Poppies

with fire in her voice the School Teacher cried
'' we all wear poppies and we wear them with pride
we wear our poppies in honour of the dead ''
she said what she meant and she meant what she said

Renata, was a  young girl, who bore no blame
but with no poppy,  had to defend her name
''come here to the front you bad little lass,
stand here on this chair and explain to the class''

to the School Teacher this child did seem a little odd
but Renata was composed, she'd talked to her God
with the face of an angel, her voice a little quiver
she opened her mouth and began to deliver

''Daddy earned respect in the Battle of Rome
and hailed as a Hero when he never came home.
I was raised by my Mother and older Brothers,
Aunties and Uncles and Kinsfolk and others

we all thought that the war would be over soon
then an awful sight blanked the light of the moon
no longer safe in our own little bubble
my home town was reduced to a pile of rubble

you'll be safe in the Abbey while the battle suffuses
away from the bombs with delayed action fuses
you'll be safe in the Abbey with ten foot thick walls
for women and children true sanctuary calls

you'll be safe in the Abbey '' she tried not to cry
''this was a despicable and horrible lie
beneath fallen masonry and smoking clatter
lied three hundred people whose lives didn't matter

soldiers observed and cheered them on for more
cold blooded murder under the banner of war
under the rubble laid my Mummy and Brothers,
Aunties and Uncles and kinsfolk and others

you see I didn't mean to cause any offence
but this hatred and killing doesn't make any sense
I believe in he who will raise up the dead''
She said what she meant and she meant what she said

finally she spoke from the chair where she stood
'' I believe in the time when war will be gone for good''
the Teacher relented but still wore a frown
''very well Renata, you may go and sit down''

The Battle for Cassino was a series of assaults by the Allies with the objective of taking Rome. Women and Children were ushered into the Abbey with the full assurance that they would be safe. However 142 Flying Fortresses (blocking out the light of the moon) with 1400 tonnes of high explosives, razed the whole town to the ground including  the Abbey, sadly with many innocent civilian casualties.

The Seasons in Four Movements


1. Winter's Voice


and Winter's Voice fell still

still

from a dreary sky woolly snow flakes fell
like they were disappointed and aimless
where they would land was impossible to tell
like a bird song stultified and nameless

as each snowflake fell the silence did sing
distilled beauty of evenings embrace
snow fell as peace you couldn't hear anything
unruffled white as delicate as lace

snow awakens feelings deep within us
of peace and a time when war is no more
as beautiful as Winter's Voice abuzz
to walk on snow where no one has before

trees decked in frost each blade of grass glistens
walking in twirls that dance across the moor
quiet snow flakes fall and nature listens
even the hills are not scared anymore

and Winter's Voice fell softly,

softly.

2. Summer's gone

at last the whimsical month of July
you've not got long time will pass you by
innocence granted us time to feel good
the sea was warm, it was also your friend
you lived forever, summers had no end
but summers ended and with them childhood

Summer's gone

when the sun would not let you stay indoors
when you kicked off against parental laws
you went down to the beach and walked barefoot
before the wind blew and it got colder
and you realised that you were growing older
the apron strings were untied and then they were cut

Summer's gone

I stand now in front of Winter's fire
with each passing year the flames grow higher
slumbering world from a forgotten time
when the sea was warm and the sky was blue
and your own love story awaited you
laugh at the future when the words don't rhyme

Summer's gone

but above the clouds it is always blue
and it is there that your head needs to stay
not wasting your time chasing yesterday
the blossom still falls and the birds still sing
there will always be another Summer
there will always be another Spring

Summer's gone.

3. Spring Interlude
a short play... on words!

''hiya Cinth'' chirped Robin, '' good day leah. Is Iris alright? ''
Iris was singing to herself near the stream that ran through the garden
on the other side of the stream a Bull rushes but Robin takes his time,
he has an announcement to make to the whole garden!

" I have just heard first hand from Sergeant Greylag that Bad Winter wants to come back and take over our garden! We must act decisively. Does anyone have any suggestions?

"yes Rose"
"the only thing to scare off Bad Winter is colour! ''
"that's very prim" interrupted Mrs Finch
"Rose is right" asserted Miss Magnolia " we all need to flower our little heads off! "
Daff and Poppy nodded in agreement but Robin flew away.

"and where do you think you're going? " bellowed Colonel Blackthorn.
"singing practise for tomorrow morning's concert. I haven't got a girlfriend yet so I need to sing louder and longer"
Woody could be heard practising his drum solo in the distance.
Just then Brother Blackbird landed " right, no larking around. Bad Winter is at the gate! "

The battle had begun.

