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FRIDAY THE 13TH


Oooh! Aaaah!
Stay home
Little frightened ones!
Today is Friday the 13th!
You know what that means!
Ooooh!
Bad luck
Because you feel guilty
For all the things
You’ve done to hurt people
For which you’ve
Yet to be caught.

By Adele Swift

Father’s Day Traditions

Father’s Day is an important day world wide. It is a fine opportunity to honor the Dad’s or Father’s of the world.

In Australia, Father’s Day is celebrated on the First Sunday in September.

Father’s Day in Canada, is celebrated on the third Sunday in June.

In the U.K. Father’s Day is celebrated on the third Sunday in June.

In the United States it is celebrated on the third Sunday in June.

Many Catholics call St. Joseph’s Day, on March 19th, Father’s Day because Joseph was the father of Jesus.

Another tradition of Father’s Day is that of the Flowers, Red roses are worn on Father’s Day to signify that one’s father is living. White roses mean one’s father has died.



201 YRS OLD PRIDE AND PREJUDICE JANE AUSTEN -1813

HAPPY ST.GEORGE’S DAY FROM POETREECREATIONS

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Saint Patrick’s day


 

A little leprechaun sat pondering

Saint Patrick’s Day was fast approaching

For he wanted to learn to sing

But his voice needed coaching

So he went to see his friend Mick

Who’s voice was so sweet and true

I want to sing like an angel

Would you tell me what to do?

Let me hear you sing said Mick

His voice brought Mick to tears

The sound of his voice was so terrible

Mick stood with his hands over his ears

Mick was not put off by his voice

Placing the leprechaun inside a fairy ring

Did a jig of magical mystery

To enable the leprechaun to sing

Then the leprechaun was happy

Thanking Mick, he went on his way

For now, he had a beautiful voice

For him to sing on Saint Patrick’s Day

Malcolm G Bradshaw

HAVE YOU GOT THE RIGHT TIME?

Tick-tock the wife collects clocks

They cover the walls

There is even one in the hall,

And in the living room

Some are small and some are tall,

She even bought one off an old bloke

Who lives down the road,

But one or two of them are broke

Now she’s bought a Cuckoo clock

But that’s the only one

That does not go tick tock,

Some clocks chime like a little rhyme

But not one will tell me the right time

DID YOU FORGET TO PUT YOUR CLOCK BACK

TODAY?

By

Thomas Sims

BURNS NIGHT

The Story of Burns Night


On or around January 25, his believed birthday, the life and work of Scottish poet Rabbie Burns is celebrated with a ritual of food, drink and poetry.
The Burns’ Supper was started by friends of Burns, a few years after his death in 1796, as a tribute to his memory, but it has also become a celebration of Scottishness, and, increasingly in Northern Ireland, America, and Canada of Scottish ancestry. It is important to note that Burns was also a Freemason and many of these celebrations are open to the public locally at Masonic Lodges.
Wherever you are, and however Scottish you are, you can join in with our recipes for the supper and a selection of the great man’s poems and songs.
Northern Ireland has its own tradition of poets in the Burns’ style, the weaver poets of Antrim and Down.
Who Was “Rabbie” Burns?
Born on 25th January 1759, in the parish of Alloway, Ayrshire, Burns was the eldest of seven children to William Burness and Agnes Brown (or Broun). Well educated in a variety of subjects, from Scottish history and folklore to literature, Burns was forced to assist his father in working on the family farm, and took over at 25 when his father died in 1784.

By 28, Burns was beginning to be well known in his literary career; In 1786 he published “Poems: Chiefly in Scottish Dialect”, which was expanded in 1787 and again in 1793 (Ibid.). Beginning in 1786, Burns would spend much time in Edinburgh among the elite and intellectuals of Scottish society, although Burns felt that they were only patronizing him because his soul of literary genius lied within the body of a country bumpkin. He returned to Ayrshire and unsuccessfully tried farming; in 1791 he became an exciseman, or customs agent, and joined the local yeomanry unit, the Dumfriesshire Volunteers. However, the physical and mental toll of his hard life, plus growing financial burdens, weakened him, and in 1796, Burns died of rheumatic heart disease, caused by his lack of a healthy diet in his younger years.

