing and suddenly all went dim.
WINNER
The counting of sheep… By Kevin Scully
…is a serious business.
Universal, it has cultural variants: 1960s
outback Australia saw human walls
hold the mob as dogs yapped it through
an eyelet where one man would call tens,
another hundreds; Cumbrians took romantic
trysts or solitary treks to holler
yan, tan, tethera; years after monks
had quit the isle, Ionian crofters spraycanned
digits onto fleece, numbers matching
ewe to lambs. All the while
a good shepherd, whose flock
knew who he was and that he
knew each of them, did not consider
tally so important as identity,
and simply called them by name.
WINNER
The Count to Life - By Di Hills
It was too early to count,
how could I when you were just a teardrop,
a pinhead in life’s vast ocean.
At four weeks, I held my breath to count,
you were just a tiny seed,
I prayed so hard you’d flower.
At eight, I was scared to count,
unbidden came a curse of blood,
but you survived, just, a trickle of humanity.
At twelve, I was astonished to count,
on the churning screen, you were a perfect head, flippers,
a purple plum starting to ripen.
At sixteen, I was thrilled to count,
I felt you flutter, tremble, gently kick,
your hold on life getting sturdier, stronger.
At twenty four, I smiled to count,
By then, you could abandon me for technology
But no, you held fast to my imperfect body.
At thirty two I was so nervous to count,
you were swimming free style in my womb,
winner of a gold medal before you were born.
And at forty, that fateful number,
When you broke me to live and breathe-
I looked at you and counted,
Numbers of toes ten,
Number of fingers ten.
Hair, nails a decimal point,
Fifty breaths a minute,
One miracle, one life,
The perfect count.
​
1.
ONE THOUSAND DAFFODILS
by Peter Wathen
​
Wadhurst to Aubers
(WADHURST is twinned with the village of AUBERS in Northern France, situated
between Lille and Béthune. This Twinning is based on the related history of the
two Communities - 25 men of Wadhurst died as a result of the Battle of
Aubers Ridge (la Bataille de Ia Cote d’Aubers) on Sunday 9th May 1915.
A devastating blow for a small Sussex Community.)
One thousand daffodils are to be planted in the earth
to later fight their way from darkness to light;
yellow as the sun, the light of spring’s rebirth,
a welcoming golden host to all that pass that way;
blowing their trumpets to celebrate this new day
from reveille to retreat of the coming night.
‘How many miles to Babylon?’
Too few for too many who died too young.
Did they get there by candlelight?
Yes, to the rhythms of a marching song,
the ominous sounds of a thousand guns
and into the fire of the setting sun.
‘How many were lost to the fortunes of war?’
It tells you all on the memorial wall.
But this place is not for counting but for feeling;
the sadness, the anger, the pity and futility of it all.
Here the tributes to the fallen, the known and unknown
march in acres of markers of plain white stone –
and all so very young, and all so many miles from home.
* * * *
One thousand daffodils wave in the spring sun
on the rond point de Anglaise outside of Aubers,
a welcoming golden host to all that pass that way.
They represent the resurrection of the year,
peace between communities and those who lay
in final peace not so far from here –
let us not forget them at the closing of this day.
​
​
2
LIFE AND DEATH AND THE SPOILS OF TIME … in 30 lines By Peter Wathen
Computations of life, coloured beads on an abacus;
counting the heartbeats of one new born
in the immeasurable span of a universe;
one of many, a drop of dew on a thorn
in a horn of plenty; another death, another birth,
another soul to inherit heaven or earth,
infinitesimal in the scheme of things.
A new life summed up by its ambitions and dreams,
hopes and fears; its length measured in years –
perhaps three score and ten. In geological time
hardly a heartbeat from beginning to end.
Yet what multiple equations this short span may bring;
counting down its man-made hours on atomic clocks,
on time-calculating candles with rings … a whim of a king.
And the reckoning of adulthood soon spreading its wings
is measured against its peers in all senses of that word;
learns that gold counts over love in a monetary world
and economics are all that arouse in its counting house.
And totting up their lives, the break evens, losses, gains
of our heroine or hero, one numeric fact remains;
existence minus love equals zero.
Ah love, counting the syllables and lines of a verse,
a sonnet no less; susceptible, for better or worse,
to derision; the division of hearts, the parting of the ways,
how quick and easy to lose that which was once abounding
as cynics paraphrase the words of Elizabeth Barratt Browning;
“How do I love thee? Let me count the days”
But even though true love may come and go, its life force stays.
Computations of life, time’s subtractions, coloured beads on an abacus,
we must all eventually divide into fractions; ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
​
​
​
3.
