Love Autumn – Hate Novenmer

I Love the Autumn but hate November

I Love the Autumn but hate November.

Remember, remember the 11^th November –

Gunfire. no reason, no Plot.

The waste of young lives sent forward and shot.

The fireworks and bonfires just serve to remind me

Of bombs and incendiaries, of the carnage to see,

Of the fear and the doubts, but the knowledge of duty

To do what they must to perpetuate beauty.

The beauty of freedom, of lives without limits,

Not theirs for the taking, nor lasting but minutes,

But those back at home who are counting on honour

To see the boys through, until they’re a goner.

Some came home broken, wounded and battered,

Wondering if everything was worth it or mattered.

Too quickly their country forgot what they did,

No support for de-briefing, no reward, God forbid!

They did it for duty, for love of their country,

For the King (or the Queen) to put it quite bluntly,

For a future of peace, tranquillity and love,

But the future of them was in heaven above.

Their light was snuffed out on the earth down below

But their  life we shall honour as the stars above glow

They shall live in our hearts and our minds here on earth

As November comes round to provide a new birth.

I don’t hate November; I hate that it hurts me.

They gave up their lives for our freedom you see,

But my hurt is as nothing compared to their war.

My heart’s full of love, for the young men, who gave all.

This poem was composed by, and published with the permission of, Caroline Miller-Tate, whilst contemplating the significance of our memories engendered during this year’s Remembrance weekend period . . . “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them”

Blue Tooth Rules

Blue Tooth,
that ancient Nordic King,
Now answers to my needs
Looms large where’re I travel
I go where he now leads

Without his presence
Where would I be
His mystic rune
Connects with me
It dogs my tread
Connects my world
His ancient dread
Now sanitised
Brings you to me instead

And now in this connected world
I hear Old Harald praying
Let me be heard
I’ve much to do
My word goes without saying

 

Three Condensed Fairy Tales

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

Never visit your dear old nan
Without a brave wood-cutting man,
For when she smiles and shows her teeth
You’ll find that sly old wolf beneath;
But your woodcutter he’ll protect you,
He’ll tear that mask off and will axe him,
He will not pause to even ask ‘im
What he’s doing in your nan’s nightie;
Transvestite wolves are most unsightly.

 

 

GOLDILOCKS AND THE THREE BEARS

 Goldie trespassed in the Three Bear’s house,
Thinking “I’ll be quiet as a meadow mouse.”
She sampled all the porridge she found,
Then had a quiet snoop around.
Three chairs, three beds, she sampled all;
Soon fell asleep, curled up so small.
The bears returned, the baby bawled,
At all the damage they were appalled.
Goldie awoke, she screamed in pain,
And never saw those bears again.

 

 

RUMPELSTILTSKIN

Her father boasted to the king,
His daughter was so gifted
That she could spin the meanest straw
To make gold unassisted.

But this she clearly could not do,
Until a dwarf agreed
To help her if she’d give her word
Her baby to him to concede.

This she woefully had to do
To keep her father’s word.
So sad she was and out of sorts,
As the love within her stirred.

The only way to recover her child,
The dwarf then to her said,
Was to find out what his true name was,
Thus stem the tears she shed.

She travelled far, she travelled wide,
Seeking his name to find,
But every name she tried was wrong,
No one could ease her mind.

Until she heard a voice one night
Within a woodland glade.
“Rumplestiltskin, that I am”,
It sang while music played.

Indeed it was her little man,
Rejoicing in his glory,
To think that he had won his prize
And thus would end this story.

But he’d been rumbled in his pride;
Of justice – no miscarriage,
For she had got her baby back,
And the King’s rich hand in marriage.

Illustrations: By WHB . . . Pen & Ink – January 2018   ©