However, physical and financial matters were not the only things that troubled Robert; The Kirk of Scotland (The Presbyterian Church) and it’s opposition to his lifestyle was another. In particular, Burns’s sexual escapades caused much hostility between him and the church. Burns fathered a number of illegitimate children, including one by his future wife, Jean Armour, the daughter of a Master Mason. Burns wanted to marry Jean; her father refused and Burns and Jean appeared for penance in church to “receive public reproof for the sin of fornication” Burns would continue his rampant sexual activities right up until several years before his death. He never stopped his literary war against Scottish Calvinism, and lampooned it in a number of poems, including “Holy Willie’s Prayer”, “The Holy Fair”, and others.

Besides his rather libertine actions with women, Burns was also a political radical, and a rather strange mix at that. From reading Scottish history, Burns became an ardent nationalist, writing many romantic ballads about Scottish attempts to secure their independence from the English, from Robert the Bruce to Bonny Prince Charlie. This can be seen in poems like “Scots wha Hae”, “Charlie is My Darling”, “The White Cockade”, and many others.

Burns combined his Jacobite sympathies of the past with Jacobin politics of the present. He vocally supported the French and American Revolutions, which aroused suspicion of his loyalties, especially when in the service of His Majesty’s government as an exciseman, although Burns did recant his French tendencies when Britain and France went to war in 1792 . And while Burns may have been inspired by the French Revolution, his involvement in Freemasonry certainly played a large part in his opinions in favour of both secular and religious equity
He was only 37 when he died of heart disease but in that last year of his life he had written some of his most-respected works, such as The Lea Rig, Tam O’Shanter and O, My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.

 

Twelve March Poems

 MARCH MAD

 
 
“March Snow”
 
There is something hopeful about March,
something benevolent about the light,
 
and yet wherever I look snow
has fallen or is about to fall, and the cold
 
is so unexpected, so harsh,
that even the spider lily blooming
 
on the windowsill seems no more
than another promise, soon to be broken.
 
It is like a lover who speaks
the passionate language of fidelity, but
 
when you look for him, there he is
in the arms of winter.
 
— Linda Pastan
 
* * *
 
“March morning unlike others”
 
Blue haze. Bees hanging in the air at the hive-mouth.
Crawling in prone stupor of sun
On the hive-lip. Snowdrops. Two buzzards,
Still-wings, each
Magnetized to the other,
Float orbits.
Cattle standing warm. Lit, happy stillness.
A raven, under the hill,
Coughing among bare oaks.
Aircraft, elated, splitting blue.
Leisure to stand. The knee-deep mud at the trough
Stiffening. Lambs freed to be foolish.
 
The earth invalid, dropsied, bruised, wheeled
Out into the sun,
After the frightful operation.
She lies back, wounds undressed to the sun,
To be healed,
Sheltered from the sneapy chill creeping North wind,
Leans back, eyes closed, exhausted, smiling
Into the sun. Perhaps dozing a little.
While we sit, and smile, and wait, and know
She is not going to die.
 
— Ted Hughes
 
* * *
 
“Sunny Day in March”
 
Even the weathercock turns with the sun on such a day.
It must be spring. Outside the cellar wall the cat
has found himself shelter. He’s asleep, no doubt,
but his fur is well puffed up and his paws
well tucked under. A fly has been tempted out
from a crack in the warm plank wall — starts
buzzing. Soon stiffens. It’s too cold.
 
— Olav H. Hauge
translated from the Norwegian by Robin Fulton
 
* * *
 
“A Death in March”
 
Even so the Spring goes forward.
The rind of the trees weepy with sap. No spigot to carry it off.
From here to the other side, ice is motley. The river’s current
expression: a stutter of ice cakes on the shore. Fret of spume.
Some days, though, we waken to snow,
fugacious erasure of mud and broken branches.
We feel the setback. Want the spectacular squalor
of Spring: its colourless smear. There’s no word for that.
For snow falling, fugue slow, through fog. Earth and air
unable to settle what it’s to be. Now is after. Or, ahead?
Interrugnum: Its beauty is brutal. A raw wind through bereft.
 