LUCKY THIRTEEN? - By Peter Wathen
(Superstitions)
Thirteen might be lucky for one but not another,
like a black cat or other such superstitious things,
for there were thirteen disciples at the ‘Last Supper’,
there are thirteen witches to a satanic coven,
there are thirteen loaves or buns to a baker's dozen —
and what, may I enquire, will Friday the Thirteenth bring?
Best not walk under ladders, avoid breaking mirrors,
toss salt over your left shoulder if spilt at dinner,
If someone walks over your grave, you'll get the shivers!
Don't step on cracks, beware black cats and number thirteen!
Every black has its white as each wrong has its right,
just as day has its night so there's both darkness and light,
there's a Yin and Yang, an opposite to everything.
NOTE: The poem’s title has thirteen letters, as does the subtitle, there are
thirteen lines to the poem each containing thirteen syllables.
Who's counting? I was, obviously, hoping this poem would qualify as an entry
for the National Poetry Day Competition.
(The total word count of all the above, including the note, is 169 words; which as a
sum is 13 times 13)
​
​​
​
​
4
A Mother’s Score - By Sylvie Rushford
I, and I alone,
know my misdemeanours:
How many times I’ve disobeyed,
been rude, or just plain vile.
Later I’ve been dismissive, uncaring,
Later still; condescending:
Frankly cross, and impatient.
She sat with plumped-up cushions
Our relaxed matriarch
in her recliner chair,
Plumped-up cheeks
Sucking that perpetual humbug.
Radio and television blaring
Though she couldn’t hear.
Through the thickest lenses possible
She peered at me,
With loving recognition
Reading my lips
as I stumbled my apologies
“No, Darling”, she said:
“I was never counting”.
5.
Achievement - By Sylvie Rushford
Three hundred and eighty seven
Read old magazine, cut toe nails
389, move furniture, wash thirteen pairs of socks, eight pairs of pants
Move damp undies into sun
392, decide to fit a new curtain pole, climb onto a chair, old rail stuck
Find Polyfilla; gone hard
395, coat on, think of going out, go out, buy Polyfilla, speak to two people
Bash old rail down, need to fill holes
398, list: sandpaper, drill bits, screws, look at list and consider shops
Coat on quick, rush to buy things, speak to no one
401, search for spirit level, read two chapters of novel
Feel unwell, chamomile and honey tea
404, climb on chair, insert Polyfilla, feel lazy but rub back Polyfilla
Fit drill bit, practise using it
407, climb on chair again, messy, wobbly holes, sweep up dust
Unpack new curtain pole, look at it
410, rest, venture out for hacksaw, see a tree, find hacksaw in cupboard
Rest, cut pole to length in evening
413, read another chapter of novel, screw in two brackets, unlevel but OK
Offer up pole, use spirit level, have rest.
416, survey pole, insert ends apparently called “ finials”, glow with pride
Am surprised to see new pole here; sit and look at it .
Am almost happy. Have fitted shiny, new curtain pole.
Awaiting curtains. Will try next week.
419, think about the day, the date, the number of days
Have passed 400. More than 365. More than a year.
More than a year without a drink
And now a new curtain pole.
422, innocuous day, unusual, not inconsequential!
Calls for celebration
With anything but.
​
​
​
6.
Bruckner - By Chris Ralls
Anton Bruckner – half genius, half crazed, counted
windows, bricks, the bars of his symphonies,
even his list of teenage girls
who spurned his notions of romantic love.
Picture the routine ramblings of this man.
He climbs the hill to view Vienna’s Dom,
its steeply roofed cathedral and its spire.
Carefully he counts each window on its north,
then rapidly descends, only to climb another hill
and count the windows on the southern side.
Are they the same as on the day before?
Not satisfied, descending to the city,
he jostles with people on the crowded streets,
intent on entering this sacred building.
Once there he counts the pillars in the nave
to check the numbers match, like yesterday.
He can’t relax until this task is done.
I’m a bit like Bruckner.
Like him I count window panes and
note the number of rows of bricks in walls.
I always stir my coffee and my tea
in combinations of the number seven.
But unlike Bruckner I could not aspire
to write the melodies his music made.
For crazy though some thought him,
his symphonies have touched the souls of many.
Rest in peace, Anton,
for you have earned your place in heaven,
where you can count the choirs of angels,
ensuring there are nine, no fewer, no more.
7.
Heads or Tails - By Chris Ralls
Election night, electric atmosphere.
The counting has begun.
Votes balanced on a knife-edge as the piles grow.
Candidates watch anxiously with baited breath.
Forget the fringe parties – they don’t stand a chance,
but there’s a fine line between the serious ones,
the two of them, shifting from foot to foot.
Finally the counting stops.
Agonising moments while officials confer,
and then the revelation: who has won?
