POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for NOVEMBER.

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POPPIES They fell amongst the poppies there, in Flanders Fields in Passchendaele; we promised to remember them : their war to end all wars. Today, amongst the poppy fields of Helmand in Afghanistan, young soldiers still give up their lives – it seems we never learn. And, as we lay our poppy wreaths, a bitter harvest far away will help destroy our youth today – a hidden kind of war.
LAST MAN STANDING ( I.M. Harry Patch 17/06/1898 – 25/07/09 ) The bugle sounds, the flags unfurl in memory of a modest man whose life was haunted by a dream of clinging mud and fearful noise. He’d heard the cries of injured men while being marched to Pilchem Ridge, then crawled through mud, turned red by blood, and, to a random shell, lost friends. He said that war was nothing more than murder by another name – this last man from that fading band who fought at Ypres and Passchendaele. The nation saw him as a link to multitudes who gave their lives : a living emblem for the lost – an icon to be eulogised. But Harry Patch eschewed his fame – despised the glorying of war; “It’s just showbiz…Remembrance Day” – he hated pomp and ritual. A soldier’s send-off held at Wells – but he’d not want an ornate tomb, reluctant hero to the end he’ll rest in peace at Monkton Combe.
CROSSING OVER Crossing the road, we met by accident, stuck on that traffic island in the rain. Heads down, umbrellas up, we almost missed — but, as the green man lit, you spotted us and called Hello! before we walked again. While others hurried on we stopped to chat as traffic ebbed and flowed just like a sea; then, suddenly, your news came blurting out, hot tears and rain commingled on your cheek — this public grief a storm on this small quay. Strangers, who shared our island, gave us space while passing drivers wondered what was wrong; but all the while as lights and people changed your detailed story gradually was told till, as the sun broke through, your tears were gone. We offered comfort, hugged and said Goodbyes but, as you left, we wiped tears from our eyes.
LOVE... AND FAMILY LIFE Trapped in between frail parents and grown kids — their problems leave us with so much to do. No time to live the kind of life we need — it’s easy to forget how to be free. Their problems leave us with so much to do, each phone call these days seems to bring bad news. It’s easy to forget how to be free — we’re carrying the weight of other’s loads. Each phone call these days seems to bring bad news — our minds are filled with other people’s needs. We’re carrying the weight of other’s loads — no time to be ourselves, see our love grow. Our minds are filled with other people’s needs, the weight of other’s problems bring us down. No time to be ourselves, see our love grow — we’re tired and our silence builds like snow. The weight of other’s problems bring us down, our lives are lived in other people’s time; we’re tired and our silence builds like snow — we wish we had some other place to go! Our lives are lived in other people’s time, our wants and hobbies — everything subsumed — we wish we had some other place to go now life becomes more complex growing old. Our wants and hobbies — everything subsumed — we spend our time at other’s beck and call. As life becomes more complex growing old we fear the flame of romance will be stilled. We spend our time at other’s beck and call and, losing sight of how our lives should be, the flame of romance flickers and is stilled — no time to live the kind of life we need. And losing sight of how our lives should be — trapped in between frail parents and grown kids — our time to live the kind of life we need must be restored if love can ever live.
ECHOES Uncertain that my memory serves me well — my nose pressed to the window of the past for images that flicker like old film with action blurred and features lost to chance. Like sound heard at the bottom of a pool or distant tones that echo underground, it seems your message now falls on deaf ears as I strain hard to catch the words you owned. So many ghostly memories remain : the scent of Jasmine, like a lost perfume; the smell and taste of cognac on your lips; waking at night, as if you’re in the room. I hold your ring with keepsakes from the past — mementoes of the times and life we shared, without your essence they can never spark but memories persist though you're not there.
THE VEERY BIRD (Catharus Fuscesceus) It was the twittering that brought them here, texts, blogs, directions on a birder’s site. Along the road they came in droves : same clothes – their colours uniform, all browns and green – same team supporters, late for their big match. And locals joined in too : small boys on bikes, men with hoes, abandoned their allotments to lean on gates and watch these twitchers pass; even young lovers marry with the queue : desire now focussed on a migrant bird. Labouring at the rear, a fat man sweats in camouflage, long lenses ready set to catch history if he’s not too late… But late he was – murder was committed : he missed the bird, snapped the cat who did it. “Rare bird flew from US to be eaten by a cat” – Daily Record
WARNING It was a sensational announcement, gripping the media, causing panic — yet some complained it had to be a hoax. Instant fame for those archaeologists — their Ethiopian discovery becoming spectacular, world-wide news. Unearthing another level of their site, beneath objects three million years old, they uncovered something unexpected. Glossy, shiny as a hi-tech cellphone, it lit up as soon as it was handled, projecting holograms onto thin air, first with symbols unrecognizable. Then, in the warmth of trembling hands, it scrolled through ancient languages they recognized — but couldn’t read… Ancient Sumerian, Hieroglyphics and Mycenaean Greek… from Latin to Old Persian and Tamu. Already shocked, the team’s next big surprise was this final hologram... in English! appearing as a Users’ Guide, headed “EARTH.” All the controls have been calibrated to fine tolerances, are now pre-set incorporating solar specifics. Earth has been programmed to run perfectly — in harmony with Sun, Moon, wind and weather. PLEASE NOTE: alteration to this balance can quickly result in major changes. Respect all creatures of air, land and sea, Keep Earth green, revere both Fire and Ice.
WINTER JASMINE The start of Winter’s tyranny came early this November day : dawn breaking to a freezing fog that wreathed and changed familiar views — the distant houses, lights and trees were drowning in a milky light. Later, sun’s restricted glow sparked icy glitter from frosted plants; rime ice, capping the fence’s rail, became more obvious to see like cobwebs — each strand ghostly white. From bare hedgerows the red hips glow beneath the ribs of barren trees, but Jasmine, on the garden’s edge, shines through the mist, its tiny suns a challenge to the coldest days and, with Mahonia’s yellow flame, brings comfort to these darkest times.