Nurse

Nurse

Unaccustomed as I am to hospitals, I’m sure I can help the effort.

Unaccustomed as I am to workers, I know that I won’t be caught short.

I mean how hard can it be?

Unaccustomed as I am to hardship, I can put up with a roughing it a tad

Unaccustomed as I am to foreign lands, of course it’s not a fad.

I mean what is there to see?

One has to support the war effort

So I’ll serve King and Country as a VAD

As a field nurse helping young men,

Walking wounded, shelled shocked and sad.

I’ve had three months training and I’m ready for the trench

Though I haven’t seen a dead body as it rots within sickening stench.

But they tell me I am ready and I’m cut out for battle nursing

And I volunteered, so there’s no reversing.

I mean - how hard can it be?

By Linda Prince

Rose, my Rose

Rose, my Rose

Christmas Eve, nineteen seventeen,

I think of my Rose, just seventeen.

The tenor croons, the first little song of love.

In Picardy roses are blooming.

In Piccadilly my Rose is blooming.

The tenor swoons and our roads may be far apart.

Enlisting for France the Tommy singing,

In Petty France baby Tommy is singing,

Lambert Murphy on record in my heart.

Rose humming our song full of memories and bygones

Rose, my Rose remembering our love that is gone by

The song is the last little song she hears.

By Linda Prince

Goodbye to all that

Goodbye to all that

War of the World, ravaged belligerents in conflict

Eyeing up territory, offensives transfer power as boundaries change.

And weakened states humiliation inflict

And imperial empires fall as borders re-arrange.

The map of Europe redrawn, territories lost or won

What did we achieve, after all is said and done?

By Linda Prince

Rain

Rain

Awaking from cashmere cocooned slumber

Heartbeat rising, senses sleepy, shapes in a darkened room appear.

The distant sounds of pitter-patter splashback on the window

Signals to befuddled brain, smashing water so severe.

Liquid water, cold and fresh, precipitation falls to earth

Gravity sucking water droplets to its heart.

And nestling tender beneath duckdown Tog

I listen to kinetics beyond the glass barrier

That heralds the days’ saturated prologue.

Splish splash. Striking at the blinds the watery portents tap

Splish splash. Squirreled deep under cotton clouds of white

I shround myself  and determine to prolong my snuggled nap.

Let the rain fall heavy and launder fresh the streets with glistening glow

I love to hear the sound, I love to hear its power, the other side of the window.

By Linda Prince

Poor Paw

Poor Paw

A twinge, an ache. I noticed it today.

I tried to run around but it didn’t go away.

I hopped from left to right and I hope she didn’t see

But we just had paw inspection with the comforting ‘poor me’.

Arthritis? What at my age?

I don’t think so, let’s move on and turn the page.

I hopped from right to left and I hope she didn’t notice

But now we are waving bandages and a warming poultice.

‘Poor me’ I hear.

Poor me - I fret.

Poor paw I fear.

Poor paw - I bet

Poor me – you see

Knew it. I’m going to the Vet!

By Linda Prince

Fields

Fields

The wind rustles over the carpet and the soft mist of shade sways

Green.

Curving in concord, each blade the brother of the next.

One veneer, one hue.

Yet every blade is different, every blade contains history,

Evolution wrapped up in a small green shoot.

The breeze glides over the meadow and the soft haze of hues swing

Red.

Bending in unison, each poppy the sister of the next.

One covering, one tone.

Yet every stalk is distinctive, every stalk holds bygones,

Evolution wrapped up in a small red flower.

The chill envelops the fields and the soft fog of colours fall

Red, yellow, black, brown, white.

Collapsing in sympathy, each the sibling of the next.

Blankets of colour, many shades.

Yet every soldier is unique, every comrade preserves a bloodline

Evolution’s highest pinnacle wrapped up in a Flanders shroud.

So many colours side by side, brothers in arms, daughters of time

Sleeping in Flanders Fields

By Linda Prince

Dolly Mixture

Dolly Mixture

Bright pink cylinders rub shoulders with chocolate shapes

Sugar coated jellies from the cellophane escapes.               

Tiny hard rounded gums that roll around the tongue

And chewy squares of sugarpaste appeal to old and young.

Crispy coating and squishy comfits with flavours subtle

All bagged together in see-through plastic resembles builder’s rubble.

Pink and yellow and red and brown and white

and some that have shades of many we see

If Dolly Mixtures can happily sit side by side

Why can’t we?

By Linda Prince

Clear recent History

Clear recent History

She worried about him, she cared too much

And while she was caring, he had her in his clutch.

She changed her clothes, she changed her style

And he would criticise, picking her apart with bile.

She shivered and cowered, and his dominance would worsen

For as she tried to please him, she became a different person.

Then one day she realised she was a glutton

So she switched on the laptop and pressed the freedom button.

In an instant he was gone, there was no on-line mystery.

With all outdated browsing, he had suddenly just become history.

By Linda Prince

545927

Private 545927

Born in Penn, clues buried in the past

With Merry Hill and Warstones

How long before the War would play un-merry hell

And in another land bury his bones?