Contenders line up behind the returning officer
looking like convicts facing a firing squad.
Results are read in alphabetical order
which heightens the tension in the airless room.
One vote between the parties of right and left.
The victor smiles, the loser demands a recount.
Sighs of frustration and discontent.
Back to the count, frustrations rise again.
Recounted votes laboriously laid aside,
counting completed in the early hours.
The returning officer calls for calm,
hoarsely declaring the second count.
No clear winner.
The main adversaries have equal votes,
winner to be decided by the toss of a coin.
A crude solution to a complex night.
So that’s how it ends. It’s called democracy.
8.
The Character of Numbers - By Rosie Meller
The nothingness of the zero has great power when to another added
One stands all alone, focused ,on its own
Two in balance make for good company.
Three strands, strong as an ox, when together tied
Four corners can make a square, four quarters make “A Hole" !!
Five toes, a foot along the road to adventure
Number 6 an unborn child protected still inside
Seven and twenty six ; letters and notes that create a symphony
Eight, two circles that connect, balancing earth and spiritual realms.
Number nine encourages us to have a bird's eye
Ten out of ten the top of the class !!
9.
Counting - By Keith Willson
Counting can waken our inventiveness
or send us to sleep like sheep.
How could you possibly predict radio waves
electromagnetic, like light, without
the invention of complex numbers?
How could a square root of a negative number,
a wholly theoretical thing, a consequence of
pure reason, lead to such inventions
as were never dreamed by Leonardo?
How could a negative number, in a nation's
finances, lead to homelessness, joblessness.
hopelessness, while a positive number,
totally disconnected from purpose or morality
leads to such joy in Westminster?
Does the number of pitiful refugees
or hungry children
obey some law of restraint, such that
compassion can only be counted?
How can we count what really counts?
How to use numbers for their creative purpose,
for their pure joy of understanding,
rather than a tool to prove the right of
the rich to more and the poor to less?
Measurement is for physical, real world, things,
not for dubious justification of ideologies
Counting can waken our inventiveness
or send us to sleep like sheep.
10.
Hey! - By Keith Willson
Hey, I can carry ten five-kilo bags
for ten metres all by myself, one
at a time, much easier than carrying
one fifty-kilo bag – the work done
is the same. It's the weight times
the distance.
Hey, if that's what work is then it's
obvious that, if I walk faster, I get
more work done in a given time,
I'm more powerful, so the energy
I use must be the power times
the time.
Hey, if that's what energy is
it must be equivalent to mass
multiplied by the speed of light
squared. If you want all that
more slowly, there are plenty
of courses.
Hey, if that's what energy is,
there's too much of it, where's
the 80% dark mistake. Not
so obvious now, is it? if you
want all that explained
good luck.
11
My five a day - By A P Staunton
Fifteen tons of ballast , looks like a young Ben Nevis ,
Crank the mixer up , sweat pours from every crevice .
Got my favourite shovel , I'll have it stuffed and mounted ,
Eyes down, arse up, every gauge is counted .
Five ballast , one dust , a bucket full of water ,
Five ballast , one dust , think of my daughter ,
Five ballast , one dust , bend at the knees ,
Five ballast , one dust , pays university fees ,
Five ballast , one dust , lays the foundation ,
Five ballast , one dust , for a summer vacation ,
Five ballast , one dust , means that I can rent ,
Five ballast , one dust , a caravan in Kent ,
Five ballast , one dust , last week in July ,
Five ballast , one dust , those seven days will fly .
What would the rich do , without any concrete ?
Five and one, five and one, the groundworkers drumbeat .
(Dust ,is the building site name for cement)
12
Counting, Counted, Count, Count - by Glynis Hall
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, once I saw a seabird dive.
6, 7, 8, 9, 10, caught his prey and rose again
1, 2, dancing shoe
3, 4, dance some more,
5, 6, rhythm sticks
7, 8, DON’T BE LATE
Counting, counted, count, count
Number fun is what it's about.
Learn by rote, repeat, repeat
Nonsense rhymes use rhythm beat.
Squeaking chalks on old school slates
Maths equations, learning dates
Counting hairs on palms of hand
On the beach, the grains of sand
How many stars up in the sky?
Countless starlings swoop and fly.
Singing songs we mark the beat
Crotchet, quaver, singing feet
Calories counted, waist SO slim
Breathe in dear, “You’re NOT that thin!”
Abacus and calculator
Number blocks and pen and paper
Ten fingers …. can’t estimate
Socks off now to calculate!!
Einz, zwie, drie und une, deux, trois
Counting coins in a foreign bar
Accountancy courses, cricket score,
What a shot, scored a 4
Dreaming, drowning, nightmare stuff
Count me OUT…. Ive had ENOUGH!!!!!!!
