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Best Poems Written by Jane Gomm

Below are the all-time best Jane Gomm poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Mystery Code

The Mystery Code.

She is tapping on the glass with her finger nails. The sound is like pins dropping on a tiled floor. Their eyes meet through the hazy glass door, as she enters the bar, no words are exchanged.

She is small and stocky, a birth mark covers her neck, her eyes are green, her hair is bleached blonde. She wears a tight mini skirt, nylon v neck sweater and plastic black boots.
She looks tired.

The man she meets sits down in a corner seat furthest from the bar. His appearance is different from other men. He is very, very tall, with grey eyes, a beaky nose, a thin mouth, he resembles a bird in his dark suit.

Blondie opens her handbag, she she pulls out what looks like a calculator. The bird man looks agitated, he uses sign language, his hands move at great speed. Blondie responds back in sign language, and he relaxes back into his seat.

There is an air of mystery around this odd looking couple, he opens his brief case on the table, Blondie peers inside. She smiles and nods at Bird man.
He types something into the calculator machine, then stares hard at the time on the clock on the wall, as if waiting for something to take place.

Little do they know that they are being observed by an under cover agent that is stood by the bar. Blondie signs something quickly and Bird man swiftly puts the calculator machine in his brief case and snaps it shut. He tucks the brief case away by his legs.
The couple make a quick exit from the bar, all the while the secret agent is watching their every move. Later that week birdman arrives back in the bar, he sits in the same corner seat. A man in a dark suit buys a pint and joins him.
He has a beard, and is wearing tinted glasses, they both put their brief cases on the table at the same time. They look at the clock on the wall. They both begin typing inside their brief cases, syncronized in their movements, like two robots.

The secret agent contacts headquaters on his head set. He is concerned something serious is about to take place. He has been observing Birdman for several months. It is critical not to blow his cover. He is in the enemy camp, he has to follow orders.

Dear Heart. a.k.a Broken Wings
04/10/2018

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Take Me To Your Leader

Take me to your leader.
We are part of a small scouting party.
We make our way across the Southern quarter suddenly we spot movement in
the enemy camp. There are about eight hundred of them. We keep our heads
down. Our orders are to make contact and speak with the officer in charge, we need to get his signature. Without getting shot in the process.
Orders are given to raise the white flag. We stand up arms above are heads, in
surrender and move forward. We are spotted by the enemy. There is a moment's hesitation, then the enemy lower their weapons. It' s going to be alright. I hear a  strong voice say " take me to your leader" its Captain Rogers speaking. We are told to stand at ease, all we can do is wait for his return.


Its like time has stood still waiting for the Captains return, I can feel sweat running down my neck into my shirt. The other lads are getting edgy I can see their eyes darting about the camp. Suddenly I see the top of the Captains head coming out of one of the tents. He is holding a document in his hand, just  as he reaches to put the document in his satchel, there is an almighty explosion.

The air is filled with gun powder smoke, I see grey, panic fills the hour. It is so disorientating I can-not get my bearings. I get down on my hands and knees to try and find some clearer air. What I see is utter carnage, slaughter,
of human beings in battle.



Caren Krutsinger 07/08/2018

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Power To the Plough

Power to the Plough.
She sits there all used up, a shadow of her past self. The remains of her bodywork, only survive.

Rusting, and decaying into an iron oxide heap. No more use, the old gal is turning into a junk yard art scape.

Mice make homes in her alcoves, spiders spin webs amongst her corroded remains.

The red Fergie has passed her sell by date, a relic from the past.

She had a full and busy life on the farm, powering the plough to turn the earth.
Sowing, planting and rolling the fields.


Reaping the rewards of the harvest, towing trailers of corn, grass, and hay bales in the summer sun. The farmers friend, rugged and dependable, out in all weathers.

After all that she is just a  farm vehicle, a tool of the trade. Her days of powering the plough are over now.

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Waiting For Baby

Waiting for baby.        16/07/2018.
 The hospital bag is ready in the hall. Oh the excitement and the stress of it all. Will we need an ambulance ? or will we get to the hospital in time after the waters have broke?

