Poetry from Ian Copestick

White man with glasses and a striped button shirt lying down next to a dog

So Young

A drunken night, remembering the times
both good and bad. When we were young,
and excitement came so easily.
The nights
we spent sleeping together in fields, with
only our passion to keep us warm. I’d
give anything to have those times
again. But, no, like youth they have
gone. The times when you felt sure that
you were about to explode, just through
the power of your emotions. The times
when despite inarticulacy, you somehow
blurted out everything you needed to say.
The times when you were young.
Those times when you were o so young.

Diminishing Returns

The hands of

my body clock

creak as they

turn. I seem

to be getting

older before

my time. The

day before

yesterday I

did some

gardening for

my father, he is


receiving chemo

therapy, and this

makes it far too

difficult for him

to keep his

usually beautiful

garden up to the

standard it normally

holds. So I strapped

on a strimmer to

do his front lawn,

then hedge clippers

to thin out his


I woke yesterday

in utter agony,

my arms felt

as if I’d been

attacked with a

baseball bat.

It’s hard for me

to believe that

I’m still the same

guy who held down

all of those factory

and warehouse

jobs, working up

to 12 hours each

night, carrying and

throwing all of

those heavy boxes around.

I suppose this must

be how it happens.

You don’t realise

just how much you

are diminished

until you are totally


Of course, by then

it’s already


too late.


Life can be so tough

we all fall into different

traps, but the pain is

always going to

 be the same.

Be careful as you

scamper along the

pathways of life.

There are dangerous

traps lying in wait.

Some simple holes

dug in the dirt, with

sticks, grass and weeds

feebly covering them.

Others vicious steel

beasts with razor sharp

teeth. Some traps are

 nastier than others,

but we all eventually

get caught.

The ones who thought

they had escaped are

the ones that get hurt

the most

Nobody ever escapes

all of the traps.

That’s the only victory

that death can achieve.

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 47 year old writer from Stoke On Trent, England.He started writing poetry in the early 2000’s, but due to a lack of confidence, and the lack of a clue of where to send them, he first sent his work out for publication in 2018.Since then he has had over 250 poems published in various ezines.His first collection of poetry, ” Detritus Of The Drunken Night”, was published by Cajun Mutt Press in 2019.He has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.