13
Counting one day - By Jules Winters
1, one mug, I use the same each day, attached I am to the way it feels, like a comforting hug, my hands so easily stretched around its form.
2, two, two socks, odd as pairs always go astray, so now a kaleidoscope of oddity fills the drawer, my feet always uniquely dressed, each different from each other, their own identities on display.
3, three, three small tablets to keep me healthy, tiny capsules to keep me strong, to keep me focused, to keep time at arms bay,
4, four, four breaths to start the day, 4 stretches to the sky, 4 seconds to be still before the noise and chaos reaches in, into this home of mine.
5, 5 steps to the door, 5 small steps, am breathing in, today to step outside, to no longer hide, today will be the day, to go outside.
6, 6 steps retreating in, not today, today I'll stay, today I will stay within.
7, seven birds visit on my window sill, to feed quite happily outside, a space which to me is still out of reach.
8, eight raindrops on the window pane, watching them race down smooth flat space, an outside world so close but not within my reach.
9, nine tears I count down my face, but inside this is my safe place, tomorrows another day.
10, ten deep breaths, as I lay down my head, in my deep and safe and pleasant bed, 10 times I slowly blink my eyes, 10 times and then I sleep.
​
​
14
When I Was Young - By Jules Winters
When I was young, I counted all the time,
I'd spend hours counting the number of ladybird spots, and how many ants were marching along in a line.
How many minutes till the next go was mine, on the swing, on the bike or the trike,
till I could fly the next kite.
I'd count all those precious minutes, held them close, they were mine.
I'd count how many days till the holidays,
the steps and the hops of hopscotch,
or how many puffs on a dandelion clock and how many clouds in the sky.
Then when as a student, the counting changed,
as adulthood reared its ugly head.
How many coins left for the electricity heater,
or could I buy half a pint in the pub instead.
How many marks needed to pass this semester,
and how many days till it ends.
How many minutes do I have to get to the next lecture, and how many pints? Never again.
The counting continued with savings and investments, counting for bills and debts, counting the days and the weeks and watching the months and years pass by,
But the counting when young is forgotton and gone, the magic is now lost from time.
So no more I say, I will return to these heady days of youth ,
and I will count as before, once again.
I will count how many sweets I can stuff in my cheeks,
and how long I can hold my breath on the floor.
And I will book a small trip,
to go to the sea, and there I will count once again,
the waves on the beach,
and the shells in sands,
the copper coins in the amusements and then,
the petals on flowers, and the bees and the trees, and I will wile away the hours some more.
And the love of counting the small and unseen, will awaken my joy again.
​
​
15
COUNTING THE YEARS - By Di Hills
When I was two, I could count up to four,
so Mum put a golden star on the wall,
when I was five I could count up to ten,
proudly she gave me a golden pen.
When I was ten, I could count to a thousand,
I was ace at Maths, and loved big numbers.
When I was thirteen, I was too cool to count,
I’d my secret book to work things out.
When I was twenty, I needed to count,
I was eight days late, my future in doubt,
but thank heavens, my counting was wrong,
I could dance and party, all night long.
When I was thirty, I counted my money,
I owed so much, it wasn’t funny,
So I worked in a sweet shop, so very strange,
To be counting all day childrens’change.
When I was fifty, I counted my friends,
I didn’t forget my naughty affairs,
the number was high, but getting much less,
my life at the time was a horrible mess.
When I was seventy, I counted my blessings.
by then life had taught me some vital lessons.
Count what you can and be pleased with that,
And give yourself lots of thunderous claps.
Now I’m ninety, I can no longer count,
I’ve forgotten most things, without a doubt,
I wait for the place with nothing to count,
My words will be done, I’ve naught to recount.
16
Counting sheep - By Di Hills
Sleepless nights gnaw at my soul,
my body restless, jumping,
a fizzing electric fence.
Sparks that shock the mind,
thoughts like broken clocks
stuck at the wrong time,
hover on decisions
damned into oblivion.
How to tame the churning brain,
greet the joys of night,
unfettered sleep, kind dreams,
a waking of pleasure, hope
for a happy day ahead,
the zing to work and play.
No, my body will not be still,
my thoughts not rest in peace,
the sounds of waves on costly apps,
will not calm, nor lull, nor rest.
waking will be brutal,
brain fog mark the day ahead.
But in these long, black hours,
I remember simple ploys from childhood,
and count sheep in sodden fields,
ewes, lambs, rams it matters not.
Only the comfort of numbers
A good night one to ten.
A poor from one to fifty,
which quell the tremors of my mind
and softly welcomes blessed sleep.
​
17
Counting Them Out - By Zac Thraves
The countdown has begun.
