Biography of Andrew Rimmer
Andrew is a member of Fylde Brighter Writers who meet regularly in Lytham St Annes. As well as poetry, short stories also appear on his laptop. He is a fairly recent poet, has had a few poems published. The mysterious creative process of working with words is what interests him, the feeling of connecting with a reader somewhere, sometime.
Andrew Rimmer Poems
Justice is the province of god's work, Society's attempts are proven never true In applying justice or emulating god's work. Invoking in the mind is by nature what we do,
Where Do Dreams Go To Die
The self-act of dreaming Inspires for striving, enduring and succeeding, Man's rest-state - night or day The mind sets to play and replay.
Shyness should be called why-ness, The transient futility of one's now-ness In the universe's infinite fullness.
Besides Canal Water
Ripples tickle the mahogany canal, As superficial as the frown lines Crinkling the forehead of a young boy. Radiant swans glide unperturbed,
A Fresh Look At Death
Coming to a sad final personal ending Still everything else left behind remaining. It is best not to think that one dies, That's to say; for you, life itself dies.
Precipitating The Inevitable
Convincing someone that life is fulfilling; Worth bothering; keeping up the fight. To show all you are thriving, always willing; Standing forever; in the blessed white light.
Castle Hill In Church Woods
Into the eerily thin reality of Church Woods Narrow forbidding path passing the churchyard; Above behold sentinel headstone crosses, silhouetted black. Silence suspends; the caw of carrion crows high in the canopy.
The Writer's Block
The block is widely said to be For the writer a cruel mockery, A mental block impervious as cut stone Or perhaps a blocking emotional cyclone;
The Devil's Scheme
The devil stirs the smoking blackened vat Of stinking burning human animal fat. At Mankind's terrible expense this ingredient Sates the diabolically foul brew: the dead so obedient.
Furry Fun Holes
An inauspicious beginning for the star struck five, As is the usual wont for a fledgling rock'n roll band, The clichéd room above a depressing dingy dive, Hidden in town next to the worn-out old Grand,
Born Into A Stolen World
The game lost before being born, A done deal, ever widening into a chasm. Living, always caught on a thorn, Feelings of hopelessness, youthful enthusiasm,
Steep steps ascending of dressed cut stone, By man's skilled hand hewn and hone. Worn back into true life; nature's ceaseless call, By many a travelling man's tired footfall.
The Poetry Of A Gaoler's Heart
The sang-froid of a street entertainer arisen Surpasses the traffic warden's humanitarianism The nervous laughter of a funeral director Pales the side splitting humour of a solicitor
Diffuse sunset of pastel china blue, Golden marbling beautifying the hue, Feathery white diagonals of vapour trails, Linger dying a distant as daylight pales.
Furry Fun Holes
An inauspicious beginning for the star struck five,
As is the usual wont for a fledgling rock'n roll band,
The clichéd room above a depressing dingy dive,
Hidden in town next to the worn-out old Grand,
Celebrating and sating the nascent adolescent sex drive.
First success came nearly as quick as they did,
Well sort of: a little name notoriety never misses;
Spots, glasses and thunder thighs, yes god forbid