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Our Brothers; Our Sisters ( Our Veteran’s Day )

veppxxx

While you were away
People continued to want

While you were away
People stressed over latte

While you were away
People blamed the one percent

While you were away
Wall Street didn’t miss a beat

While you were away
Families ignored one another

While you were away
Society forgot to mention

The risk involved
The loss endured
The humanity destroyed

We speak rarely of a certain reality
One the media voice won’t exploit
A truth that evades the common eye

While you were away
People do not understand

Haunted, windows might close
Shadows to follow your mind
Memory, nightmares designed
Tears remain your real lows

While you were away
Brother, sister, friend, foe

We were told about you
Searching the grain of your …
That sheltered your life in
Swathed cocoon like revues

While you were away
People wail their goodbyes

We soar with freedom, a Nation, a society
While eagle’s wings … restore our sanity!

Thom Amundsen
http://thinkingoutloudagain.wordpress.com

BACK TO THE BEGINNING

coff

Soldiers bore the weight of the flag-draped coffin,
A sight seen too often;
Parents’ were grieving,
For a child not breathing,
As the sun slipped beneath the darkening sky,
And all that remained was, “Why?”

Troops surrounded by enemy fire,
As the fateful moments became more dire,
A weapon-wielding patriot discharged a round,
Only to merge with the dusty ground.

Proud to ride the wings of the brave,
Deplaning among an eager conclave,
Physically prepared with mental certitude,
The new fighter marched on with numbing fortitude.

A new recruit raises their hand to be heard,
Listening to the call to battle; still a child, a fledgling bird,
Watching the Union Jack or Star Spangled Banner,
Waving with the wind ‘til the flag fades to amber.

(In Honour of Remembrance/Veterans’ Day)

Wendy Shreve

REMEMBRANCE DAY TO DAY COME AND JOIN US AND SHOW THAT YOU STILL CARE!

Remembrance Sunday is held “to commemorate the contribution of British and Commonwealth military and civilian servicemen and women in the two World Wars and later conflicts

DULCE ET DECORUM EST -Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) Famous Poet

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on , blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tried, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Remembrance

They stand in rows like soldiers on parade

Those memorial stones in the war cemetery

A poignant of those gallant men

Who died fighting to protect our liberty

Many words have been written about the great war

Words which describe the living hell

Words which should have a profound effect on our thinking

Words which remind us of the brave words who tell

They were fighting for the honour of our country

They were fighting to ensure we stayed free

That is what their sacrifice was made for

That is something that should be etched in our memory

These sacrifices should often be in our thoughts

Not just once a year on Remembrance day

When we watch the veterans march past cenotaph

Paying their tribute as the bands their solemn music play

We should think about those who cherish our traditions

We should think about those who died on a foreign shore

To think about the present and the future of our country

And to ask ourselves if this is what they were fighting for

Ron Martin

Lest we forget


Have we forgotten their ultimate sacrifice?
Of these men and women who died in their millions?
Brave and true, without question,
proud to be British, not ashamed to be Christian.

So many years have passed,
it seems our memory doesn’t last.
Forgetting these courageous people, to our shame.
Why can’t we remember their names?

How short is our memory?
That we have forgotten them already?
Died in their millions fighting for our freedom,
believing in our free democratic ideology.

What does it take to wake up this country,
to rise once again from its complacency?
How much more do we take, before we decide to fight,
for our beliefs, our traditions and our liberty?

by Simon Icke UK

 

Forbidden Love

fofbiden love
Hidden secrets
Secret smiles
Smiles hidden
Truth forbidden
Forbidden love
Love secrets
Secret smiles
Smiles hidden
Hidden secrets
Locked tight
Strongest tension
Strangling tight
Tight emotion
Emotion hidden
Secret smiles
Smiles forbidden
No compromise
Given

Gillian Sims

This poem was recently published in the book THE GREAT BRITISH WRITE OFF

Guy Fawkes

It’s just one night

A burning desire

To burn Guy Fawkes

On a blazing fire,

Celebrations light up the sky

Colourful fireworks shoot up high

Blues, Pinks, Greens and red

Celebrating each year of his death,

Around the fire hundreds stare

Watching the embers fade

Quietly putting Guy Fawkes to rest

Abbe Cutforth

 

 

 

 

