those were the days

Some time ago, I posted a poem written by my Mum. I think it’s time for another one. She only started writing them when she was getting on in years, but the family all thought they were great fun.

Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.

The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.

The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.

I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.

The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.

Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.
Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.

I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.

Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.

The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.

The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.

I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.

The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.

Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.
Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.

I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.

I looked in the mirror to see for myself.
For I’m really not ready to go on the shelf.
But a grey-haired old woman was looking at me.
Even mirrors are not like they used to be.

If you enjoyed my Mum’s poem please leave a comment in the comments box.

Feel free to reblog. I would appreciate a link back to my blog if you feel like it.

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Winter: A Poem

Everything dead.
Nothing moves.
The skies of lead
Press down on the roofs.

The icicles hang
Like teeth in the maw.
Each one a fang
In a wolf’s jaw.

The wind with his knife
Cuts through to the bone.
Soon snow will arrive
And the swallows have flown.

The trees that were green
Are now turned to white,
And everything’s seen
In a glowing bright light.

But look what I’ve found!
A tiny green shoot
Pushing up through the ground.
A snowdrop, no doubt.

It tells of the spring
Not so far away,
And how it will bring
All the flowers of May.

A Father’s Message. (A Poem)

When the Hallowe’en Poetry Contest arrived once more, I was stuck for ideas, having done it for the last 4 years. I needed inspiration.

I didn’t want to go down the ‘isn’t it a fun holiday’ route because I don’t think it is. It’s All Hallows Eve, the night before All Saints’ Day when the Christian Church celebrates all the saints who have died before.

It’s also Samhain, when the pre-Christian religion celebrated their ancestors and welcomed them into their homes.

My father died when I was very small. I only have a few vague memories of him, and so I decided to write a poem thinking of him, and, if the pre-Christians are right, he would come to visit me every year.

I hope you enjoy this. I know it’s a bit late for Hallowe’en, but never mind!

I Died.
I didn’t want to go.
I left my wife and daughter so
I cried.

I thought
I could no longer see
All their future without me.
I fought.

I found
That each All Hallows Eve,
I could return—I need not grieve.
Not bound.

I come
To them each Hallowe’en.
They do not know. I am not seen.
I’m dumb.

They live
And I surround them both
With all my love which I’m not loath
To give.

Here ends my tale.
I will be filled with endless glee
When they come to dwell with me
Beyond the veil.

Those Were the Days. A poem by my Mum

Today, for a change, instead of posting my own writing I thought I’d let you see a poem written by my Mum. She died in 1992, but would have been chuffed to see her poem on the net. She had a terrific sense of humour.

This one is one of several she wrote about growing old.

 

Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.

The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.

The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.

I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.

The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.

Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.

Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.

I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.

I looked in the mirror to see for myself.
For I’m really not ready to go on the shelf.
But a grey-haired old woman was looking at me.
Even mirrors are not like they used to be.

 

Spring. A Poem

Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.
Newborn lambs frolic in fields.
New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows
And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.

At the edges of woodland the primroses glow
And cowslips their scent fills the air.
Anemones dance when the breezes do blow
And birds sing with never a care.

Then bluebells and campions come into bloom
Their colour the blue of the sea.
The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon
His call echoing over the lea.

The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.
His notes are so pure and so clear.
Hearing him seems to banish the cold
And brings joy to all those who hear.

Robin is nesting, and other birds too,
The hedgehog is active once more.
The young of the deer and the badger and shrew
Play their games as in old days of yore.

The sun climbs higher and higher each day
Giving more of his heat and his light.
It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.
All smile at the beautiful sight.

Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.
What blessings will come with this day?
New starts can begin once again with each dawn
And send us all hopeful away.

 

I hope you like  this spring poem. Please tell me what you think in the comments.

Bedwyr’s Song #writephoto

A beautiful poem.

via Bedwyr’s Song #writephoto

Blackbird, A Poem

 

 
The Blackbird

Blackbird, searching the lawn for worms,
Your brood for to feed.
You work so hard from dawn ’till dusk
To satisfy their need.

Your glossy feathers shine so black,
Your beak is made of gold.
The brightness of your eye so clear,
Is a wonder to behold.

But over all, what we all love,
Your song so pure and clear.
The notes that tumble from your throat
Bring joy to all who hear.

They rise above, towards the sky,
And angels when they hear
Know that they have met their match
In your notes so pure and clear.