Field Marshall Jack Frost crept in slowly and stealthily but Dan de Lion pinned him back from all angles and with the help of Doctor Summerbreeze Dan de Lion gained control of the air. A vital strategic move.

In an awesome display of colour, Violet spread her troops out and defended the lawn while Captain Hawthorne gallantly defended the perimeter hedge with his trademark prickly stubbornness.

However things were not going so well in the 'battle of the pond'. Lilium was almost asleep in the grip of a cold front. This was not good. What was she going to do now. The Brown family immediately relayed information to the Blossom Sisters. The secret weapon. At the sound of a Yellow Hammer, one by one : Cherry, Almond and Apple discharged their colourful arsenal.

It was a dazzling display of pink botanical fireworks. An enraged sunset brought out every pigment of the deep salmon pink meadow. Rose was right. Bad Winter beat a hasty retreat. The Garden of Oberon was safe once again.

Well at least for a few months anyway.

                   
                                                              The End

4. Autumn's Party

come to the party, the grand finale of spring
come and see sheens of auburn colouring
come, meet the brothers of the maturing sun
come and see pyrotechnics of Autumn fun

come thither you waning embers of light
come, tartan coloured leaves will be yours tonight
come before the rot of Winter's sadness
come before the big freeze of Winter's badness

come garlands of newly sharpened pencils
come tangy crisp sugar paper stencils
come before Winter brings out her sharp knives
come before you're chased down the streets of your lives

September had thirty days to say goodbye
October gives you thirty one days to reply
so come on and see the dancing ladies sing
come to the party, the grand finale of Spring.

Wisdom

A Goose complained sadly that it was so cold
"oh on my poor body the freeze gets a hold"
Wisdom concurred "you will no longer frown
beneath your feathers I will smother some down

then a Spider complained, caught in it's own web
"I just can't live like this watching every step"
Wisdom concurred "I am he, the one that knows,
from here on in just walk on your tip toes

then a Woodpecker came with a throbbing skull
"at times like this I just wish I was a Gull
Wisdom concurred "feathered friend you're not alone
I will here give you a compressible bone

finally a Mole complained he couldn't see
"my sight's so poor I don't know which way to be"
Wisdom concurred he'd seen his toil and tears
I will here give you some internal ears

but Wisdom was one step ahead of the game
he knew that their excuses would all be lame
into his perfect mould their die it was cast
their problem was solved before it was asked!

Petriberg

different instruments all brought together
to the backdrop of Harp, Piano and Strings
separate balloons held down by a tether
an Oboe floats in on a butterflies wings

the tether was cut the balloons went forth free
to the jaded melancholy of the Cello
hark! The bustling strings of an emerald sea
slowly contoured the hills soft and mellow

then to the toffee gold of an English Spring
the big Tuba held a unifying theme
Clarinet birdcall was accompanying
a chamber symphony in a harmonic dream

great was the enthusiasm of the Bassoon
and the flute played tig along with the Piccolo
they radiated energy like a cartoon
in ways that only the Double Bass can know

a Lyre plucked at will in a sparkling sky
over a garden of many peaceful years
a glissando of rainbows shines on high
and reduces the Nightingale to tears

the tether was cut and the notes went forth free
Petriberg's ravishing counterpoint rings
Bach would be blown away by such harmony
against a backcloth of Harp, Piano and Strings.

Tesco from Petriberg!

Dundonell

the brooding forge stares down in full disdain
a trail of scattered crofts daren't complain
gossamers of mist rise slow, like incense
peat burning fires bring comfort within
the wind gusted and switched without pretence
a Chinese lantern hangs above the big yin
rain hammered down giving a plundered look
the clouds break rank with all their strength and might
the Songbirds have gone and so too the Rook
before Dundonell retires for the night

on a Curlew morning on sun strong hills
when wind whispers secrets through lonely fences
still tired and threadbare as beauty distills
like a cello's haunting deferences
jagged peaks against a silver blue sky
"yes change can be good" said the Butterfly.

She's brushing Her hair again (Golden Hair ii)

the most precious gold is in your hair
the colours of peace beheld in your stare
hills green as tunics onward to the sea
clouds white as wedding gowns, naturally
pink feathers float from a Flamingos wings
nature in trance as Ambrosia sings
break the gold seal with your silky sway
announce the miracle of a brand new day
ablaze with brilliance and beauty fayre
go brush out your tresses Golden Hair.

