Gentle arbours what do you see

What secrets do you arbours keep, what would you tell us if you would speak.Tales and history down the years would they encumber and wreath us with tears.

laced in fog

In early morning’s drape of lacy fog you watch  an early riser and his dog wandering under your leafy ceiling delighting in an ethereal feeling.

Peeping from the branches green tiny pixies can be seen preparing a byre for their fairy queen. Later as the sun climbs high and birds wield about in the blue skies. Workers sit and take their rest, in the shadows that your leaves and branches cast the best.

Skipping carefree homeward bound amid your trunks school children can be found. Happy games they like to play at the end of their school day.

After tea the mother’s stroll with their babes in prams they roll. Innocent eyes first glances see of lush green leaves above them as a canopy. Tiny fingers, tiny toes basking in the warm evening sun’s glow.

As the night descends the birds beginning to roost and join all their friends. The woodland creatures prance around in one last play before, for safety they go to ground. They all love their arbours cover as do now the human nocturnal lovers. They, all full of passion join their bodies lips and groin. The soft green grass supports their backs they watch the star through the branches cracks. Their boudoir all free and clean this arbour which is all fresh and green.

What secrets do you arbours keep, what would you tell us if you would speak.Tales and history down the years would they encumber and wreath us with smiles and tears.

Cathedral of blue and green

Journal For Poetry Challenge#7 29,01,2012

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) is widely recognised as one of the greatest voices of the First World War. His self-appointed task was to speak for the men in his care, to show the ‘Pity of War’.

Owen’s enduring and influential poetry is evidence of his bleak realism, his energy and indignation, his compassion and his great technical skill.The Wilfred Owen Association was formed in 1989 to commemorate Wilfred Owen’s life and work. You can learn more at


STRANGE MEETING                                                                                  

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,-
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand pains that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also, I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . .”


The Soldier unsure whether he is dead or sleeping finds himself deep under ground surrounded by many dead bodies. One is alive and they discuss the dire straits of war. The uselessness, the senseless waste of life. What they themselves have lost the life denied them. All for what, to fight an enemy, is this enemy so different to them . The soldier then notices that this man is the enemy. He is the same foe who he was just an hour ago fighting. Here they find each other in the same  hell.

There is no difference between them in other circumstances they could of been friends. War , blood, death and all for what!. The destruction of villages,towns, cities , the decimation of nearly whole nations, family, sweethearts, husbands wives, friend… For what …….. another war and then another …………and then ??

Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:

Run from the fiery dance


The red, the yellow, God they frighten me, the heat, the fear is all that I can see. Run, run, run for your life’s get your husbands, children, grab your wives.

Pound, pound, stomp, stomp the sound of people running for their lives! Go, go this is your only chance to escape the fiery dance.

No time for saving your possessions, no time to find the cat he will be gone to safety you can be sure of that.

Go, go don’t look back , duck, duck hear those windows crack. How did this happen what did we do…. nothing , nothing , is that really true.



I am the footfall on the stairs I am the caress that soothes away your cares! I am the the sunrise in the east I am the breeze that calms your fears, the inner beast!

I am everything I want to be I am independent of you so no more can you hurt me. I am the worker and the mum I am the singer  dancer, actor, writer of my deeds I am the sum .

I am the light in your eye when you want sex I am the slut you see with the subtext. I am the one who raised you and made you who you are I am woman  my connections reach near and they stretch far!



I am the reason I get up each day I am so full of words that I have to say. I am power beyond belief I am colour and light I am unbounded joy and I am bottomless grief!

I am anger I am rage when I write you turn the page. I am female I multi-task I know everything  you need to know, just ask!

I am a fighter, my offspring I defend to the death. I am a protector, what is mine I will defend to my last breath. I am me I do it all and more. I am here on me you can depend for sure!

It is up to me and you!!

We all want that holiday I know we do it’s true but we are choking up the skies and seas and it is all down to me and you. The polar regions are melting the sun is burning through an ever growing hole in the ozone again that’s down to me and you.

I know you fancy a safari such an exciting thing to do but the way poachers are shooting and hunting big and small game, soon the only way you’ll be able to see them will be in a Zoo. We all love lots of vegetables and fresh fruit , whether in season or not. I know you do it ‘s true.They are sourced from countries afar, shame ! I hear you shout but wait!! that too is down to me and you!

We all have our heating in the winter keeping us hot and having all lights burning that seems the thing to do! But we are wasting our resources you know we are it is true. Coal oil and water are not infinite, that you know is true! They are always being wasted, that again is all down to me and you.

The children and young people are turning into jobless’s true. We send them off to Uni then we have no jobs for them to do. The are all going off the rails  a whole generation or maybe two not taught any politeness, good values or will to work …….. yes again it is down to me and you.

I could go on for ever, you know I could it is true  but I can tell you are all switching off , suddenly you all have better things to do!Well listen to me or not that is up to you but all our resources  and all that is good about this planet is dying off it is true. Soon there will be nothing left and yes that is all down to me and you!.


nothing will be left!

Candle Lighter Award

I have been given another award by which I am very grateful.

Thank you Martin

The Candle Lighter Award is an award for a post or blog that is positive and brings light into the world. The Candle Lighter Award belongs to those who believe, who always survive the day and who never stop dreaming, who do not quit but keep trying.