And all the stars are taking their leave,
filing out of luminous French Doors
popping like bubbles in a glass of pink gin fizz;
drifting away into vacuity.
We watch.
Night. Architects schemed for us to fail.
Capturing memories for their glass jars;
While fractured boundaries leak out the darkness.
Forgotten; their martini runs dry again.
Try in vain to catch those falling embers
And deposit into one of the many containers.
Tupperware dreams to keep for all seasons;
grew up with the astral stories, but grew up,
heroes have vanished, as the heavens.
Flickering to final dust at the end of a reel;
Pause, press play; watch again, as commanders brew
wishing the constellations would try again.
But the sidereal have fled; we let them.
Our fizz, bone dry from use of their sparkle.
The bottles lie empty, strewn trashed;
those omniscient French doors slammed shut.
We have lost our dawn to the final dusk.
18.
VITA BREVIS - by Sylvia Fennell
We start to grow old from the day we first blink.
Now there's a statistic to make you think!
When we're carefree and young, our eyes filled with wonder,
Life stretches out into the wide blue yonder.
Each robin, each rainbow, has power to enthrall,
Then we're suddenly 40, and things start to pall.
We're missing the magic of youth as we trudge
Through the daily grind of domestic drudge
Then retirement looms, and I'm scratching my head
Thinking "I've hardly lived, and soon I'll be dead!"
And suddenly time seems more precious than gold .
Then I realise I'm not necessarily old.
I'm not doing badly, though ailments are mounting,
Before I can blink, I'll be 80 and counting....
19.
Count-Teen Machine - By Mark Durbidge
12....
had no place safe to run
the day when evil came
and stole away all fun
and 13....
found new inner strengths
survival was by any means
what cost belied those lengths
and 14....
seemed fully in control
but demons knew the inner shame
and bartered for a soul
and 15....
had fallen deep in lust
though after school shenanigans
live short on little trust
and 16....
thought the ordeal soon would end
if only on the outside
does inside ever mend?
and 17....
was smitten deep in love
skipping puddles kissing
hand in hand a glove
and 18....
bereft and broken hearted
crying inconsolably
the day they finally parted
and 19....
was only wanting fun
instinctive reflex action
in safety now could run
21
Chemo-radio poem - By Russ Miles
one five one two: counting down
novelty breathes in needles and bruises
six week programme, an attestation
you may win and no one really loses
one three four four: still smiling, flaking, shaking
sure and raw, chemical double shot stick
sole drive, overconfidence
park, junction, hard shoulder: sick
eleven seven six to six seven two:
friends found, dying, crying, sifting
end in sight, mirage of the final
goal posts shifting, lying, drifting
three three six to zero and pause
eat! Bell not ready to ring
sips and custard, saviours from tubes
needles continue, marrow builds, recovery begins
two years gone, survivor guilt, gift unreturned
grappling, all change, learn or do
friends I see, treasure, hold
some friends still leaving, I’ll remember you
​
​
22
The Count - By Soo Doe
The activists have now done all they can.
Months of planning, weeks of campaigning,
Phone calls, leaflet drops and canvassing,
Listening to locals complaining.
A day of waiting for them all to vote
As Council workers sit in draughty halls,
Taking names and handing out the slips
Or chatting, reading, staring at the walls.
Democracy in action,
Pitting faction against faction.
After weeks of spouting drivel,
In the hall it’s very civil.
Now the votes have all been cast
And the counting starts at last
It’s as well to be polite
Now you’re locked in for the night.
Boxes emptied onto tables, papers gathered into stacks.
Do the little bits of paper match the number of votes cast?
Once the voting slips are counted then the counting can begin
Who’s the candidate selected, which the party who will win?
Counters sort and separate them, drop each vote into a tray
Where they’re counted into bundles Supervisors take away
To some tables in the middle where the totals can be tallied,
Each move watched like hawks by party Counting Agents looking harried.
Candidates and Campaign Agents lurk in corners at a distance
Trying to gauge if they have been rewarded for all their persistence.
Once the doubtfuls have been dealt with and the declarations done
Holds or gains are celebrated by the parties who have won,
Others look at all the data: vote share, turnout, what to spin?
Ousted losers offer handshakes as they take it on the chin.