HAPPY DIWALI

de

LOOK OUT -THERE’S A BONFIRE TREAT COMING DONT GET BURNT THE POETRY IS RED HOT

Scary Mary’s Back

Gathering around the witches cauldron
The ugliest group ever seen
Mary uttering nasty vile spells
Then she let out a blood-curdling scream

The leader of the nasty coven
Was the witch named Scary Mary?
Her face was full of warts
With a moustache and beard all hairy

They danced around the cauldron
Throwing toads and spiders into the brew
Mary was supposed to be experienced
But alas she had not a clue

Her cat Boris was watching
With a smile across his face
To see the witches leaving
At a fast and furious pace

One thing they had forgotten
As they were flying around the floor
They were so high on the brew
They forgot to open the door

Boris by now was in pieces
As they all crashed together in a heap
He was rolling around laughing
As the witches struggled to their feet

Scary Mary was now quite vexed
As she tried to kick start her broom
Boris now was crossing his legs
And was quickly leaving the room

Scary Mary by now was quite dizzy
As she staggered she bumped her head
The last time Boris saw her
She was casting spells in her bed

Malcolm Bradshaw

The Visitor

pumpkinssssssss

A pumpkin knocked at my door
I was shocked, I fell to the floor
The pumpkin had a toothless grin
In the end I asked him to come in
The pumpkin shook my hand
And said I knew you’d understand
I wanted to come to your party
I was all alone
With witches and ghosts
They frightened me
It’s you I’d rather see
Someone warm and bright
On this Halloween night
So what have we got for tea
Trick or treat
It will be a whisky for me
Gillian and Thomas Sims

The Raven BY EDGAR ALLAN PO – YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

 

ravon

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”
    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.
    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”
    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.
    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.
    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”
    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!
YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS

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My-Heavenly-Helpers-Picture-For-Card1

Friday Highlights 54 | … 4m
[…] Gillian & Thomas Sims have created a community that is alive with amazing creative energy, as poets from all around the world showcase their work on their blog Poetreecreations. The first thing that caught me was the name of the blog, as I’m a sucker for interesting business/site/etc names. The more I perused it, the more interested I became and just knew that it would be a great one to share with all of you. Not only will you be able to read great poems, but there is lots of information for those interested in the craft, various projects, videos, ways to promote your own poetry and so much more for visitors and members alike. Make your weekend just a little more exciting with Poetreecreations found ‘here.’ […]

St George Was A Very Brave Guy

 

st g

St George was a very brave guy

As he set out to slay the dragon

He set out on his trusty steed

With all his weapons pack on his wagon

 

He hunted high and low to find the dragon

He travelled far and wide

He decided to set up camp and rest

Placed his head in his hands and cried

 

Then in the distance he heard a mighty roar

With fire and smoke he could see

He decided to wait until morning

Snuggled down to sleep under a tree

 

As the sun arose in the morning

He mounted his trusty steed

For he was in a great hurry

As he galloped of at a very fast pace

 

He finally came face to face with the dragon

Who was snorting out fire and smoke?

He looked at St George and sniggered

For the dragon thought it was a big joke

 

A battle ensued between both of them

A furious fight took place

In the end St George was the victor

But the dragon died with a smile on his face

cartoon_dragon (1) 

Malcolm G Bradshaw

St George and Smokey Joe

St George he had a dragon

 

He called him Smoky Joe

 

He used to cough and splutter

 

And blows smoke wherever he would go.

 

One day he drank some water

 

And steam came out his ears

 

This made old Smoky wither

 

And brought poor George to tears ,

 

But George still pretended he had slain all the dragon’s

 

But did he slay them all ?

 

They say there are some in England,

 

With lot’s of spiky scales

 

But the myth is that they live somewhere

 

But maybe somewhere in South Wales.

 

By Thomas Sims


HAPPY MOTHERS DAY

Mother

mum15

 

A sweet enchanting smile

Warm and tender charms

The things I remember

While safe in mother’s arms

 

Protected from all troubles

Comforted when in pain

Kissed gently on the cheek

To make all better again

 

Guided through my infant life

Of things I should not do

Taught me right from wrong

And shown things old and new

 

I want to thank you mother

I cherished all the years

Even when I was punished

And cried so many tears

 

And now that I am older

My love for you is strong

Although you are no longer with me

To the Spirit world you have gone

 

I know you will always be near me

For your love will never die

At times when I need you

I will always feel you nigh

 

I should like to say thank you

For all that you have done

For I will always cherish you

From your grateful Son.
 
Malcolm Bradshaw
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