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The legend of St George’s and the dragon

The Legend of St. George and the Dragon

St GeorgeSt. George travelled for many months by land and sea until he came to Libya. Here he met a poor hermit who told him that everyone in that land was in great distress, for a dragon had long ravaged the country.

‘Every day,’ said the old man, ‘he demands the sacrifice of a beautiful maiden and now all the young girls have been killed. The king’s daughter alone remains, and unless we can find a knight who can slay the dragon she will be sacrificed tomorrow. The king of Egypt will give his daughter in marriage to the champion who overcomes this terrible monster.’

When St. George heard this story, he was determined to try and save the princess, so he rested that night in the hermit’s hut, and at daybreak set out to the valley where the dragon lived. When he drew near he saw a little procession of women, headed by a beautiful girl dressed in pure Arabian silk. The princess Sabra was being led by her attendants to the place of death. The knight spurred his horse and overtook the ladies. He comforted them with brave words and persuaded the princess to return to the palace. Then he entered the valley.

George slaying the dragon

As soon as the dragon saw him it rushed from its cave, roaring with a sound louder than thunder. Its head was immense and its tail fifty feet long. But St. George was not afraid. He struck the monster with his spear, hoping he would wound it.

Fstival of History

The dragon’s scales were so hard that the spear broke into a thousand pieces. and St. George fell from his horse. Fortunately he rolled under an enchanted orange tree against which poison could not prevail, so that the venomous dragon was unable to hurt him. Within a few minutes he had recovered his strength and was able to fight again.

St George fights the dragon with his sword

He smote the beast with his sword, but the dragon poured poison on him and his armour split in two. Once more he refreshed himself from the orange tree and then, with his sword in his hand, he rushed at the dragon and pierced it under the wing where there were no scales, so that it fell dead at his feet.

The dragon is killed

How will you be celebrating St George’s Day?



Don’t be fooled

On the first day of April

Everyone tries to deceive you all

Some of us are easily taken in

Because we are not always on the ball


So, remember as the day approaches

You all will have to stay cool

Because not all of us

Want to become an April fool


Malcolm Bradshaw


Mother Poem -Single Parent


A single mother strives to succeed amidst overwhelming obstacles.

I sit and look out upon the life of a single parent
I hear the single mother’s selfless cries of loneliness for her child in the still darkness of the night
I see the mother awaking her child with a playful game of peek-a-boo with a smile as warm and bright as the afternoon sun at its apex of the day
I mark the loving kindness she expresses toward her son even with the all the trials and tribulations this world puts upon her
I observe the mother getting herself ready for work with the misgivings of the coming day (where are my socks, did I already put salt in the eggs, where did I put my keys)
I observe the quiet darkness of the child’s bedroom with the mother sitting on the bed with a Bible in hand telling her child of all the wonderful things of Gods love then kissing him good night
All these things are things a mother has to do to help her child grow
See hear, and be not afraid you can succeed with Gods help
© Tiara S. Winston

Garden Poems Wanted



We would love to see your poetry about gardening

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All was very quite as I sat alone

It was if I was surrounded by light

I felt at ease and all was calm 

On a journey I was taken that night 

A gentle voice said do not be afraid

Please take hold of my hand

I want to take you on a journey

To a peaceful and pleasant land 

My companion was a spirit guide

Who explain his world to me?

He was taking me on an adventure

For me alone to see 

He wanted to elevate my fears

That death is not the end

It’s the beginning of a new experience

This message to all I send

First and foremost you all are spirit

For the material is but brief

For as we leave the material world

Our spirit within is released 

You are then reunited with your loved ones

Who have all past before?

You then will be reunited

As you pass through the spiritual door 

Malcolm Bradshaw




Spirits in the sky


An old medicine man wandered into the Indian camp

To seek an audience with the great chief Sitting Bull

Who was sitting outside his lodge

His war council sat all around

He beckoned Sitting Bull to one side

Before you go into battle

Seek guidance from the spirits in the sky

Go to the great lakes

The homeland of your forefathers

Who went there before you

Where the grass is green and the buffalo roam.”

A great wind and cloud rose out from the ground

The spirits of the Wolf, the Bear, and the Eagle

Along with the ghost riders in the sky

The Warriors battle had been long forgotten

Where soldiers bullets just flew by,

You will Be safe my brave young warrior”

Sitting Bull rose at sunlight

Morning dew was still upon the ground,

He rode back to the camp where there were tepees

Scattered all around.

