Drowning.

Drowning

Cold

Can’t breath

Lungs bursting

Pain exploding

Out of time and breath

Drowning I sink deeper

Darker ever the light recedes

I am trapped hopelessly in weeds

Held fast I silently breath my last

So sad, there’s nothing to flash before me.

A

Wasted

Pointless life

No one will miss

I leave not a mark

Unseen, unheard, undone

Wasted years lost on cold hearts

No songs for me, I was not free

Unloved, uncared for, useless, wasted

Lost from the beginning I could not see.

Thursday photo prompt: Sign #writephoto

Death  was  tired, that just goes without saying  really. It was a full moon and this  always  played  havoc  with his  old bones. Shivering he  crossed  the moors alone  and  weary. As  he  crossed  the horizon …he  is  Death  and if  he  wants  to cross an horizon  I am not  going to stop him are  you ? he cursed his job.

As he  hobbled  on he was truly  regretting  that  he had  allowed  his apprentice  to have  the  night off  and  take his  horse out  for a ride. Death pondered  once again the pros and cons  of  upgrading  to a car or  a helicopter but  the last time  he had  mentioned  this  to the man upstairs  he had  been told in no uncertain terms  that  scary horses were, what was expected  and scary horses it  would  remain for himself  and his  three apocalyptic brothers.

Suddenly  he  saw  the sign in the distance, it looked  to any passing  mortal , like  an unusual pub sign. It was in fact an empty frame in which a wizard’s hat was suspended. This to the informed, indicated  the presence  of  an Enchanted  Tavern.

Tonight  Death had an usual job. One  of  this  earth’s  oldest  soothsayers had  come to the end of  a very long  and  busy life. The chap , Nigel by name , had  overseen many a century  of wars, evil doings, shady deals and even shadier politicians and of late a Brexit . It was the Brexit  that had  been the  sight too many  for Nigel.

Nigel sat  by the  fire in the  huge  and yet cosy hostelry  surrounded  by old friends  and old foes, eating a sumptuous meal of steak and ale pie and chips. A huge bottle  of Malbec  sat on the table  in front of him.

It had been noted by the regulars  that Nigel  had  absolutely  nothing to say  tonight . This was most unusual  for him because  he  was always  telling  tales of  death  destruction  and  dystonian futures. Not tonight Nigel  was on a mission to eat his dinner  and drink as much wine as was un-humanly possible.

As  the door blew open, Nigel put his  knife  and fork down , and as clearly  as he could  with a mouth full of  meat and pastry, addressed  the Spectre as he entered.  “Your early, Death  me old friend. I ‘ave  not  finished me dinner yet” 

No one  bothered to look around as  Death entered  and approached Nigel’s table. “Calm down I am here now  and I am quite  happy to sit awhile  and enjoy a rest , it’s bloody raw out there. ” Death replied as  he plonked  a large egg timer  down on the table  between himself  and Nigel. “We have time enough for  you to share a pudding  with me while we let  the sands run out.I have never diddle anyone  out of  anytime. ”

Taking  an empty glass off of a passing barmaid  Death poured himself  a good measure of wine. He sat down , groaning loudly  and took a large mouthful which  ran straight through him and unto the sawdust floor.

Nigel and  Death  finished  the  meal, the wine  and  a spotted dick  and custard  then sat in silence  watching  the  last of  Nigel’s life drain away. As the last grain of  sand  fell on to the large pile  laying  in the lower part of  the timer Nigel let out  a huge belch and  stepped out of  his  body. Death  dragged himself up out of his  warm and  comfy chair.

As they  left  the tavern, no one  took any notice of  them. Death,  though not  a frequent visitor  never caused a stir.  Outside the two spirits looked up at  the sign and  the cloudy sky. “Before  we go” said Nigel  ” Who’s  hat  was  that ” Death looked at him in shocked surprise and replied “You mean,you, the greatest soothsayer of  all, don’t know”   Nigel looked Death straight  in  the eye sockets and hissed “Na , if I knew I wouldn’t  ask ya would I.” Death  grinned , to be honest  he had a permanent grin. Slowly  he  he guided  Nigel away and  out of  earshot and  replied ” Well I suppose it doesn’t matter now  it belonged to ……………………

Back inside  the  tavern  everything  went on as  normal …or what passed  for normal in those circles. The cleaner sighed  as he  cleared up the  sticky mess of  food and  wine  that Death  had left in his wake.

****************

This  is  my  entry  for

Thursday photo prompt: Sign #writephoto

 

Rememberance

Major John McCrae .

Poppy photographed on the First World War battlefield of the Somme near the Thiepval Memorial to the Missing.

by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Flanders Poppy on the First World War battlefields.

Inspiration for “In Flanders Fields”

During the early days of the Second Battle of Ypres a young Canadian artillery officer, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed on 2nd May, 1915 in the gun positions near Ypres. He was a friend of commander Major John McCrae .

John McCrae was a field Dr in the same unit as his friend Alexis. For some reason the Chaplin was called away and so John was asked to take the funeral service for his friend. It is thought that in the evening after the funeral he wrote his most famous poem. In Flanders field.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Poem is so sad, it speaks of how so many young men died, cruel and painful deaths on the muddy fields and squalid trenches of Ypres. He talks about the larks bravely singing, as I see it he is alluding to the fact that life just goes on as this evil war raged. “The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.”