​
​
23
Hopscotch - By Annett Freeman
Hopscotch squares beneath
a child's feet
1, jump 2&3 down
4, jump 5&6 land
7,8,9 & 10
back to the beginning
to play again
we would play this game for hours
as children who lived in a concrete tower
I, count the cracks in the pavement
as I walk along the street
so I won't slip through
I would gladly fall
In-between the cracks
If they'd take me back to you
I count the endless stars
in the midnight sky
I wish upon a star
as I think of you
knowing it couldn't possibly
come true
for my only wish
is to be with you
It's been 731 days
since you left
but the number I'll never forget
which brings pain and heartbreak
sadly also regret
happiness of memories of long before
as we sang, danced
laughed and endured
now I count the days
I wonder too
when will I be reunited with you
this number, this number
I will never forget
18/12 the year 2022
the day that you passed
when I had to say goodbye to you
I'm told you're never too old
to learn something new
I'm slowly trying
to live without you
​
​
24
Lament Of The Scientist Who Spent His Life Counting Quarks - By Elizabeth Davies
Dear Heart, you have given me a garden
Of exquisite delight.
I have not tended it wholeheartedly,
In the place of rose and flower
Thorns and thistles grow now
Bitter apples shrivel, dissolved by fungi bright and white.
I have spent my time on crosswords
And sudukos, nuclear fusion,
Submarines and satellites,
Rockets to the moon and cryptocurrency.
I have lived in electronic bunkers
Counting quarks and sparks and streaks of light
And failed to make white black and black white.
I hear you calling to me
“Come into the sun and rain
And fill my garden
With your colour and your joy again!”
But I have loved the Machiavelllian mind too much.
I know my time to play is limited,
And when I leave this place,
I ask you for another chance to play.
I will return with pockets full of seeds, I say,
And I will count each one of them, and plant
Till rose and lily blaze with light
And I will dance with you
And fill your garden, dearest heart,
With all my undivided joy and my delight.
Dear heart, you have given me a garden
Of exquisite delight.
I have not tended it wholeheartedly.
In the place of rose and flower
Thorns and thistles grow now,
Bitter apples shrivel
Dissolved by fungi, bright and white.
​
25
THE POET’S WORD COUNT - by Elizabeth Davies
Words are like fragments
Sometimes fine filigree
Sometimes like blocks of wood
That need carving
Counting and savouring them,
Like a miser his gold,
His bravery is recounting them
to the starving
Can words be digested so easily?
Can swords used to honour the invested
Be beaten into purity,
Melted down in pure alchemy?
Hovering over the sea of infinity
Like flocks of Terns
Or Eagles solitary,
Facets of truth,
Echoes of the One beyond count
Count each word carefully
The communion of your poetry
Is food for the gods.
26
A Counting poem - By Linda Jackson
1.Counting began for me at a sweet shop counter pushing coins with tiny fingers.
2. Counting came by an abacus tin soldiers in line and numerous teachers counting in lines.
3. Counting marbles and counting at rounders and scoring football wins were the best counting.
4. Counting included many lines at secondary school.
5.Counting your place in school dinner lines.
6. Counting to see or visit the headmistress.
7.Counting and trying to cheat on your lines.
8.Counting figures numbers at math classes using your fingers and thumbs.
9.Counting bus fare came with a ticket.
10.Counting your periods came monthly counting.
11.Counting your first wage packet into a small pile.
12.Counting your way out of things becomes an art.
13. Counting your boyfriends was a thing to be famous for.
14.Counting on others who let you down.
15.Counting your reach another birthday.
16.Counting your boyfriend won't cheat on you.
17. Counting on getting engaged then married.
18. Counting on getting that job.
19.Counting babies due to be born.
20.Counting grandkids.
21.Counting hours and time minutes and seconds.
22.Counting days to go on holiday.
23.Counting precious moments.
24. Counting your losses missed opportunities.
25.Counting being on time.
26.Counting on your death.
27. Stop Counting.
​
​
​
27
Blessings - By John Demetriou
​
The morning opened with a golden glow
I piled the berries in my cereal bowl.
Toast and marmalade, washed down with strong tea,
postman came early; no bills thankfully.
The train was on time, without a delay
I found a seat to prepare for my day.
One hot desk was free at our work station
near the window to help concentration.
My schedule ran smoothly till problems struck;
thank God I left room, to cut me some slack.
The telephone rang as I rose to leave;
I heard my voice answer, what a reprieve.
Arriving at home I found no one there
I sat and dozed in my favourite chair,
when abruptly recalled what I forgot
to pick up my wife; I left like a shot!
In time to collect her leaving the store;
with heart still pounding I opened the door.
A romantic evening with fish and chips;
takeaway at home helped me save on the tips.
We watched our fav’rite film on a small screen
while I fell asleep before the last scene.
As I sank in bed I reviewed the day
and counted the blessings that came my way.
​​​
28
Miscalculations - By Teri O'Neal
He had it
all
worked out
2018
2019
The latest vintages
he would buy
en primeur
Lay them
down
for us
To enjoy
after about ten
years
Then we would
die at around
the same time
What with
His being male
with a shorter
life expectancy
And my
being about eight
years older
Yes
He had it
all
worked out
​
​
29
Moving on - by Teri O'Neal
About a month ago
I decided
that
(despite everything I had said)
This
book
was
Going
to end
on
The (third) anniversary
Of his death
[See Epilogue
Written in April!]
