We meet at 7:30pm on
the first Thursday of
each month at
The Biffa Room,
St. Mark’s Church,
(off Avon Drive),
Bedford, MK41 7UY
Visitors (18 and older) and prospective members are VERY welcome, whether experienced writers, beginners, or just curious. Simply turn up on the night or contact us by clicking on the 'Get in Touch' icon for an interesting, enjoyable, and possibly instructive evening.
Alky in red by Rosemary Ostley
(A Christmas poem using the words: blood, falling magnetism, recalcitrant, and hope)
Well, what do you know,
Outside in the snow
Is a fat man
In boots and a beard.
His coat is blood red
And the hat on his head
Hides a bottle of gin,
So I’ve heard.
He jumps in his sleigh
And he’s up and away
As Rudi’s red nose
Gives clear line of sight.
Snowflakes are falling,
The cocktail hour’s calling
He swigs as he flies
Through the night.
Our chap’s magnetism
Is love through a prism
That colours the world
With laughter and joy.
His remit is clear:
Take the fun far and near.
In more ways than one
He flies high.
He’s free as the air,
He hasn’t a care,
Old Mrs Christmas
Can’t get at him here.
Keep him focussed, it seems,
As he plies himself
With good cheer.
But come Christmas morn,
In the cold light of dawn,
He sighs with relief,
Lets the gin bottle fall.
This alky in red
Going home to his bed
Has brought wonder and hope
To us all.
New Year at the Writing Group by Sue Barton
We’ve had the Christmas celebrations
Said goodbye to our relations
Cooked our goose, set ourselves loose
To gather up our words obtuse
And shape them into something worthy
Or throw them in the River Mersey.
Here is John whose poems call
Make us listen one and all.
Karl no doubt has something written
With expletives quite unfittin’.
And Dave will bring us genre noir
With sex and killing near and far.
Barry’s shown his second book
And we must give it careful look.
He cannot yet go out to play
‘til we’ve have had our thoughtful say.
Now that he has raised the bar
It’s up to others to go far.
Festivals have tested Naz
And she’s been given all the jazz
About her writing being tops.
We did tell you sweetie pops
That you will be the next sensation
With accolades around the nation.
Gill excels at Science Fic.
And treats us to a widespread pick
Of her otherworldly works
Where terror in each corner lurks.
Laura gives us added twist
Velvet tales in iron fist.
Mac entertains with good clear hand,
A valued member of our band.
Robert, our young academic, Writes of trains most dramatic.
And Clare, with lovely Irish lilt
Softly are her stories built.
Who next? Oh! yes Veronica
No easy rhyme for your monika
Stories penned for every age
From very small to bearded sage.
Fran comes along, when she’s able,
To entertain with latest fable.
For all of those who come and go
Let your inner writer flow.
The New Year’s with us everyone
There’s serious writing to be done.
So I must need a mental slap
For writing all this mindless crap.
Bedford writers keep on going,
Seeds of mystery always sowing.
Whether sex, death, war or peace,
Imagination just unleash.
Do have a happy writing year .
The New Year by Barrie Hyde
The New Year cometh and promises are made,
Let’s give up booze, give the needy some aid.
Time for a fresh start, don’t let your head rule your heart,
Let’s make the world better, let’s make the world smart.
Then you wake in the morning, your head throbs a bit,
And you smile at the pledges, they were all bullshit,
You take some aspirin, and go to the pub,
A couple of pints and some processed grub.
You look at the news and nothing has changed,
Tribal fighting by those clearly deranged,
The poor are still poor and the rich are still rich,
Politicians pontificate, twaddle is their pitch.
The world it keeps spinning,
With mankind in its way,
Is the legacy of today.
But when we’re all gone the leaves will return,
With a balance of life nature will learn,
One dominant species is bad for the rest,
And through natural selection,
The earth will be blessed.
Happy New Year!
A limerick with a twist by Robert Simmons
Somewhere, there’s a guy called Bastion,
Who struggles to get enough inspiration.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea!”
“I’ll just jot it down here…”
“Bugger. It’s gone out of my head again!”
Brick Creep by Veronica Sims
Our house is built where once before there was a farmyard,
A bolt for a barn door
We found, when we were planting a tree…
Rubble scattered long ago
To stem the tide of mud and dung, I expect.
Sometimes I try to imagine
Stables, (shire horses, oat munching)
A sty for the pigs (pungent)
A chicken or three,
Cockadoodledooing in the morning, a rooster,
A couple of outside cats (to catch the rats)
A shaggy dog (but that’s another story)
Now the farm is an estate.
Endless brick houses,
Neat hedges, (trimmed to boredom)
Grass verges, thoughtlessly cropped by machine,
And beyond the bright painted, closed front doors…
I Fell Into You by Nasreen Rafiq
I fell into you
And further still
The years of Us pool around bare soles
Seeping, inky and indigo
Rags mop and streak cold legs
The raven hops upon the sill
Cocking and lilting
No birdsong between us two
Gazing and falling, into you
Empty of nest
Life once lived
Empty and void
And further still
Stretching and wrapping scarf intact
Indigo steps venture out
I stride with the throng
As far as I can go
By dusk I turn back
Follow my tracks
I talk with a brother
Beneath a green dome
His words drift all around me
They fall and flutter
Leave me in peace.
There is hope he said
And so I return
Pace picking up
Your face dark and sunk
I don't want to go
The musk of Us lingers in here
Swallowing me whole
The raven returns
And pecks at the pane
Joined by another,
they all look the same.
Bearing witness to the end of Us
If only you knew
I fell in two.
And further still
The Old Man Slumbers by Dave Appleby
The old man slumbers in his arm chair
Dreaming of when, proudly not humbly he could
Stand without trembling,
Run without stumbling,
Dive without tumbling,
Shoot without fumbling,
Pick his way nimbly through the shambles,
Amble back to his base
Grumbling to his fellow soldiers
About the tumbrells dragging the condemned to death,
About the peeling paint in the damp and crumbling barracks,
About the rumbling thunder and the endless rain.
Life’s a gamble and the odds are stacked against us
And our souls are jumble sales of worthless tat.
The old man mumbles in his sleep.