War poem / song

Soldiers True

 

Verse One

British summer, nineteen fourteen

War declared though not foreseen

From city centre and village greens

Came many soldiers true      

 

Refrain

For King and Country we signed to serve

To strain each muscle, sinew and nerve

From faithful duty we will not swerve

For the red white and blue,

Yes we are soldiers true.

 

Verse Two

Sign up, sign up lads, by the bunch

Help us land that knockout punch

You’ll be back for Christmas lunch

Short-term soldiers true

 

Verse Three

For weeks we marched and fought and trained

In snow or sleet, sunshine or rain

Do as you’re told, don’t use your brain

To be soldiers true

 

Refrain

For King and Country we signed to serve

To strain each muscle, sinew and nerve

From faithful duty we will not swerve

For the red white and blue,

Yes we are soldiers true.

  

Verse Four

Land in France under cover of dark

Trenches are grim and rather stark

This is far from the promised lark

Of being soldiers true.

 

Verse Five

Come on lads, one last offence

Over the top, let battle commence

Looking back, did it ever make sense

To be soldiers true?

 

Refrain

For King and Country we signed to serve

To strain each muscle, sinew and nerve

From faithful duty we will not swerve

For the red white and blue,

Yes we are soldiers true.

 

Verse Six

One by one, to bullets we fell.

Amid the blood and gore and yells

On foreign fields we bid farewell

To being soldiers true

 

Final Refrain

 

For King and Country we signed to serve

To strain each muscle, sinew and nerve

From faithful duty….. we did not swerve

For the red white and blue,

Yes we died soldiers true.

We died soldiers true.

 

 

Latest poem: Wavebourne

Wavebourne
 
To sail an ocean.

Take the old way,

the slow way
across the sphere.
Take in its scale,
unshrunk by flight,
sail for days and
not see another ship.
 
See the stars as
Columbus, Cook and Magellan
would have seen them,
distant candles
pinned in place by ancient orbits.
Feel the pull of the moon
in swell and tide,
translated through your feet.
 
Take a little salt in the lungs,
spray in the hair,
wonder in which key the waves sing.
Take breakfast at the table

nearest the sunrise

watching the wake of where you’ve been,
Think about how to start the next chapter

of your future history.

 

Latest poem: Lunatic Fringe

Lunatic Fringe

 
A mild night seduction,
walked the two miles home and 
made the mistake of looking up.
 
The three-quarter moon
winked it’s Betty Davis eye,
half misted in chiffon haze.
 
Something in that hypnotic opaque gaze,
not quite scorn, not quite madness

graffitied my spirit,


set me free.

Poem for Wenlock Poetry Festival

I have spent a lovely weekend performing and hosting events at the Wenlock Poetry Festival. Today's poem is a thank you to all the organisers, volunteers and everyone who contributed to the Festival

Wonderful Wenlock

Wenlock, thanks for another year
Of poetry lifted from the page.
For Readers, Buskers and Slammers
That have taken to the stage.
 
From Open Mic to Headline act

Audiences have made their choices

No other place in just three days has
Such a multiplicity of voices
 
Thanks to the stewards and volunteers
That have helped out in all weathers.
Thanks to producers and over seers
That put the programme together.
 
From an egg in the nest five years ago,
Now on the wing, fully fledged.
Yes, when it comes to Festivals
Wenlock has the edge.

Poem 24 /30 Table for Three

Table for Three

That bright, fresh April morning

where sunlight jimmies its way in

through the smallest fissure in the curtains,

making your alarm clock redundant.

 

Sunlight that won’t be ignored.  

Wakefulness floods in

no matter how deep your sleep,

it is now evicted from your body.

 

Drawn to the window to inspect the day,

my eye is drawn to movement on

garden table and chairs.

A blue tit, breath of feather and

 

coloured blaze, hops and twitches:

armrest, table, chairback, table,

different chair, table and so on.

a full inspection then in a blink, gone.