The long sand banks in the beautiful Kyles on the North coast of Scotland , to me, are comparable in an allegorical sense to a beautiful woman with gorgeous long blond hair! Deb is fine about it.

Tribute

storm in the dark like a punch from the sky
water, surf and spray was flung up mast high
as the blizzards determined nature spread
it blotted out the sight of rocks ahead
towering, crashing malevolent waves
takes scores of Sailors to watery graves
the terrible sound of rending steel
the ocean roared and the wind did squeal

but bravery lurks in unlikely places
midst rocky moors and miles of jagged coast
bent over Crofters with rosy faces
Mrs Mackenzie has hot tea and toast!

lanterns flickering, blizzard in their face
their hope roared louder than the raging sea
Murdo gets blankets to this wild place
to save fourteen men whose lives were to flee

shivering bodies round a driftwood fire
Morag walks miles with heart warming soup
in mantles of hope their spirits soar higher
these old Crofters are one united troop

stone huts in bleak farms, waves and their crashings
valour on legs bludgeoned forth from old age
they gave them their blankets they gave them their rations
love cut much deeper than the sea and it's rage

they even carried on when hope was no more
dragging some lifeless bodies to the shore
a labour of love, they gave of their best
to lay those American Sailors to rest

it gives us all heart to do what we can
when we see what man can do for man.

In the worst conditions the area had ever known, on a freezing cold night in February 1944 the U.S liberty ship William. H. Welch floundered on rocks in sight of the tiny Hamlet of Cove in the Scottish Highlands. The Crofters responded with such Humanitarian kindness it hit the headlines! Some of the survivors and their descendants make the pilgrimage from America to Cove in Wester Ross where a cairn has been erected at the site of where this extraordinary rescue took place.

Comfort

the snow falls on the mountains
steady pounding of the sea
walking barefoot on sand dunes
in a land that's been set free

comfort

the snow still falls on the mountains
walking along Liathach's ridge
coffee in wild surroundings
or a cold beer out the fridge

comfort

the mountains are now white with snow
like nostalgia's arms of solace
dovetailing in each others glow
be the warmth that kills the coldness

comfort

feel the warm sun upon your skin
in the kind evening sultry air
a real comfort for some is in
You, just being there!

and the snow falls on the mountains.

Ode to Cats

Cats aren't worried about the future
Cats aren't that bothered about the past
Cats are only bothered about their tummies
and pouncing on anything fast

Cats aren't worried about pensions
as they find a nice spot in the sun
Cats are devotees of comfort
Cats are all about having fun


Cats don't worry about the economy
as they doze in the sun on a wall
Cats don't worry about mortgages
Cats don't worry about anything at all

Cats don't worry about fences
they soon get on top of those
so too long spindly branches
yet they always land on their toes

so when you have problems like a fence
and you think you can't get over that
when some things don't make any sense
get over it! Just like a Cat!

She's still brushing her hair (Golden Hair iii)

let the sea breeze blow tresses in your hair
scatter lively colours without a care
sky as blue as the iris of your eyes
Queen of the wilderness you are so wise
you unburdened my heart and gave me peace
the Great Artist gave you a golden fleece
a Heron gracefully floats on by
but there is a teardrop in his eye
sing a delightful melancholy air
when you brush out your tresses Golden Hair.

The Maiden

how the Maiden sits a Queen
on the hilltop of a dream
while the Piper plays alone, so concealed
need to keep our heading true
when the sky is always blue
near the thoughtful calm of the shield

can solace really be found
up here high above the ground
midst the lush velvet green that appealed
before clouds take me from you
I must climb on for the view
and bask in the grandeur of the shield

her soul mates dance in a storm
wilderness is rarely warm
the Forge's identity is revealed
then the Maiden called my name
I must go and play the game
as snow brushed the surface of the shield.

At 3:00 A.M

in the dead of the night
in between sleeps
when the birds dont sing
the trees are naked
and the frosty stars twinkle
against a backdrop of velvet,
when the night wind blows
through my open window.
The boat of my mind is  too active
to float downstream.
It is pleasant to contemplate
a flurry of  thoughts,
as your mind scans itself
You are in the Quiet Zone.
The world is asleep.
You are the only one awake.
Behold the moorings are loosened.
Lucid thoughts gradually stray into random ones
Gradually the boat breaks free.
The gentle eddies carry you out of the Quiet Zone
into the embalming grip of nature's timeless ocean.