There are no rules. If you wish to, simply accept it and you are done! You are also free to decline or ignore it.  Recipients can pass it on to as many nominees as they wish and as often as they wish.


I would like to pass this on to: and this is so very very hard.

and so many many more , please visit all these blogs and all on my blogroll and to all you dear friends if I have not mentioned you it is because I am tired not that I do not rate and love your work for I do all of you!! Big hugs  to you all.xxxxxxx

Lonely in a crowd

I stand here lost and lonely amid a noisy crowd, the music hurts my head the beat is just too loud.I hear the whispers of them all but not the words of any.Chatter, chatter, words so many why can’t I make the sense of any!

I don’t know why I came here tonight I am tired, my clothes are wrong and my hair is a sight! Why do I do this to myself I may as well hold a sign saying I am on the shelf.

Someone handed me some wine, red, sad and bitter like me and tasted just like turpentine. I wish  I had stayed at home I feel so lost and all alone.

It is just like I am not here no one seems to notice or to care. I am here, can you see me can you hear..I am, I am here! I must be mad why do I stay I need to run I want to get away, There is nothing here for me I need the door I must be free.

Someone handed me some wine, red, sad and bitter like me and tasted just like turpentine. I wish  I had stayed at home I feel so lost and all alone.

I feel frightened I feel scared I am tired of this and unprepared for all of this.I have to go I am running scared. What the reason what’s the score I just can’t stand this any more.  Please let by please let me OUT.  Okay okay, sorry I won’t shout. Deep breath and reach the door, at last I am out of here I ‘ll not play this game any more.

Was it something we know that made her go?

Was it the dripping tap that made her snap or the ticking clock that boiled her rock.Maybe again it was the creaking floor that made her roar or the banging door that tipped the score. Could it of been the pinking oven alarm that made her cause harm.Was it the screaming kids that blew her lid or the pneumatic drill that made her ill. It might of been the revving bikes that made her temper take a hike. The demanding pong of the laptop’s mail alert that made her squirt.Was it the nagging of the TV screen that made her scream. Or might it of been the missed bus that made her cuss or the closed shop when she needed it open that blew her top. Maybe again the empty petrol tank, her over stretched heart, sank.


Was it the stress that caused her mess, maybe the press that made her digress. Or was it just life that caused her strife and made her go and take her life?…………………..WELL WAS IT??

Journal For Poetry Challenge#7 22,01,2012

A. E. Housman

A. E. Housman

Alfred Edward Housman was born in Fockbury, Worcestershire, England, on March 26, 1859, the eldest of seven children. A year after his birth, Housman’s family moved to nearby Bromsgrove, where the poet grew up and had his early education. In 1877, he attended St. John’s College, Oxford and received first class honours in classical moderations.

Despite acclaim as a scholar and a poet in his lifetime, Housman lived as a recluse, rejecting honors and avoiding the public eye. He died in 1936 in Cambridge.


`What sound awakened me, I wonder,
  For now 'tis dumb.'
`Wheels on the road most like, or thunder:
  Lie down; 'twas not the drum.'

Toil at sea and two in haven
  And trouble far;
Fly, crow, away, and follow, raven,
  And all that croaks for war.

`Hark, I heard the bugle crying,
  And where am I?
My friends are up and dressed and dying,
  And I will dress and die.'

`Oh love is rare and trouble plenty
  And carrion cheap,
And daylight dear at four-and-twenty:
  Lie down again and sleep.'

`Reach me my belt and leave your prattle:
  Your hour is gone;
But my day is the day of battle,
  And that comes dawning on.

`They mow the field of man in season:
  Farewell, my fair,
And, call it truth or call it treason,
  Farewell the vows that were.'

`Ay, false heart, forsake me lightly:
  'Tis like the brave.
They find no bed to joy in rightly
  Before they find the grave.

`Their love is for their own undoing,
  And east and west
They scour about the world a-wooing
  The bullet to their breast.

`Sail away the ocean over,
  Oh sail away,
And lie there with your leaden lover
  For ever and a day.'

Many a brave man was portrayed as a coward in the Great War and in all wars too. I have 
included this poem because I want to address all aspects of war. A lot of the "Deserters and 
Cowards" were men suffering from Post Traumatic Distress Syndrome. Today they would be treated
well we hope that they would but back then they were shot.
Those who were conscientious objectors were given the worse jobs possible or sent to prison 
they were despised and ridiculed and shunned from society. Some were sent to war as stretcher 
bearers and ambulance drivers and they were always unarmed. I must say here before I upset
anyone not all stretcher bearers or ambulance drivers were conscientious objectors.
In the first world war if the men were not fighting as well as expected and the generals 
felt that they were not fighting hard enough they had shells fired at their own posts . Men
armed the rifles, bayonets and officers with only revolvers were sent "over the top" of the 
trenches to be mown down by machine gun fire and shell. Hence the saying " Cannon fodder " 
this also applies to wars before and after.
Mud, dead bodies, constant noise, bombs exploding, men and animals ( horses )screaming, lice,
 dirt, food when ever, fear, CONSTANT FEAR. No wander some deserted, no wonder I am surprised that 
they did not all desert. 
And yes I know there will always be chancers and criminal types who see a chance or opportunity
to slope off and make money, they will always exist on all sides. The point is that in the first
and second world wars men sometimes for senseless reasons were shot. I am just saying
I feel that is wrong. Even "Brave" men can get Traumatic Distress Syndrome " 

Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:





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