— Anne Compton
 
* * *
 
“Spring Equinox Full Moon”
 
I breathe to you
love in the south of the many
months of spring
hibiscus in dark hair water
at the source
shadows glistening to hips
thighs slender sunset shining shores
 
fingers rolled fragrant leaves
presence of deep woods
earth veiled in green drift
that hides running
of small airs
untraceable fine sounds
passing as on a face
feet first drops of rain on a mountain
hands greeting flowers
holden stolen flowers
 
closed eyes of every creature
sepia and amber days
back
of tall tree
arms’ glide
voice of rain forests
birds in tree heights
throat of palm
 
wrist of palm
palm of palm
morsel breasts
melon navel waist of high waterfall
surf laughter face hearing music
body of flight
secret
beach
 
away from you on a corner of the earth
I want to think for six hours of your hair
which is the invention of singing
daughter of islands
born in the flood of the fish harvest
I see long mornings
lying on your hair
I remember looking for you
 
— W. S. Merwin
 
* * *
 
“March 2003”
 
In March exact shadows on snow,
blue in the spectrum overtakes lavender;
the pillows of vapor at a slow bedroom gallop.
 
Up, up, the whistle pierces; the burn
of one and one, couples the rising
yearn, twin twine, dare,
and thickening flash in shoals.
 
Even deep-rooted conifers,
their green wax fangs open,
hustling in the languorous swells.
 
— Ruth Stone
 
* * *
 
“Unknown Things”
 
were set before me on earth .
But once I touched them I’d known them
right back from the blinding sight I caught
of the glacier by whose foot red and golden
birds foraged in the shadow of tall mammoths
and the noise I heard from the bells and the smell
of church porches, earth in March, so many springs . . .
Every day tools they were. A hammer, a saw and
the things which people during the time they have on earth
learn the names of, and cut into each other with.
 
— Henrik Nordbrandt
translated from the Danish by Robin Fulton
 
* * *
 
“March 21”
 
The vernal equinox is to blame
for the celestial uproar, Anne
Carson said, and nothing surprises
me more than the streaks of white
sunlight this morning with Dexter
Gordon’s version of “Tangerine”
in my mind the day is a rhyme
the pencil broke, no need to shout,
I want a girl to write sonnets about
in college & love is the food
that nourishes what it consumes
in springlike days in furnished rooms
I’m hungry, please come and touch me
and I’ll whisper your name the only
thing missing in this picture is you
 
— David Lehman
 
* * *
 
“March”
 
A bear under the snow
Turns over to yawn.
It’s been a long, hard rest.
 
 
Once, as she lay asleep, her cubs fell
Out of her hair,
And she did not know them.
 
It isk hard to breathe
In a tight grave:
 
So she roars,
And the roof breaks.
Dark rivers and leaves
Pour down.
 
When the wind opens its doors
In its own good time,
The cubs follow that relaxed and beautiful woman
Outside to the unfamiliar cities
Of moss.
 
— James Wright
 
* * *
 
“If I Could Paint Essences”
(Hay on Wye)
 
Another day in March. Late
rawness and wetness. I hear my mind say,
if only I could paint essences.
 
Such as the mudness of mud
on this rainsoaked dyke where coltsfoot
displays its yellow misleading daisy.
 
Sch as the westness of west here
in England’s last thatched, rivered
county. Red ploughland. Green pasture.
 
Black cattle. Quick water. Overpainted
by lightshafts from layered gold
and purple cumulus. A cloudness of clouds
 
which are not likie anything but clouds.
 
But just as I arrive at true sightness of seeing,
unexpectedly I want to play on those bell-toned
cellos of delicate not-quite-flowering larches
 
tht offer, on the opposite hill, their unfurled
amber instruments — floating, insubstantial, a rising
horizon of music embodied in light.
 
And in such imagining I lose sight of sight.
Just as I’ll lose the tune of what
hurls in my head, as I turn back, turn
 
home to you, conversation, the inescapable ache
of trying to catch, say, the catness of cat
as he crouches, stalking his shadow,
 
on the other side of the window.
 
— Anne Stevenson
 
* * *
 
“Three Things That Make Me Outrageously
Happy in March”
 
Begin with the evergreen Clematis montana. Shy
about opening, blooms pulse into view
a few at a time against the night sky. Some
morning, a creamy tsunami
sweeps over the chain-link fence in a spring
seizure of yearning. Drenches the passerby in
dizzying scent and charges winter’s
dark air without warning.
 