Not an English Country Garden

how many kinds of sweet flowers grow
in an English country garden
we''ll tell you now of some that we know
those we miss you'll surely pardon
there's Chickweed all over the place
and nettles bolt up in your face
brambles get wrapped around your feet
Ivy engulfs a garden seat
in an English country garden

how many insects come here and go
in an English country garden
we'll tell you now of some that we know
those we miss you'll surely pardon
a Spider infested broken shed
Slugs and Snails on a mouldy bed
creeping things on tattered carpets
Vine Weevils wait to reach their targets
in an English country garden

how many song birds come and go
in an English country garden
we'll tell you now of some that we know
those we miss you'll surely pardon
a Thrush looks at a Robin so vague
"I think we might get the bubonic plague"
Sparrows discuss on washing lines
how to avoid a thousand dog mines
to get to those lovely worms in the earth
but say ... "let's give this one a wide berth"
in an English country garden.

Lament for Minnie Ripperton (1947- 1979)

 Minnie it must have been easy loving you
your voice took everybody's breath away
take a trip in memory land, please do
those pretty flowers in your hair still sway
perfect angel on the edge of a dream
I close my eyes and remember those days
like being alone in Brewster Bay it would seem
our lives overlapped in time's gentle haze
Minnie you didn't let anyone bring you down
you must have heard that it was said life goes on
though you had reason you didn't even frown
so sad that you left us at just thirty one.
Minnie you'll have your island in the sun
the sweet song of your life was your story
your life in Paradise has not yet begun
you'll still sing about love in all it's glory
please come to my garden it would be so nice
or maybe a rainy day in Conteville
we expect to see you in Paradise
seeing you there would all our dreams fulfill.

Isolation

"the world was made for man, by man"
Sutherland soon corrected this erroneous thought
the North West does not respond to the flick of a switch
or the twist of a dial

superbly estranged from civilisation
the din of human static has long petered out
yet there is a farm! Rhigholter is it's name

such is the thrill of wild isolation
but as remoteness spins it's mysterious cocoon
we discern no footprints are visible
no voices are heard there, only Seagulls

the magnificent bleak moor
is oblivious to the tangled passions of man
an iron grey sky overhead
smothered heaviness over unconverging monotony

udders of rain pother from the terrifying mountain
dripping their contents over an unfathomable ocean of heather
smudging out any prospect of light

Isolation embraces everything.
No rhythm.
No crescendo
No significance!

The Room

My friend Wisdom showed me around a room
it was similar to a library
but of magnanimous proportion
rows of books piled up clear to the heavens

the rows were split into trillions of slots
I asked about the significance of this
Wisdom said the slots were for memories
each book in the slot was the memory

enthralled, I pulled out a couple of files
they were random things from the distant past
buying an ice cream at Sutton on Sea
dreading a double maths lesson at school

we go on a stairlift that goes miles high
from infancy down to the present day
then on a monorail to the other side
thicker slots dealt with skills that I had learnt

next I observed some tatty looking files
all crumpled and flayed up at the edges
there was an iron and ironing board
and a large plasma screen television

I asked Wisdom "what does all of this mean,
why are these files not put in their slots? "
He said " because they're painful memories,
they have to be ironed out and relived

when they have been relived for a few times
the covers will be really nice and smooth
and then they will go back into the slots
that's the way that it is designed to work"

I then saw more piles of bruised volumes
very tatty and flayed up at the edges
I asked Wisdom if these were to be ironed
He said "no these are disturbing memories

there is only one way these can flatten
and that is by writing all about them"
I asked "are you going to write about them,
so that they can all go back in their slots

that way everything will be tidy
He looked me deep within my eyes and said
"no I will not be doing any writing
 the only person that can do that is YOU! "

and finally...




Traffic Jam

drab trees don't know which way to lean
like some kind of manufactured green

stuck in lanes, what a boring day
on a dull and lifeless motorway

apparently it was an oil spill
we've now got a plenty of time to kill

thoughts just start to run away from me
I might as well just write some poetry

time to reflect on just what might have been
if only we'd stayed on the blinkin' A15!


It's competition time my deer Blogfans. The above poem 'traffic jam' do you think the setting for it's composition was ...

a. whilst chilling out on a Greek island beach.

b. while walking the North Glen Shiel ridge in Scotland

c. stuck in a traffic jam on the M6 (junction 42 to be precise)

d. during a hot air balloon ride over the Lincolnshire Wolds


All correct answers will have a special prize. The Poet, Mark Ingram, will visit your home ( by video hook up link if necessary ) and recite his poetry as he continually sips  the finest malt Whiskey*

* to be provided by the host.

KTDA, Markles.





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