My town was closed

My town was closed, they shut it down 

It happened in my own home town 

It should have been a normal day

But someone blew the day away

My town was closed, they closed the town 

It took a lot to close it down 

It took a madman, evil clown 

A shooter in his dressing gown 

It took a dozen shots or more 

It took a bullet riddled door 

and bodies lying in the street 

and sirens wailing to the beat

My town was closed, the roads were blocked 

The shops and houses shuttered up 

My town was closed for just one day

When a gunman blew our lives away

Steve Wheeler © 26 August, 2021

Read more about the Plymouth Shooting

Photo by Steve Wheeler

Silver Screens

I published my third volume of poetry, Urban Voices, back in December 2020, and this poem - about all of the lost/closed cinemas in my home town of Plymouth, stood out as one I would like to read live. I used to go regularly to the 'picture palaces' to watch new films when I was younger. I think I took a different girlfriend to see each of the Star Wars films, but that's material for another poem, another day. Now all the old cinemas (we used to call them 'fleapits') are gone, replaced by restaurants, snooker and bingo halls and builders warehouses. All that is available is two multiplex cinemas to serve a population of more than 300,000 people. 

Yesterday, sat in my Dad's garden, surrounded by greenery and buffeted by the chilly April winds, I recorded the poem - Silver Screens - and posted it to YouTube. Below is the link. It has captions. You can turn down the sound if you don't wish to listen to my voice, and read the poem instead. It's probably better for all concerned. 

Friday night

a one car crash at the charles cross junction 

cone zone closure at the intersection 

rain falls heavily on the black top 

traffic lights cycle go, amber, stop 

blue lights flashing, emergency 

fire and rescue cutting someone free 

onlookers hang from windows staring 

instagram twitter snapchat sharing 

police collect witness statements 

rain continues with no abatement 

lights reflect of the slick tarmac 

shattered glass and a broken roof rack 

teen drunk driver stands obdurate 

his passenger not so fortunate 

girlfriend rushed to the a and e 

driver is a walking casualty 

not so worried she was nearly killed 

more concerned about the drink he spilled 

fluorescent yellow jacketed men 

measure the scene, then measure again 

wreckage cleared within the hour 

blood washed away by the downpour 

clouds clear up and moon shines down 

on another friday night in town 

Steve Wheeler © 20 September, 2020

This poem was first published in Urban Voices by Steve Wheeler, Wheelsong Books, 2020.

On Plymouth Hoe

Graphic by Steve Wheeler

above, the pale clouds pass on by 

while the gulls insistently cry 

and gazing south the wilder sea 

is tamed by dark breakwater 

and the calmer tamar mouth 

the sea salt wind is calling me 

whenever I go 

to the plymouth hoe 

the smeaton tower lined 

red and white 

pointing skyward 

glimmering in the fading light 

for decades past 

a welcoming sight 

for plymouth folk 

returning homeward 

where the sea winds blow 

up on the plymouth hoe 

the grand hotel 

its fronted palisades 

of weathered white and grey 

the wedding cake 

and the bronze of drake 

their lustre now fast fades 

and the tinside lido 

rust over paint plays 

all remnants of the glory days 

and all we know 

of the plymouth hoe 

above and left 

the staddon heights 

mount edgecumbe 

 looming on the right 

drake’s island holds 

the centre ground 

dominating the heart 

of the sound 

and all around 

the currents flow 

and the sea winds blow 

across the plymouth hoe 

Steve Wheeler © 2 September, 2020

This poem was first published in Urban Voices by Steve Wheeler, Wheelsong Books, 2020.