Art thou a bird or spirit free
Whose throat such notes give out?
No living creature surely makes
Such wondrous sounds, I doubt.

So are you sent from heaven above
That we on Earth might know
Something of that wondrous place
Where we’re destined to go?

So, bird, keep singing out your song
At dawn, at noon and dusk
And make us feel that all that’s wrong
Will turn to all that’s just.

 

We Will Remember Them

I posted this poem once before, but have decided to post it again as on Sunday it’s 100 years since the Armistice . I hope you enjoy it.

 

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.

I’ll never truly understand
How World War I began.
The death of Archduke Ferdinand
Started the deaths of many more,
The young, the old, the rich, the poor.
All died with guns in hand.

My Grandad went with Uncle Jim
And Our Poor Willie, too.
They sent them off, singing a hymn.
Grandad went to Gallipoli,
Uncle Jim left his love, Polly.
Gas in trenches did kill him.

I cannot see, in my mind’s eye
Grandad with gun in hand.
A peaceful man, sent out to die.
He fought for us, for you and me
So we can live and so that we
Safely in our beds may lie.

Grandad came home, and Willie too,
But millions more did not.
Their duty they all had to do.
They died in fear, in noise, in blood.
Everything was caked in mud.
Yet in those fields the poppies grew.

The War to end all wars, they said,
So terrible were the deaths.
The youth of Europe all lay dead.
Yet 21 short years to come
Another war. Once more a gun
In young men’s hands brought death.

One hundred years have passed since then.
What have we learned? Not much!
Too many men are killing men.
Wars still abound around the world.
Bombs and missiles still are hurled
At those who disagree with them.

In The Haunted House. A poem for Hallowe’en

I wrote this poem for a Hallowe’en poetry contest. Wish me luck.

 

The wind it blows cold
Like ice down my back.
I try to be bold,
But courage I lack.
In the haunted house.

It seemed such a lark
When we set off tonight.
But now it’s gone dark
And we shiver with fright
In the haunted house.

Jane said. ‘We’ll have fun
On Hallowe’en night.’
But when solw footsteps come
She screams out in fright
In the haunted house.

‘Let’s take candles, said Pete.
More authentic for light.
And something to eat
If we’re staying all night
In the haunted house.’

Jack thinks it’s a game
Till the candles blow out.
Not one single flame.
He gave a loud shout
In the haunted house.

The temperature sinks.
‘That means ghosts are here,’
Said Pete, who still thinks
There’s nothing to fear
In the haunted house.

The door starts to creak.
It opens so slow.
Our knees feel so weak.
I wish we could go
From the haunted house.

But nothing is there
As we huddle in fear.
Not one of us dare
To get up and peer
In the haunted house.

All night there are groans.
We hear footsteps, we swear,
And the rattle of bones.
Something is there
In the haunted house.

We laugh at our fear
As we make our way home.
In daylight it’s clear
No spirits do roam
In the haunted house.

The noises we heard?
Just the sounds of a house
Cooling down, and a bird.
Not one single ghost
In the haunted house.

 

I hope you enjoyed this poem as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave a comment in the comments section. I love to hear from you.

Elven Evening Hymn from The Wolf Pack

During their travels to find Sauvern’s Sword, the group calling themselves The Wolf Pack found themselves in the homeland of the Elves. Here they heard the beautiful sunset hymn the Elves sang each evening.

Here is that hymn, with a translation from the Elvish for those of you who are not proficient in that language.

 

 

‘Ah equillin ssishinisi
Qua vinillaquishio quibbrous
Ahoni na shar handollesno
As nas brollenores.

Ah equilin bellamana
Qua ssishinisi llanarones
As wma ronalliores
Shi nos Grillon prones.

Ah equilin dama Grillon
Pro llamella shilonores
As nos rellemorres
Drapo weyishores.
Yam shi Grillon yssilores
Grazlin everr nos pronores
Wama vinsho prolle-emo
Lli sha rallemorres.’
Translation

“Oh star of the evening
Shining brightly
You give us hope
In the deepening night.

Oh beauteous star
Who heralds the evening
You tell us all
That Grillon guards us

Oh Grillon’s star
As you sink westwards
Return again
To guard the dawn.

Ensure that Grillon
Through darkness keep us
Safe from all evil
Until the morn.”’

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love hearing from you.