Next, the black umbrella
ribs of Styrax japonica open to rain. Their
delicate green incipient leaves
reverse the gradual losses of autumn. remember
this overture to the Japanese Snowbell
symphony in May when it’s time to clean up
the carpet of dried flowers and pods, time to
cart uprooted seedlings away.
 
When navel oranges
kissed by lazy California sun, glow like
moons in every supermarket, I go
crazy, buy all I can carry. At home, they
tumble from the sack to kiss my eager lips, and as
that nectar of the gods floods my veins, I live
in lovers’ paradise every juicy moment
of Seattle rains.
 
— Madeline DeFrees
 
* * *
 
“March”
 
A Caribbean airflow
shampoos the brook.
The deepsea deepwarm look of
sky wakes green below
amid the rinds of snow.
 
Though all seems melt and rush,
earth-loaf, sky-wine,
swept to bright new horizons
with hill-runnel, and gash,
all soaked in sunwash,
 
far north, the ice
unclenches, booms
the chunks and floes, and river brims
vanish under cold fleece:
the floods are loose!
 
The sullen torn
old skies through tattery trees
clack, freezing
stiffens loam; the worn
earth’s spillways then relearn
how soaring bliss
and sudden-rigoring frost
release
without all lost.
 
— Margaret Avison

Pancake day treat

When the children have finished play

They suddenly remember its Pancake day

Inside they run to see all the treats

That will surround their Pancake feast,

Jams fruit and cream a Pancake dream

The children lick their lips

Whilst mum masters the mixture and whips,

All the magic ingredients together

To produce batter as light as a feather

patiently the children wait,

Whilst mother designs and creates

This scrumptious feast

That will knock them off their feet

Once the Pancakes have reached their plates

She relishes in their happy faces

Their eyes light up with such joy

Like Christmas all over when opening their toys.

By Gillian Sims

Pancake day

The children all look forward

To the tradition of Pancake Day

Whilst mother cooked the pancakes

The children went outside to play

 

The smell of the pancakes cooking

Creating an hypnotic aroma in the air

Children just like a magnet

Drawn inside, just to stop and stare

 

They stood watching their Mother

Tossing the pancake with glee

Children shouting.” Please don’t drop it”

 Landing safely back in pan for all to see

 

Out came the oranges and lemons

Making them delicious to eat

Children tucking into the pancakes

Everyone enjoyed that pancake treat.

 

Malcolm G Bradshaw

HAPPY ST DAVID’S DAY

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AIRING OUT LOVE’S ATTIC

 the park
 
 
We started when autumn leaves stuck to the ground,
And rambled; bantered all around.
When morning dew smeared the vehicle’s glass;
Onlookers admired our repartee ’til trip passed.
 
Off to a park on a sky clear day,
You made your intentions known along the way;
My heart emerged to blast the bitter wind
And so I knew our union would begin.
 
Every day collected as a new secret shared;
If the unhidden had scarred, we didn’t care;
For laughter, thoughts and dreams we discovered,
Without seeing realities not yet uncovered.
 
Important moments, holidays, suddenly arose,
Though I wasn’t invited to share in any of those;
I excused the overlook as the newness of love,
Until the frosty cold forced me to peer beneath my gloves.
 
What I found were the same working hands,
That tried to remold; then you stopped and took a stand;
Stuck you have been in years of hardened ways,
Rebuffing my present efforts to settle and stay.
 
For your life has never truly belonged to me;
You made that clear from day three;
That love has eluded you, its constancy, too,
Still your heart wants to begin with me anew.
 
So out with long-standing, tired ways,
We strive to forgive, to mend broken days;
Packed baggage we open and hope to toss;
Happy memories saved, unhappy lost.
 
For pain hasn’t resurfaced with the fallen rain;
No, I’ve been there before and probably will again;
Decades I’ve traveled: body tired, not spirit;
Naysayers may dither but I won’t hear it!
Wendy Shreve

Be my Valentine


 

Will you be my Valentine?

Will you be my love?