Now
I have decided
that
You are dead (but I am not …)
Is
a
trilogy
That
volume four
(if it ever exists)
Will have
a different
name
31
Counting. Not Counting - by Steve Simons
They count our money,
And then count us into dinghies.
We count the indignities.
Then we watch
And count
the drones,
Watching us,
Already struggling to stay afloat.
Although we’re not far off-shore,
So in theory safety is still within reach.
But we can’t count on it.
Later, we all count
the bodies,
washed up on your beach.
Coastguards – LIFEguards -
count
how many survive.
Politicians count
how much we're likely to cost.
Both politically and actually.
It’s then we understand.
Our hopes & dreams
- our lives -
Don't count.
To you,
And them,
We're numbers,
That don't amount
to much at all.
​
​
32.
Villanelle Hell - by Steve Simons
There are nineteen lines in a villanelle;
Five tercets plus a final stanza of four.
Some find them easy and can write them so well,
While others get muddled in villanelle hell.
It’s tricky, the counting, but you have to keep score,
Of the nineteen lines in your villanelle,
Because they are addictive and take you under their spell,
Till you find you have rhymes and stanzas galore
Which makes it seem easy, for you to write well.
But don’t be deceived, those rhymes can rebel.
You’ll think it’s just right, then find you’ve used more
Than the nineteen lines of your villanelle.
Did I find this hard? Of course I won’t tell
If it’s my first or my last; if I’ve made one before,
As some find them easy and write them so well,
Without too much effort, some just seem to excel
At counting the lines and at keeping the score,
Of the nineteen lines in their villanelle.
Curse those that find them easy and can write them so well!
33
What the hell are we counting for? - by Steve Simons
I wonder why we still keep score.
What the hell are we counting for?
The xeno chant, the football roar:
“Two world wars and one world cup”
Just calm down! Just hold up!
We’re asininely trumpeting bulldog pluck
Ignorant that the record’s stuck
One world cup and two world wars?
The world’s marched on and we’re world war bores.
Not world beating, always bleating,
Oven-ready, battered, Sunackered and Trussed,
“Hold the tiller steady,” Why? “Because we must”
“All we need’s that Dunkirk spirit”
I’m sick ‘n’ tired don’t want to hear it.
Can we PLEASE have a grown-up conversation
About the future and the history of this nation?
34
A Countdown of Tragic Events - by Megan Lofthouse
​
Last week felt like I was driving in a thunderstorm…..
Ten days ago, my social worker came for three hours to do an assessment…….
Ten days ago, I had a sore ear…..
Nine days ago, I went to my GP for an infected ear and was prescribed the highest dose of flucloxacillin…..
Nine days ago, I was asked to restart an antipsychotic that I hadn’t taken for five days……
One week ago, I started to question everything that I had been diagnosed with and was confused about my traumatic past…..
A week ago, my world fell apart, and I was plunged into a huge pit of darkness and despair; I started crying……
Six days ago, I went to poetry via the bus and had to leave early due to feeling extremely low in mood and felt like everyone was against me and started crying……
Five days ago, I was late for counselling because the bus never turned up and came out a completely different person…
Four days ago, my world started to crumble, I started feeling extremely low and wanted to disappear; resulted in an A&E trip for a mental health crisis. I wanted to disappear and felt at my lowest…….
Three days ago, I felt better in myself and wondered what the hell had gone on!!
Two days ago, I slipped further into my deep dark rabbit hole of depression…..
One day ago, I went to my GP, “what the hell is happening to me!” and got answers. It was a meds clash…..
One day ago, I did some more reflection on the situation; I felt better……
Today, I’m still not out of the woods but I’m coming out the other side of this. I complained to my GP……
Last week really was like driving into a thunderstorm…….
35
Let Me Count the Ways - By Chris Goode
O sweet aporia
How much do I love Thee?
-
More than gravy Browning (!)
-
More than Kultur when Goering reaches for his Browning (!!)
-
More even than the Dawn, in russet mantle clad, embrowning yon Eastern hill (!!!)
But what am I counting?
-
Surely not the days (!)
-
Nor the lilies of the field (!!)
-
Nor the streaks of the tulip (!!!)
(Poets don’t do that)
Our riches are limitless
Though we be but shadows of shadows
But I want to be in that Number
When Lost Saints go marching in
Counting them in
Counting to the very ends of being
A tearful Finite imbricated with the Infinite
And the dry-eyed Illimitable:
My Belovèd, you are all numbers
And the counting never ends
​
​
36
COUNTDOWN - by Philipa Coughlan
10 where there lives a Leader – sometimes - but always a cat!