Private 545927

Lived in Manlove Street, clues wedded to the past

With Mr and Mr Lovesey.

How long before the War would take the love of their life

And send him across the foreign sea?

Private 545927

Served in Alexandria, clues buried in the sand

With the 54^th Division and armed force.

How long before the War would lead to division

And he would this life sadly divorce?

Private 545927

Young Leonard rests in Hadra, casualties under the sun

The War was over.

The war for Leonard was over, his course was likewise run.

In quiet solitude he is not alone,

Thousands of young men also did not come home

But in a piece of home tended far away

The white stones of War on parade every day

Remember those who fell.

Thank you private 545927,

And thank you to all of the others.

We think of you all kindly at peace in your Heaven,

We can never repay to your brothers

The debt that we owe.

By Linda Prince

(Private 545927 Leonard Lovesey died in an accident 2 days before returning home.  The photos below show him with his sister and cousin, as a young man and then just before he went to Alexandria.)

Beaten to a Pulp

Beaten to a Pulp

Look at the tree, what do you see?

Do you see communication, do you see the written word?

Sawn and pulped, a soup of mush, the newsprint of tomorrow.

Squeeze out and dry, roll by and by,

Do you see Headlines , do you see scoops?

Bleached and whitened, a continuous roll, the broadsheets of today.

Squashed and overjoyed, exposed in the tabloid.

Next time you see the tree, remember it is exclusive too.

Linda Prince

 

Dendrochonology

Dendrochonology

Dendrochonology – what secrets do you hide?

Round and round we go, the answer inside.

A ring on her finger, a year as a wife,

A history of seasons, the story of life.

Round and round they continue, curves map out events

We started out dating, now modesty prevents.

And the band encircles undercover affairs

Each hoop is a hope that circuits our cares.

Inside each proud trunk, heavy and bold

Bygone stories deferred, one day will be told.

Dendrochonology – what secrets do you hide?

Round and round we go, the answer inside.

Linda Prince

 

Conkers

Conkers

Children playing in the park

Laughing, shouting until it’s dark.

Run round the tree, climb up its bark

On to the branch, what a lark.

A wooden seat that makes a swing

Laugher rises, joyful noises ring

High in the air, we feel a king,

And yet below, now here’s the thing,

Children dance round collecting conkers

Generations have played, but now it’s bonkers

Traditional rules, old customs we applaud

But you mustn’t play, for now it is outlawed.

Linda Prince

 

Red Riding Hood

Red Riding Hood

“Trees, trees, twisty paths, tra la la la la.

Why here’s a little tree just my size.”

I was five, going on six,

The school play beckoned.

‘You can be Red Riding Hood’

my form teacher reckoned.

‘Learn these lines, get a red cape.’

But the only thing that colour turned out to be red tape.

‘Stand here and deliver the speeches’

then the teacher turned attention to his breeches

‘And a lumberjack would really wear leather,

you work out in all types of weather.’

“Trees, trees, twisty paths, tra la la la la.”

The forest was fidgety and the wolf scratched his nose.

The pianist plink-plonked, we kept on our toes.

The teacher directed and rehearsed us once more.

The lumberjack and wolf were fighting on the floor.

“Trees, trees, twisty paths, tra la la la la.”

All the parents were bundled into the school hall.          

And the company performed, the audience to enthral.

We captured the moment, the bad and the good.

And the artists skipped along through the wood.

The wolf kept burping, granny threw a tantrum,

The lumberjack’s breeches were far from humdrum.

“Trees, trees, twisty paths, tra la la la la.”

The opening line was delivered, the script totally inane

But the highlight of the evening was the trees’ own Dunsinane,

As they shuffled across the stage and a few shed several leaves

Mumbling as they migrated, scary beetles up their sleeves.

The parents they all loved it, the teacher took a bow,

And everyone agreed that the production had really been a wow.

The problem with school is that you are held in gentle captivity

And already the teacher is planning her next production – the Nativity.

Still, at least my mother won’t have to make an outfit red -

I’ll be a shepherd in a field, with a stripy towel on my head.

Linda Prince

 

Ties with my past

Ties with my past

The bus bumps, shock absorbers shock

And jolt my bones along the road.

How many years since I was in the dock?

And now again I await the judgement.

The bus struggles up the hillside

And jolts memories from the past.

A sickness churns deep inside

As I peek above the parapet.

The bus slows down, my heart skips a beat

Through grey streaked windows I glimpse

the carved heart that marks where we first did meet.

The wind is cold and the sky is grey.

The bus stops dead, the tree is bare.

My heart explodes like a hand grenade at war

Why should they remember, why should they care

I killed a man long ago.

The bus crunches a gear, it crunches two

And the air in my lungs burns with sorrow

I served my time, but reputation I slew

And now I am reaping the seeds.

The bus pulls away, my past catches me out

And I sigh as my gaze turns away from the tree

But then in the breeze, beyond any doubt

A ribbon of yellow is tied round its girth.

Linda Prince

 

Family Tree

Family Tree

A whirr of sound, the disc goes in.

Colour and lights and years flash by.

I fill in my name. I fill in yours. And wait.

Who will we meet today? Where will we go?