Midwives, checking weight, blood pressure, pee samples. It is like a science lesson. Going to ante-natal classes together, bonding, breathing, panting, when to push ? T o take pain relief, gas and air, something stronger, mines a gin and tonic !

About the contractions, count down, bear down, to baby's arrival, Baby kicking inside like a giant frog, punching my insides at night. Feeling like a watched pot ready to pop. 

Its a worry too how will we feel, to be parents, will we cope, have a scan see the little person on the t .v  screen, we don't want to know the sex, keep it a big secret. 

The family's becoming a pain in the neck asking questions, dates, names, what schools its going to? The nursery stands ready painted yellow, cot in place,  waiting for its bundle of love to arrive.

first child born 12/06/1987.

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Get Into Shape

Get into Shape.

It's now or never, its time to get this flesh into shape.

No excuses, no dithering, I'm starting today, the goal is to

get into that wedding dress.

Routine is what I need, cut out the fat, sugars, and take-out meals.

I've got a personal trainer coming today, to get me in the "zone" he's called Nigel.

Signed up with the local leisure centre to do, swimming, twice a week, belly dancing on wednesday evenings.

One month later my hour glass figure is appearing, I can touch mytoes.

Lycra clad, I've got the fittness bug, going cycling with Nigel on Saturday.
Warming up, cooling down, its all part of the fun.

The wedding dress is put on hold, my fiance, say's he can't keep up, so much for getting into shape.

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The Paint Movers

The Paint Movers.

The old boat sits in the dry dock. Layers of shabby paint covering the vessel. The boat wears a mask of magnanimity, like a woman about to apply a mud pack.

The old boat has a date with the cosmetic warrior's, who come clothed like space-men, in white overalls, rubber gloves, and goggles. She is being undressed, they delete the surface layers of residue.


Exfoliate, her with solvent, attack her with the tools of their trade. Caustic scumble her hull. The old boat is being cleansed with a formula, scrubbed like a dirty step. The cosmetic space-men reveal her clean skin.


The face mask has worked, the cosmetic warriors claim their victory. They hop about as if doing a moon walk. The years of wear and tear have gone. The old boat has a new lease of life.

Anthony Slausen
5/10/2018.

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Not Just Any Old Rose

01/08/2018


Not Just Any Old Rose.

All the guests have gone, left for their 
homes. A night of dancing, drinking and
merrymaking. Victoria is engaged to
John. Her love, her darling,her sweetheart.
From the age of five years old they loved
each other. Its as old as time, honest,
and reliable, friends, best mates, a pair.
The wedding is next year in August a
day to look forward too. Their love is the
lasting kind, warm, scented like a Tudor
rose garden, full of vanilla perfume.
He holds her hand and strokes the small of
her back, she almost purrs with contetment.
What bliss to be so in love, a rare thing.





Sponsor. Mark Massey.

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Frost

Frost


It creeps up on us like a silent web, that silver carpet that covers the morning
like a silken sheath. How still the street is as the sun shines on the
steaming roof tops, making the gardens appear like a hot bath, in the cold air.


The leaves lie, curled and crumpled like discarded tissues on the pavement, waiting for the wind to blow them to the sky.

 Every thing is different this morning, magical, cobwebs, lacey and outlined in the hedge, windows decorated by the frosts icy designers art. Surreal and beautiful, raw and fragile, gone too soon in the heat of the sun.

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Outer Space

Outer Space.

The stars at night shine so bright, what mysteries do they hold ?

 Men go off in their silver machines to seek out new planets never seen.

I gaze so far but cannot see the wonders the universe must hold.

The earth floats like a blue marble, the moon our neighbour, but not made of cheese as we where lead to believe.


Apollo 15, the astronauts saw its, crust was dust, craters, and valleys, rocks.The earth's shadow spreads her face across the moon like a smile.


The big bang, a smash up in space, cosmic dust, gravity, sunlight, liquid, water,
life, the goldilocks planet, how did it happen ?

Brian Strand.