 

The absence saddens. Until…..

three of them alight, food in their tiny beaks.

Use the table for breakfast, though wild birds

they can still be civilised.

 

I like to think, Dad came in first,

scoped it out, ensured its quality.

Having satisfied his criteria,

made a reservation.

Poem for Today called 131

A  sombre poem today for a sombre story

 

131

 

Coffins should be sad enough

even for those you don’t know.

John Donne still making sense

After all these centuries.

 

The news is the backing track

as I read. I’m tuning it out,

the occasional glance thrown its way

due to the screen’s hypnotic pull.

 

I snap to the story at the image

two dozen or more coffins

laid out in not quite accurate

columns and rows.

 

Dead refugees in a strange lands,

caught mid leap between

fear and desperate hope

by the hostility of the sea.  

 

The story moves on.

Soldiers bear them in teams of six

arms round shoulders for stability

gently shepherd their burden in church.

 

On the end wooden panel near their feet

hand written in marker pen is

the simplest, practical yet rending epitaph:

“Body Number 131”.

St George's Day poem

Typical!


A Celebration of Englishness for St George’s Day, inspired by the results of a survey asking what things we thought of as “typically” English. Can you guess which came top?

 
Discussing the Weather
A Sunday Roast
Going to the pub
Marmite on Toast
 
Being down-to-earth
Stiff upper lips
Extreme politeness
Fish and Chips
 
A nice cup of tea
Queueing up
Going to the pub
The FA Cup
 
The Queen’s speech at Christmas
Mowing the lawn
Telling your kids
“You don’t know you’re born”
 
Going to the pub
Having a Sing-Song
Saying sorry when
You’ve done nothing wrong
 
William Shakespeare
Stories of the Blitz
A full English Breakfast
Cream Tea at the Ritz
 
Going to the pub
Missing the last bus
Going to the pub
Not making a fuss
 
Going to the pub
Dunkirk Spirit
Going to the pub
Just A Minute
 
Going to the pub
Going to the pub
Going to the pub
Going to the pub
 
George and the Dragon
Working Men’s Clubs
Roses in bloom and
Going to the pub
 
Proud, yet always moaning
Ah! There’s the rub

Cry God for Harry, England and St George….

I’m off down the pub!

Poem 21 / 30 MK Rose poem

 

 

The MK Rose in Campbell Park is a public artwork in Milton Keynes designed by leading artist Gordon Young. It is a circular piazza inspired by the mathematics of a rose window. Marble columns of varying heights rise up from the surface. In the centre is a sculpted marble rosebud.  At the opening event, I noticed quite a few people and touch or pat the top of it and the marble pillars. I mentioned this to Gordon and he said there was a discussion to be had about the psychology of statures and sculptures that were designed to be touched. We haven’t had that conversation as yet but the thought inspired the poem about that centrepiece of the MK Rose and the pillars.
 

Non Verbal Communication
 
“Touch has a memory.” ― John Keats
 
 
Touch it for luck
Touch it for love
Touch it to be close to
The one you’re thinking of
 
Touch it for sorrow
Touch it for joy
Touch it for a girl
Touch it for a boy
 
Touch it for comfort
To lessen the pain
Touch it in sunshine
Touch it in rain
 
Touch it for rights
Touch it for wrongs
Touch it in silence
Touch it in song
 
Touch it for justice
Touch it for peace
Touch it for courage in battle
Or for your war to cease
 
Touch it for family
Touch it for friends
Touch it for beginnings
Touch it for ends
 
Touch it in solidarity
Touch it for strength
Touch it close up
Or at arm’s length
 
Touch it for loss
Touch is for found
Touch it to be silly
Or to think the profound
 
Touch it for leaving
Or when you return
Touch it to teach and
Touch it to learn
 
Touch it just briefly
Or embrace it too much
Feel it to rediscover
The power of touch
 
Touch it in hope or

To bless your new start

Whatever your reason

I hope it touches your heart