Weep in the rain.

The  rain  falls, the  bitter  tears of what we have lost

We have  the  world  at  our  finger  tips  but at  what cost.

Weep in  the  rain, weep  for  the  hope that has  been  killed

Weep  for  the innocents  on  Friday  13th their  blood  was  spilled.


Frightened  girls  covered in  lover’s blood,  husbands  holding  dying  wives

Bullets  flying, people dying. Smell of blood and  fear. Shattered bodies shattered lives.

All in  the name of  a faith. Terror, evil , fear  and  hate

We have  learned  nothing  ………. Now  I  fear  it is  too late.


Weep in  the  rain, weep  for  the  hope thats been  killed

Weep  for  the innocents  on  Friday  13th their  blood  was  spilled.

Bombs to bodies strapped, terrified  people  trapped will they live or die

I look these  evil  deeds done in  the name of  religion and I cry.


Drive  by  a  restaurant, people relaxing. They fire  at  random

Blood on  the pavement  futures, promises  and  hope  all gone.

Weep in  the  rain, weep  for  the  the hope  thats been  killed

Weep  for  the innocents  on  Friday  13th their  blood  was  spilled.


Stream of Consciousness Saturday: Indescribable.Acrostic.

LindaGHill said: Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “indescribable.”  Use the actual word in your post or just base your post on something that defies description. My suggestion on this one; think about something that you’re passionate about and just start writing. 

Here is  the pingback

Last  nights horror  in Paris  prompted  me  to  write  this


It cannot  be happening  again

No man  should  cause  his  fellow  this pain

Does no one  learn  from  what has  gone before

Each not  caring  for  the other, in  the  name of  a  god making war.

“Soldiers”  they call  themselves dressed in  bomb concealing  clothes

Carrying   machine  guns to  shoot innocents  they  do not  know.

Ruining the  ordinary  and  the  sane  and  all in  a prophets name.

In a  second  the  night  was  blown  apart

Bombs  and  bullets  opening up  rivers of  blood at Paris’s heart

Allah would  not  really  want  all those lives  torn  apart

But man  has taken  his  words  and used  them  for his gain

Lost  the  meaning in translation  time  and time  again.

Evil it  seems  is on  the rise  with war  and hate its goal  and prize.

SoCS badge 2015

Rules  can be  found here 

Le Coeur De Paris

The Day was Different

photo credits google images

We all get up and we all set out at the beginning of another day,we neither speak nor smile to anyone staring in front scared to look either way.

The tired, the lonely, the frightened the left behind all thrown together locked tight inside. The cream and the dregs of mankind.

Hurry, hurry no time to stop. No, no time to think, that would take some doing. You have to look and listen  but you are all too busy, you don’t want to know what is brewing.

Then it all stops. Your eyes can’t see, screams deafen you. Heat and pain dash past sucking you into death, blood and bone. Lost, you are all lost which way is up left or right you are really all alone.Then mercifully you are taken up and lifted into the arms of silent white light, it carries you off and you forget if it is day or night.

Silence, space, emptiness. You open your eyes where are you. Then you are back blood on the ceiling above you God it is true.  You reach to the left you reach to the right  crying out for another human, someone grabs your hand terror takes flight.

You are not alone, so for once you need that soul next to you. Speak now speak they need you too. The day had started just like any other nothing unusual that’s true. As the dust and the noise settle and you wait for aid you hold on tight to the hand of the new friend you have made.

google images

Poetry Challenge #7 09/09’2012

This weeks poem about war.
I found this amazing story poem in the BBC archives. You can find it here It is a child’s point of view of the beginning of the Blitz. This young lad Len Smith lived in the Eastend of London, the dock area. He would of seen some of the worst air raids of the war.
He would of lost family and friends in these raids. Buildings, schools, homes, libraries swimming baths all would disappear. Over night he life and that of thousands of others changed. The war had come to them, right to their door step. and nothing would ever be the same again.
People in story: 
Len Smith
Location of story: 
East London
Background to story: 
Article ID: 
Contributed on: 
31 August 2004

Len Smith

The seventh of September
Was a warm and humid day,
The air so still and peaceful,
The war seemed far away.
But this was an illusion
For on that fateful afternoon
As the East End basked in sunshine
The peace would be ending soon

The wailing of the siren
Heralding the coming raid,
Distant gunfire coming nearer
It was time to be afraid.
‘Come on get down the shelter!’
I heard my father cry,
As a droning air armada
Approached across the sky.

Huddled in the Anderson shelter
We shielded our heads in fear,
As bombs rained down around us
It seemed our end was near.
Shrapnel from the bursting shells
Fell crashing on the tiles.
The ground shook with explosions
That could be felt for miles.

After three long hours of terror,
We heard the all-clear sound.
And shakily we climbed out
From our dug-out in the ground.
All around the sky glowed red,
Dense smoke lay in the air,
Acrid fumes from nearby fires,
Smashed windows everywhere.

We prepared sandwiches and flasks of tea,
Blankets and pillows as well,
For we knew the bombers would come back
As soon as darkness fell.
And sure enough by 8pm
We heard the siren sound
And quickly we retreated to our dug-out in the ground.

All night long the raid went on;
It lasted till the dawn.
So many died that day and night,
So many deaths to mourn.
But this was only just the start,
The real war had begin,
And raids like this would carry on
Through nineteen forty-one.

Bombs hit the docks and factories
Along the Thameside shore,
Churches, schools and hospitals,
And the dwellings of the poor.
From Silvertown to Stratford
And from Mile End to Millwall
The destruction was extensive
And the East End bore it all.

Few of the heroes who served us well
Are still around today,
The wardens, rescue teams and firemen
Who kept the flames at bay.
Many died in action,
As official lists relate,
Their names enshrined forever
On a Canning Town estate.

Mass graves and crumbling tombstones
Tell their story of the war,
When the mighty air armadas
Smashed the dwellings of the poor.
Though more than sixty years have passed
I always will remember
That dreadful day it all began
The seventh of September.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.


I do not know anything more about Len Smith except for the fact he was a child when Black Saturday hit London’s Eastend. There was another article written by a Len Smith who join the army it is called ‘Len Smith’s bomb disposal experiences, It is a very interest article too. You can find it here

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:





It is a very interesting article too!


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