9 lives of that cat
8 rhymes along with garden gate
7 is lucky-sometimes- hopefully not late
6 tricks and the best on dice and dominoes
5 gold rings leading to marriage-perhaps- or woes
4 starting school and learning lots of stuff
3 leaving toddler land – sometimes- it’s very tough
2 terrible, tantrums – duos and pairs
1 The best? But lonely and hoping for shares.
37
TWO DEAD by Philipa Coughlan
Driving back from Beachy Head
beside the September sunlit promenade
when I saw men with a black body bag
standing by the seafront hotel
Someone dead?
Now a refuge for the homeless
passed like rubbish down the coast
troubled, angry, all dishevelled
sometimes odd it seemed
not people of which this town should boast.
The news told of ‘an incident’
but a silence had held sway.
Two men. No names
people castigating cruelly
make them go away.
Last year there was Stuart
found lifeless in his tent
a character long established here
had a dog
just a sad “died too soon” lonely gent.
38
The Whale Oil - by Robin Dalglish
for those lamps came from a harpoon
thumped into a whale
ten thousand miles away.
The coal for that fire came
from trees that lived
on a dinosaur day.
The oil that feeds my car
is the product of millions
of years of sunshine.
Now we’re burning it,
all of it,
releasing carbon dioxide
in a hundred years
that took a hundred million
to sequester.
Tell them that the war was won
but the peace was lost,
tell them,
tell them.
Your work may be hard
but slaves were worked to death,
now, even the planet is fighting for breath.
39
Noah’s Reunion - by Robin Dalglish
I’ve sent out the invites,
there’s a few days to go,
the response disappointing,
I hope they all show.
The replies came in trickles
in response to the flood.
Some animals are stupid,
I hope they understood.
The boat is just small enough
for what’s left at the zoo,
they’re coming slowly
but not two by two.
There’s a lion from Munich
a zebra from Rome
and a tired old elephant
stumbling home.
I can’t find an antelope
they must be all dead,
I could run to a rhino,
there’s a hippo instead.
The deserts deserted,
no camels can thrive,
only the roar of
a four-wheel drive.
It’s raining cats and dogs now,
I think it’s for the best,
if we just up anchor
and drown the rest.
40
COUNTING -MARK 1 - By Amanda Hill
____________
It's what I do, I'm OCD
Lock the door, check it's locked
One, two, three
Walk away,
Step back,
One, two, three, four
Must equal seven.
Make a smoothie - 3 minutes
Weigh myself twice
One biscuit for lunch, and one apple.
I'll probably make it to 80,
Or at least 70
So much more to do
One drink before dinner
Fizz on a Monday
To celebrate I'm still alive.
One wine with dinner
Nightcap - small brandy or port
Dreaming my way to dawn
The clock ticks on,
The hours roll by
Up at ten, as bed at two
Spanish time, old habits
Breakfast at 10 a.m.
Dinner at 10 p.m.
Creature of habit
Counting the hours, the minutes, the years.
But does it all count?
Really?
41
WHY ? - By Amanda Hill
________
20,000 Gazans murdered
Politicians didn't care,
They didn't count
Until we had an election.
THEN SUDDENLY THEY MATTERED VERY MUCH
30,000 killed
"Immediate Ceasefire", cried the politicians
"No child left behind", "Equalling up", "Levelling off".
The meaningless mutterings of an insincere elite
Blinded by greed, ambition and self-delusion.
40,000 massacred
"Somebody do something," they whimpered.
50,000 blown apart and rising
"It's deplorable," they reflected,
Looking on from their Ivory Tower.
14 years needed, just to clear away the rubble
Then to rebuild a country.
You'll never repair the wounds, paste over the scars,
Make sense of the lunacy.
Do they think God dropped Gaza onto one side of the weighing scales
And the Houses of Parliament onto the other,
Then lost interest and walked away?
"You decide who counts," he cried
To the blind, deaf and dumb power-mongers on Earth.
"It's up to your conscience."
The Earth rolled on,
Everyone counted to someone
But no one counted to everyone.
A mathematical dilemma
In a Universe of sin.
42
COUNTING – MARK 2 - By Amanda Hill
___________
You don't count though, do you
When you get older?
A burden on the NHS
Pensioners, useless eaters
Clogging up the buses
Blocking beds,
In your head
You're 21.
Don't realize, you seem too small
To count at all
Inside you're wise,
You're 6 feet tall
With knowledge, grace and kindly thoughts
But you're despised
By governments,
Off with your head
They want you dead
As you don't count at all.