Already we have traced people many generations ago.

Today we go further, where we do not know.

But soft, who comes thither, a shadow?

I cannot make out the shape, yet somehow it seems familiar.

‘How say you sir? What business are you about? Speak!’

I wait, screwing my eyes that peer through the mists of time to see who comes here.

“Tis I. Did you not call me? Did you not wake me from my sleep?”

‘Why, Sirrah, have patience. Good time of day to you. Are you friend or foe?”

The ghost of the past halted and surveyed me, a smile upon his lips.

“Why friend or fiend, both have I answered to. And fie upon my foes

who royally did me wrong.“

‘Speak fair, regale me with your story regal, be you King or knave?’

“I have heard both whispered in mine ears, perjury howling from reddened lips.

But melancholy is fleet and conscience temporary, hiding behind darkly looks.

God gave me good rest but restless sleep.

Now I am awakened and those who hold me dear weep,

the crowning glory, a cherished crown to keep.”

‘Marry, my Lord, say you, are you then a kinsman from the past?’

The shadow turned and laughed, not a mocking sound but a mocking bird crowned.

‘Then be it so. Most certain I courted kith and kin most nimbly at the court.

Forsooth a man, transform’d to villain by a murderous libel.”

The ghost turned and smiled and called over his shoulder,

“The sun shines again. Proclaim it down the years,

through every branch stemming from this oak –

what is done has been undone and amends mend the sorrow,

discontent affords great dignity and our name reclaimed for the morrow.”

He walked through mist, trailing beyond the fog back into the past.

‘What name shall I say? What name shall men whisper?’

As he melted away I heard him laughing, answering at last,

“Tell them – Richard.”

                                                           

A whirr of sound, the disc comes out.

Colour and lights and years flash by.


Linda Prince

 

The Ice Pack

The Ice Pack

I’m sitting on an ice floe that’s drifting here and there

It gives me time to think, which is important for a bear.

I’m waiting for some lunch, I do hope some swims along

So while I lounge here hoping, I sing a little song.

“Oh, one grey seee-aal hanging on the ice,

One grey seee-aal, hanging on the ice.

And if one grey see-all should accidently fall into my mouth

That would be very nice.”

So I’m sitting on my ice pack, and I’m told that I should heed the warning,

I’m a endangered species and then there’s the global warming.

They say I need to become territorial, that would give me a better chance

But I can’t be bothered to be responsible for the upkeep of the manse.

I’ve seen all of the photographers, the researchers and the throng

Who like to record their memories while I just sing my song.

“Oh, one grey seee-aal hanging on the ice,

One grey seee-aal hanging ……..”

Oh no wait – do my eyes deceive me?

Or is that shape diving too near my frozen ice pack

A funny little grey thing – oh, yes a little light snack!!

Linda Prince

Copyright janetfo747 Year of the Horse!           http://bit.ly/PhJ0nX

Woody

Woody

Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. This drilling is giving me a headache.

Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. So am I giving you an earache?

Nice piece of work, you think?

When I’m finished, go for a drink?

You see, I’m chiselling this wood,

I’m apprenticed to Gerry, he’s very good,

A craftsmen superb, carpenter of trees,

He can knock out an ant’s nest with consummate ease.

Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. Carpentry’s the game.

Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. Woody’s the name.

My overalls are green with a hat that is red

I hammer and hammer from dawn until bed.

One day I’ll be qualified to drill by myself

And then I’ll be laughing out loud with all my wealth.

But until then, tapping away with a head like a hammer

I’m carving and shaving like any head-banger

Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. I’m an apprentice tree wrecker

Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. Woody Woodpecker.

Linda Prince

 

We’ll raise a Glass

We’ll raise a Glass

The light is dimming, evening falls

As I am fallen.

My head is swimming, the day is dying

As am I.

And in my ears the jagged explosions of distant grenades.

In the gentlemen’s club they read the news

More casualities of war, the price of metal increases

They pay their subscriptions, I pay their dues.

My lips are cracked and I gasp with thirst.

Their bottle is cracked open and the liquid spills out

As drop by drop, life’s blood ebbs from those here cursed.

In a foreign field I stare up at the stars,

mud caked round my lips and clogging my throat.

In the Foreign Office they are propping up bars.

The lights are dimming, the barman wipes his eyes,

And in ‘Wipers’ many eyes are closing.

And in the Gentleman’s private club they raise one last glass

And gentle men and privates raise one last sigh.

They raise a toast to the fallen ones,

Whiskey chasers and slugs of fine malt slip down gullets before bed.

And somewhere on a bed of debris a slug slips through my head.

Goodnight.
 
Linda Prince

Evening

Evening

Calm. Colours dim and daylight lengthens.

Silver sky covers darkened earth and the wood hushes still.

In the forest something stirs. Evening sinks over bracken hill.

Apparition swirls and the soul is set free.

Tranquil. The air is fragrant rolling in on waves.

Pitch black, inky night seeps through the forest and conceals a thought.

In the heart something stirs. Emotion warms the yearning heart.

Spooky thoughts yield to certainty and the soul is set free.

Alone but not lonely, back woods at the front of your thoughts.

Linda Prince