Post poetry month

Well, April, Poetry Month, is over and LINES has published the required 'poem a day' and is was really enjoyable - we hope you enjoyed reading them. We took three themes - the first was Trees (our whizzy JJ had taken some pictures of trees in North London which provided the stimulus for a set of poems), the second was related to World War 1 and our thoughts and memories about it and the last set was just a mixed set of things. JJ is now going to publish all three sets as 3 booklets (as we did last year). We hope you like them.

Lest we Forget

Lest we Forget

A quarter of a million underage young British soldiers

Fought in World War One.

Each one, one in a million – each one gone.

Journalists arrested or outlawed at the front,

Threatened with execution

For publishing unpatriotic pollution.

Over a quarter of a million women working on the land,

An army in the landscape.

Each one, one in a million – a new role taking shape.

Nurses arrested and executed saving other’s lives.

Medicine in its early days,

Moving into another phase.

A million horses sent over to the trenches,

Mules and dogs on guard.

Each one, one in a million – a life that is scarred.

Objectors, pacifists, those with different views.

Too old, too young, or simply disinclined -

Labelled by society - some heroes, some maligned.

Disabled, grannies or mothers waiting for the news,

Scientists and engineers expanding knowledge and the mind,

Shop-keepers, farmers, all those who were left behind.

Over 37 million casualties – civilian or in uniform -

Statistics are unclear.

Each one, one in a million – but each one someone dear.

And dear the cost to one and all

Will we ever the lesson learn?

Do not forget them, one and all

For each is our concern.

 By Linda Prince

© Charmaine Harrison @ http://charmingphotography.weebly.com/

 

 

 

 

The Office

The Office

The Calendar changes from day to day

And the gossip drives me mad.

I tidy up my desk

And the others think I’m mad.

They come with coffee in paper cup

And they never do a thing.

I clearing tyrannical emails,

They let the phone just ring.

They watch the time and go to lunch

But they never seem to return.

I take down endless messages

And for freedom I yearn.

The Calendar is flipped over

Pretending as they feign

When the boss walks by, the bell rings

And tomorrow we’ll do it all again.

By Linda Prince

The Roundabout

The Roundabout

It came about in a roundabout way,

I was hoping to go round clockwise,

But then I found it went the other way

I’m sure you can imagine the surprise.

Cloc’ or anti-cloc’? That is the question -

Is this North London or abroad?

Is this a result of Continental obsession

Or just another April fool fraud?

Round and round and in and out – will they ever get it right?

Round and round and up and down – it’s just another blight.

By Linda Prince 

© Richard Wilson

The Windhover

The Windhover

Light soft breeze, he faces the West.

Ruffled feathers stationary, hovering still.

Patience personified, he waits for the probable guest.

Lavender evening meets lilac heath,

Enters a chill in the turbulent air.

Unsuspecting visitor scurries beneath.

Violet clouds hide violent ending.

Flashes of another hue streak down

Beyond gravity hidden, blending.

Bright eyes, nimble agile bird of prey

The Kestrel shivers and glides away.

By Linda Prince

Pussycat Party

Pussycat Party

It’s our Birthday, Happy returns all round.

It’s our Birthday, presents and treats surround.

You’re invited, yes of course            ,

Provided you aren’t a dark horse,

Or a dog.

It’s our Birthday, today we are nine.

It’s our Birthday, on the sofa we recline.

Kippers and sardines both welcome here,

But you had better disappear

If you’re a dog.

It’s our Birthday, we look our best today.

It’s our Birthday, a bowl of cream on a tray.

Birds of a feather received with a smile,

And we’ll play and tease the mice for a while

But not a dog.

Happy Birthday to us, Happy Birthday all day.

Come on in, guests invited and gatecrasher stray.

We’ve have such fun, it’s been a blast.

Oh no, we’ve just realised, too late at last

You’re a dog.

By Linda Prince

November the 11th at 11am

November the 11^th at 11am

Hostilities will halt but they fought right to the end.

I lost a young soldier, a lover and a friend.

As I stand in the field and survey the watery golden sun

I wait and watch the landscape, a battle fought and won.

There’s an eerie silence, expectant and hushed

That rings in my ears, the foe it is crushed.

The breeze ripples by and is turning

To a murmur of cheering, longing and yearning.

The hands on the watch reach eleven exact

And the signatured agreement becomes an act.

Battles stop and the guns now cease,

Emotions and tears, not bullets release,

And there is peace.

By Linda Prince 


 

Wembley Way

Wembley Way

Today’s the day

We’re on our way.

We’ll shout for us

And boo for you.

Today’s the minute

It’s really great innit?

We’ll cry for us

And laugh at you.

Walking down Olympic Way (but no one calls it that!)

I’m breathing in the atmos’ -

We’ll knock you into a cocked hat

Unless game you boss.

Today’s the place

Glory or disgace.

We’ll clap for us

And jeer for you.

Walking down Wembley Way (everyone calls it that!)

I’m taken in by the quiet

Before the crowds descend for combat,

Snaking in a coloured riot.

Whether you’re a red, or maybe a blue,

Or a team that sports a different hue,

If you are wearing yellow or perhaps a purple shade

Your heart skips a beat as you walk the footie parade.

Today’s the Cup

Thing are looking up.

We’ll hope we win

And you will lose.

But whatever the outcome, it’s only a game

And we will be friends always the same.

Our hearts will leap

We’ll joke or weep

Down Wembley Way.

By Linda Prince

Wembley Way © Linda Prince

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

Grandad abroad

Grandad abroad

From Tonbridge to Bombay,

From Quetta to Afghanistan

Grandad had his day.

Another brave young boy

Who fought for God and King.

Another one to deploy.

But Grandad was a fighter,

In grim conditions battled,

But with moments that were lighter.

We cannot pain measure

As he fought for his life abroad,

But we remember him with pleasure.

For the family will always say,

‘Do you remember what Grandad did

That terrible, fateful day?’

‘Twas in the 3^rd Afghan War

He took his rifle standing proud

And was hear to shout and roar.

“Who goes there?” his nerves on edge.

But the assailant answered not,

And Grandad had made a pledge.

Raising his rifle battered and wonky,

He shot, the silence riven

Standing over the fallen donkey.

How do we tolerate war without glory?

Stomach killing and pain in war?

If not through a comical story.

Grandad never told of slaughter

In battle weary lands

Across the divided water.

But the story makes us smile

And we mention aloud his name

And he is back with us for a while.


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