They died so quickly without warning, though better that than maimed and dying slowly in agony. They were young, they had lovers, family and then they were gone so suddenly. I think they hung around for a while as ghosts trying to adjust to death.

The dead, he tells us, implore those who follow them to take up the torch and fight the enemy to the end. For if they loose or shirk the challenge the dead will never rest and forever haunt the poppy fields of Flanders.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just a thought crosses my mind. What would those dead men buried under Flanders field have though of the tanks and foot soldiers of the 2nd world war. The young men of the 1st world war thought they were fighting the war to end all wars…………. Sadly they were so wrong. War strides on as I type.

I think the video from Black Adder goes fourth says everything there is to say on war.

poppies

Scary October 28

Here we are at the unholy month of October. I thought I would do a paranormal, witchy, unholy bunch of poems, some new and some old.

Don’t forget to check out Jane Dougherty and Kat Myrman‘s plans for this month!

Today’s poem a Halloween Etheree.

Photo from Pixabay

Come

Hither

She gently

Said, beguiling.

He was drawn right in

She got under his skin

Kiss me she lustily said

He could not resist her at all

So she hungrily bit off his head.

Which became pumpkin a lesson to all.

Photo from Pixabay

Scary October 22

Here we are at the unholy month of October. I thought I would do a paranormal, witchy, unholy bunch of poems, some new and some old.

Don’t forget to check out Jane Dougherty and Kat Myrman‘s plans for this month!

Today’s poem is about trying to hold off death.

Would you stop if I asked you

If I pleaded what would you do.

Would you stay a moment longer

If promised,my love would make you stronger.

Could I slow your path,stop the ravishes of time.

If I showed you love sublime.

Would I halt your advance in any tiny way

Could I cheat death and make you stay.

If the tears that fall upon your face

Could chase off death, make it leave in disgrace.

I would hold my breath for eternity

If it meant that you would stay with me.

Scary October 21

Here we are at the unholy month of October. I thought I would do a paranormal, witchy, unholy bunch of poems, some new and some old.

Don’t forget to check out Jane Dougherty and Kat Myrman‘s plans for this month!

Today’s poem is a release from evil control. Another Etheree.

Image from Pixabay

Escape

Lost

She ran

Blindly to

Escape the man

Who beat her each night

Sadly into the arms

Of the dark angel of death

Who took her for his very own

Gratefully taking his hand she sighed

Free at last her bruised soul, now she had died.

Scary October 8

Here we are at the unholy month of October. I thought I would do a paranormal, witchy, unholy bunch of poems, some new and some old.

Don’t forget to check out Jane Dougherty and Kat Myrman‘s plans for this month!

Today’s poem is a Vampire’s Tale

In the shadows she stands alone

Jealous of those on their way home.

Fingers ripping at her neck,

Slowly her blood drips down her white skin.

Longingly, she weaves her dreams but her hopes wear thin.

Her thoughts full of sin, watching those who who walk in the light.

She wants their bodies she craves their fright

She needs their blood she wants to devour them whole.

Here eyes searching for a victim to steal their soul.

To infect her victim with that to which there is no cure.

She watches him as he walks home from work, clean and pure.

The burning ache deep within her drives her to distraction.

She aches for him, she burns for him , she must take action.

Blood lust makes her bold and brazen she steps out of the shadows to attract him.

He moves towards her beguiled by her pale skin.

Excited by what he sees. Her body barely covered by her cape

Attracted by her jet black eyes not knowing she is fake.

His juices rising from deep within …a desperate need to sate.

Come, she whispers licking her lips

He slides his hands along her hips

She acts all soft and coy

Moving her body to his, he’s suddenly filled with joy.

He thinks she likes him, that he will have his way

Unsuspecting he follows her into the alleyway.

From human hustle and lights they move.

The danger lights should be flashing , the warnings he refuses to hear.

Too busy to notice her eyes change colour and her lips flush blood red.

She lets him slip inside of her. Lights explode in his head.

She lets him reach his highest delight , as her fangs sink in his neck

She sucks him dry and leaves him for dead.

Twittering Tale #76 – The Secret Garden – 7 August 2018

Twittering Tale #76 – The Secret Garden – 7 August 2018

SecretGardenJPEG

Photo by Kat Myrman 2018

It had all been so hard and scary. Yet today Jess felt calm everything in the garden was beautiful.She always thought of this corner as her secret place. They’d made such a fuss about her sitting out here, she’d won though. Alone now she was tired all pain gone she slipped away.

(280 Characters)

Rules and Pingback Here

Thursday photo prompt: Remains #writephoto

This is is my entry to Sue Vincent’s of Daily Echo #writephoto prompt.

Rules and Pingback Here

Remains

Blue feather finely cut to a quill

Remains discarded, redundant, still.

All of life has to be recorded

Yet so little time is afforded.

With every word a life is spent

Heaven bound or Hell bent.

Death is the only one to use the quill.

But he has overslept, is he just tired or ill.

Always Death is very busy

But not today, is he?

He had decided to take forty winks

Unfortunately leaving humanity on its brinks!

So how can we be rescued from this fate

Of never being able to escape the living state.

Asleep Death remains

Oblivious to our turmoil and pains.

Daily Florette, revised.

I got the count wrong on my Florette today so here is a revrised version. Thank you Jane for showing me the error of my ways.

Graveyard chill, death I see

Fog hangs still, not for me.

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