For you were sent from heaven

An angel from above

I will send you flowers

Chocolates so sweet and dark

For I am infatuated with you

I have placed you within my heart

I promise not to hurt you

To treat you with tender care

To love and provide for you

 For everything I have I’d share

So please be my Valentine

 Together till the end of time

I will never desert you

If only you’ll say your mine

Malcolm G Bradshaw

Remembering Valentines Day

malolm va l

I remember all my Valentines

They are deep within my heart

Every one was so special

Until the day we had to part

You see my loved one past away

After many years together

All the memories of Valentines Day

To me I will always treasure

Red roses were always given to me

And a candlelit meal for two

Every time Valentines comes around

My everlasting love I send to you

And on this special day

I place by your picture frame

A bunch of red roses in memory

To ease my heartache and pain

Malcolm Bradshaw

Remembering Valentines Day

red hearsts

 

I remember all my Valentines

They are deep within my heart

Every one  was so special

Until the  day we had to part

 

You see my loved one past away

After many years together

All the  memories of Valentines Day

To me I  will always treasure

 

Red roses were always given to me

And a candlelit meal for two

Every  time Valentines comes around

My  everlasting love I send to you

 

And on this special day

I place  by your picture frame

A bunch  of red roses in memory

To ease  my heartache and pain

 

Malcolm  Bradshaw

What are you doing on valentine’s day?

scale

AND SHE SAID YES

Eight YEARS AGO TODAY

 

8 WAYS TO WRITE A LOVE POEM

POWER OF LOVE

Remember a time when you really wanted to tell someone how you felt about them, but didn’t think you could get the words to come out right? Or that time you wanted to give a certain someone a present, but you couldn’t find that perfect thing? Well, the next time that happens, have no fear — because our love poem tip guide is here (you love our snazzy rhyme, huh?)! Some feelings just need to be expressed, and writing a love poem is one of the most creative and sincere ways to say I LOVE YOU.
  1. Feelings. When you look at the person you love, what runs through your mind? Think of words to describe how they make you feel, so you can use them throughout your poem. Even if they make your brain all foggy, write about that!
  2. Firsts.  Everyone loves a bit of nostalgia. Remember how this person first came into your life. Was it love at first sight, or were you totally turned off until you got to know them better? Where were you? What details can you remember about the first time you met/went on a date/kissed? The little things matter, especially in a love poem, so don’t forget about them.
  3. Comparison. If you’re writing a love poem about someone, chances are they’ve had a pretty big impact on your life. In your poem, compare how your life was before and after this person began playing a role in your life story. Maybe you were going through a rough time and they made it better, or you were always a happy person, but they just made you smile a little wider. Whatever your story, everyone enjoys being told how much they matter, so be sure to let this person know how much they’ve changed your life for the better.
  4. Tone. Don’t worry about making your poem sound too sappy or romantic. Just be yourself, use your personality, and write about the things that might be a little harder to say out loud. Yeah, it sounds corny, but the best poems are the ones that come from your heart.
  5. Pattern. When it comes to the format of the poem, creating a rhyme scheme or pattern shouldn’t be the main focus. If a rhyme comes naturally, go for it, but remember that some of the greatest poems don’t rhyme. Sometimes, a sing-song rhyme can take away the heart of a poem because both the writer and the reader pay more attention to how the poem is written, instead of what it’s about. For a love poem, it’s about what you say, not how you say it.
  6. Spread the Love. No matter who you are or who stole your heart,
  7. we all love a love poem At Poetree Creations.
  8. Why not give it some thought.

Ode to Friesian

wendy 1
Ode to a Friesian (a.k.a. Ode to Milo)
A rare Chestnut among your peers,
Baroque in body, an athlete’s frame:
Well-chiseled, short ears,
Compact and strong of limb, a stallion’s name.
 
A war horse with a passive heart;
Classical lines, pure soul, a breed apart.
Free spirit, though workhorse when reined in;
Spurred to full gallop, you fly with the wind.
 
Your past, though fraught with labor,
Cannot keep you from what you savor,
To step outside your confined walls,
And show your worth to whomever calls.
 
For you stand tall,
Your legs rise and fall,
Muscled, toned you walk with grace,
But these don’t diminish your strength, your pace.
 
Power emboldens your ancestral pride;
You are never taken for just a ride;
Body groomed to take action,
Yet a disciplined mind keeps your traction.
wendy2
 
Dedicated to the  Man I Love
Wendy
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