Next day the battle was upon him

War bonnet and paint he adored

On his white stallion he did ride

To meet soldiers in the Valley

Who were Spoiling for a fight,

Has Sitting Bull saw the soldiers

He galloped at them hard and fast

Whooping and howling

His war cry as he rode past,

The soldiers fired their rifles

But bullets travelled straight past

His warriors watched in amazement

From a bluff way up high,

Now they all believe in the vision

And the spirits in the sky

By Thomas  Sims



Who needs a super hero

When you’ve got a super smurf

With magic powers that you can’t see,

He would use his powers

And amused us for hours

But by using his powers

He got stuck to the side of his cage,

Because a magnet he ate

it’s a good job he didn’t eat too many,

The size of a penny

But one had fallen off the spider man’s foot

Then it got stuck in the smurfs furry cheek

For nearly a week,

Now Spider man’s been put back on the shelf

Then one day the magnet popped out,

Just leaving a graze at the side of smurf’s face

And Smurf is now back to his loopy old self

Thomas Sims



Re-living the Dambusters’ Raid – exactly 70 years ago today

The Westminster Collection

16th May 2013 – the 70th anniversary of the Dambusters’ Raid – the exact moment when, on 16th May 1943, 617 Squadron set off from RAF Scampton in Lincolnshire under Wing Commander Guy Gibson to destroy the dams of Germany’s Ruhr Valley with their ‘bouncing bombs’.

As part of the official Battle of Britain Memorial, 495 specially designed Dambusters’ covers will be flown on board one of just two surviving Lancaster Bombers over Derbyshire’s Derwent Reservoir, part of Derwent Dam – an area used by the pilots for training.


An Officially Approved Royal Air Force Commemoration, each cover features an original Dambusters’ stamp, postmarked with an exclusive cancellation dated 17th May, and an official 70th Anniversary Dambusters Coin struck in Solid 925/1000 Silver to the highest proof finish, its reverse enhanced with selective 24-Carat Gold-Plating.

Just 495 available

Due to the cover’s uniqueness and the fact that tonight’s flight will never be repeated,

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dambusters 617 SQUADRON


Dog of Night
  While Lancs go forth consuming flight
  ascending safe through edge of light

The dog of night keeps Scamptons Gate
caressed by sleep whence time will break

In dreams and thoughts another day
of aircrews, grass and hours of play

His restlessness his turn of eye
a welcome touch, a voice, a sigh

Forever held no more to roam
Hells darkened depth to be his home

When ships return may he awake
and from this hole, his life to take

Soon voices free will cut the tie
to bring together both on high.

John C Haywood Copyright © Poetry In Action 



Count them back


I stand and count and count again                                                        
adrenaline blocking thought and pain

No more my friends their laughter shown
around this place now sombre grown

Oh! where Oh! where my thoughts run wild
as lips respond like gibbering child

I stand and count and count once more
then finally turn and close the door.

John C Haywood Copyright © 
Poetry In Action


The Real Aviator’s

Pilots and navigators, the adventurers of old
sometimes quite crazy, but most of all bold

Bleriot Sikorsky Alcock and Brown
they came from your city, they came from your town

And who would have thought it so long ago
that aerodynamics be part of the show

From Sopwith and Cierva Lockheed and Spad
so many killed though, the memories are sad

Handley Page, Messerscmitt, Short Brothers and Yak
remember the pilots who never came back

Then there’s our Amy, Lindbergh and Wright
the thrill of the take-off, the tension, the flight

But those with the calling were pioneers all
and they relished the flying, the lift, and the stall

I could go on for ever with tales of the few
about dare-devil aviators resting up in the blue

We won’t forget Vicker’s and Hawker, the best
in year 1940 they surpassed all the rest

From box-kite to jet plane in such a short time
they had a good reason and a good rhyme

Frank Whittle and Avro had come a long way
but air transportation was now here to stay

So when next in an aircraft think of these guy’s
watching your progress in their conquered sky’s.

John C Haywood Copyright © 
Poetry In Action

The Lanc’s of  Manby

Oh! faithful Lanc in flight so high, bearing airmen through the sky
Roaring Merlins carry back, commited airmen through the flack

Hour on hour of dulled distraction, signalled by the right of action
Born aloft from base in flight, returning wounded in the night

Surviving crew another day, carry those who have no say
Tour of duty in their stride, checked by ground crew with great pride’

John C Haywood Copyright © Poetry In Action

Warrior of the Sky

On trusty stead I mount the sky, as whispered cloudlets rush on by
I dive, pull back, invert and climb, till blinding lights dull space and time
Then roll and turn, leave fields below, while power surges on as though
I’ve lost control of all I sought, adrenaline bending every thought
Regaining charge my head now clear, so close disaster seconds near
As one we ride through wave and crest, decending mighty beast to rest
To ride on high another day, foreboding foe for you to slay
With lions roar and proof of worth, caressing trees we kiss the earth.
John C Haywood Copyright © Poetry In Action


Kirton Lindsay

‘I’d like my friends’ to tell a tale
of open sky’s and vapour trail

Our climb to height, our rush to Earth
all sinews taught, as if at birth

When whispered clouds brush metal skin
and face distorts all cramped within

The compressed torso cold with sweat
is forced by acts so quick to set

But nerves of steel come into play
and help us through another day.

Copyright John C Haywood © Poetry In Action

Tail End Charlie

I’m the tail end charlie at the rear of every ship
dreadfully cold, on each and every trip

Surrounded by perspex and stuck here every night
no room to manoeuvre, when the doors are all shut tight

I love the terra firma, but I’m the last to leave
you can say it’s rather silly, and maybe quite naive

But when the aircraft leaves the air, and we come into land
guess who’s last to leave the ship, now you’ll understand

Why the tail end charlie, on each and every mission
is such a solitary lonely guy, stuck in a daft position.

