Memory 

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NaPoWriMo 23/30 Happy Birthday Mr Shakespeare

Inspired by the bards birthday and it being St Georges Day in England. Love my homeland…

My soul searches all the small ancient nooks

but the verbal spaghetti isn’t clear

despite the exhaustive amounts of books

I say, Happy Birthday Mr. Shakespeare.

England’s heart beats for you and our St. George

April twenty-three painted red and white

stories of dragons falling to his sword

and your words immortalised in the night.

The sun rises and we are still breathing

ancient castles, vast woods, and national pride

shaping the might of Albion’s dreaming

twisting and turning along with the tide.

I am a child of this lovely island

with her future out there on the horizon.

NaPoWriMo 2015 – 1/30 – Reflecting

Is it too late for yesterday?

A reel of memories on replay;

The Lions roar turned out the lights

Casting the day into the night

Hiding under the Chelsea Bridge

Haunted by the London Blitz

Smoke stings her weathered grey skin

A mighty war she was breathing in

Fightin’ them for bread and water

A small bereft southern daughter

Blasted out of her rub-a-dub

Just her and her little cub.

What happens when tomorrow comes

Will she be cast back into the slums

collateral damage of this time

where being poor was a crime.

The photos linger in the past

But the stigma will always last

Just a shot of another place

Another time in another space.

Keep Calm and Carry On

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Her lion heart is beating true

inhaling buckets of vindaloo

hearing the drums, seeing bright red

taste of fresh grass – battles ahead

Failure is the tide coming in

sail the ’66 bandwagon

1 of 19, the news said,

the empire is certainly dead.

Her little red mane knows the score

generations have seen it before.

Are they all just cream-crackered?

Lost, alone, completely battered?

No – because the pride roars loudly

dancing Nobby’s dance – hopefully.

We may have misguided hope

pride of St. George others can’t scope

even when their mighty paws

graze the grass like kitty claws

she WILL put the ball in the net

and put on a show you won’t forget!

Once this small cub ran through the town

painted red: oh, what a clown

screaming “Viva L’Angleterre”

the solid cup would soon be theirs.

Sigh, Keep Calm and Carry On

is the soul of this nations song.

Inspiration:

My new ‘Keep Calm & Carry On’ Mug

Englands losses in the first round.

Baddiel & Skinner ‘It’s Coming Home’ – England’s 1996 football anthem.

 

Farewell, Postman Pat

It’s time to hang your hat, sir.
Your work has come to an end.

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Harry S Alford My Grandfather the Postman

I’ll miss the hand waves and the bells
of a much beloved friend.
Seeing you early each morning
counting out the coloured cards
placing them through each letterbox
with a smile, wink and kind regards.
Rain or shine, you were always there
the glue that held the villages
together with paper and ink
and postcards of flowery bridges.
But, the wheels of time push progress
and you have been found wanting.
Time, she has made you redundant
and so Death has begun knocking.
It’s time to hang up your hat, sir.
Your work has come to an end.
We’ll remember you in our scrapbooks
and label you, a long lost friend.
 
Poem was inspired by an article in The Age: Are you ready to abandon snail mail
 

Bourne Road

Pooky’s Poetry Prompt 11:

 

 

Back in the days of jeans and bandana’s
I would tip toe along the old stone brick walls
taking a swing on the old iron gate
into the old tennis-racket shaped road.
We were the children of the River Bourne
playing happily above our ancient wood
cycling in circles around our bubble
waiting to venture down the unknown path.
We created chalk worlds on the grey pavement
where our art reflected our village life
of summer carnivals and bonfire nights
bringing this circle into another vibe.
I remember standing outside my home
eighteen years of me imprinted in those bricks
echoes of laughter bound through the parish
as I waltzed into the woods, goodbye.
The 90s children have all grown and gone
new pedals and canine friends take their place
but the brown robins are still all twittering
like the old ladies down by station house.
The road I grew up on belongs elsewhere
in a time of jeans and bad bandana’s
when dancing to ‘Under the Sea’ was cool
and dinner was hot curry sauce on chips.