John C Haywood Copyright © Poetry In Action



On the 15th of April, in Eighty Nine,
A match was to be played, in the spring sunshine.
Sheffield Wednesday’s ground, was the F.A.Cup venue.
A Liverpool: Notts. Forest Semi-Final, was on the menu.

With all tickets sold, the 24,000 crowd
Waved their scarves, and sang out, deafeningly loud.
This was surely a players dream,
As the managers stood in front of their teams.

Kenny Dalgleish, and Brian Clough
Had selected the men that were talented enough;
They led the teams out, feeling proud,
To a tumultuous cheer from the waiting crowd.

The whistle started the game at three O’clock,
No one was aware of the coming shock.
All round the ground, they cheered on their side,
Not realising that soon, many people would have died.

Thousands still gathered outside the gate,
Liverpool fans, arriving too late;
The turnstiles were packed with the late arrivals,
Who joined those on the terraces, to watch their team’s survival.

Police ushered latecomers, families, and friends,
To add to the crush at the Lapping Lane end.
Six minutes later, the match was halted,
Players led from the pitch, as the game was aborted.

Barriers in place, separated fans from the stars;
Crammed on the terraces, behind wire mesh and steel bars.
Far too many bodies in such a small space,
Surging forward;…a disaster was taking place.

Agile souls climbed the fences, to get to the grass,
While others were trampled; it happened so fast.
Young and old alike; the poor and the rich,
Male and female, died on that pitch.

Pleading faces, many who drew their last breath,
Against the relentless barrier, were crushed to death.
Arms reaching aloft, lifted by those in the upper tier,
Hoardings used as stretchers, carrying bodies clear.

There were 700 or more, beside the deceased,
All needing treatment, for their injuries;
Too late for the victims, – but an after thought,
All seater stadiums, with no barriers, said the Taylor report.

At Anfield, relatives and fans annually commemorate
The loss of the innocent, at Bill Shankley Gate.
Flowers and shirts, in a mass of red,
A tribute to the 96 dead.

Survivors must find it particularly hard,
Recalling that day, that left them mentally scarred;
Tears well up in eyes, and the traffics stop,
As thousands pay their respect, at their beloved Kop.

Liverpool’s anthem is sung in that Scouser tone,
Gerry Marsden reminds survivors, they’ll never walk alone.
A salute to those injured, and 96 who died,
Leaving a gap in the families that have survived.

Still seeking answers from the Yorkshire police,
Mourning continues, for the innocent deceased;
Hillsborough has a reputation, unwillingly earned,
For those who went to a match…
…but never returned.

© Jim Bell


I find a penny

I pick it up
give it to my sister
So she has good luck.

I skip the cracks

No broken backs

I knock on wood
To keep it good.

I cross my fingers

So good luck lingers.
I laugh and play
To save the day.

By Brenda Braene


Memories of years gone by


My granddad used to say to me

They were the good time’s for your gran and me

There was fish and chips and batter bits

Wrapped in newspaper

A scrumpcious treat for me,

Then there was your gran’s scrubbing our doorstep

With her curlers in her hair

And granddad’s smoking Woodbine’s

And nattering to any one who cared,

There were kids playing

Marble’s, snobs, and hopscotch

Outside the old gun factory gate’s,

Look here comes the rag and bone man

coming down the street

giving out all of his  treats,

Balloons and gold-fish to every kid he could see

Some kid shouts the coalmans around the corner

Filling up the shoots,

And leaving coal scattered in the streets

Ho no the toilets were down the yard

As far has they could be,

 No -one could see

The newspaper on a nail

No toilet rolls in sight

To stand out at night,

Then there’s gran with her mangle

And washing on the line,

Cloth’s prop in the middle

Holding it up high

The wind is blowing grans washing

Until it nearly dry,

But granddad’s in the front room

Puffing on his fags

Thinking of the good time’s

And the memories of  the year’s that have passed

by Thomas Sims

The Poets Corner – Promote Yourself


There once was a poet that sat in a corner

Of a room inspired by peace
A simple wood desk,
A window of lace
Nature’s tones were the colors,
That calmed his small space
Outside moist snow fell, as it called winter in
Warm though, his bones did stay
Wrapped in a bath robe that draped past his knees,
One that’s been softened through wear and with age
To his right was a photo, silver mat framed,
A memory of earlier life
To his left, a candle, in its usual place,
Its wax slowly dripping a prefect dull white
It burned, this candle
Faster than thought
Frustrated his feelings, couldn’t be penned
They hung in the shadow
Between him and his paper
He glanced at the photo and sat back again
Visions of memories
Before his eyes played,
As if, it was a life before
A photo of time he no longer knew,
Tears dripped like wax
As those days, he mourned
A majestic poet, with so much to say,
Is now lost in a world of the past
A glance at the candle,
The melted small flicker
Ironically feeling, his life went by,
…Seemingly just as fast
The flame that struggles to stay alive,
Now symbolic, this night of his soul
The poet retires his pen one more time,
Keeps his thoughts to himself,
Keeps his pain untold
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