Those Were the Days. A Poem by my Mum

Today, for a change, instead of posting my own writing I thought I'd let you see a poem written by my Mum. She died in 1992, but would have been chuffed to see her poem on the net. She had a terrific sense of humour.

This one is one of several she wrote about growing old.

Everything is so much further
Then it ever used to be.
The little shop around the corner
Seems twice as far to me.

The buses were always punctual
I could go with the greatest of ease.
But now they seem to be early
And my legs do just as they please.

The stairs are made so much steeper
I’m flat out when I get to the top
Amd the print in the papers is so small
That my eyes are beginning to pop.

I can’t do with the way people mumble.
I only hear half of the tale.
They tell me the news in a whisper,
Or shout till I feel I could wail.

The dresses are made so much tighter
Especially round waist and hips.
And diets are all in the fashion.
No goodies, like good fish and chips.

Even people are different this day and age
They all seem to look so much younger.
Yet people my age seem old and withdrawn
And look to be dying of hunger.

I met with a friend the other day.
She really looked old and withered.
I’m sure I look younger than that, I thought,
And I know I’m not half so bothered.

I looked in the mirror to see for myself.
For I’m really not ready to go on the shelf.
But a grey-haired old woman was looking at me.
Even mirrors are not like they used to be.

If you enjoyed this poem, please leave a comment.

Spring. A Poem

Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.
Newborn lambs frolic in fields.
New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows
And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.

At the edges of woodland the primroses glow
And cowslips their scent fills the air.
Anemones dance when the breezes do blow
And birds sing with never a care.

Then bluebells and campions come into bloom
Their colour the blue of the sea.
The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon
His call echoing over the lea.

The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.
His notes are so pure and so clear.
Hearing him seems to banish the cold
And brings joy to all those who hear.

Robin is nesting, and other birds too,
The hedgehog is active once more.
The young of the deer and the badger and shrew
Play their games as in old days of yore.

The sun climbs higher and higher each day
Giving more of his heat and his light.
It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.
All smile at the beautiful sight.

Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.
What blessings will come with this day?
New starts can begin once again with each dawn
And send us all hopeful away.

I hope you like  this spring poem. Please tell me what you think in the comments.

Blackbird A Poem

The Blackbird

Blackbird, searching the lawn for worms,
Your brood for to feed.
You work so hard from dawn ’till dusk
To satisfy their need.

Your glossy feathers shine so black,
Your beak is made of gold.
The brightness of your eye so clear,
Is a wonder to behold.

But over all, what we all love,
Your song so pure and clear.
The notes that tumble from your throat
Bring joy to all who hear.

They rise above, towards the sky,
And angels when they hear
Know that they have met their match
In your notes so pure and clear.

Art thou a bird or spirit free
Whose throat such notes give out?
No living creature surely makes
Such wondrous sounds, I doubt.

So are you sent from heaven above
That we on Earth might know
Something of that wondrous place
Where we’re destined to go?

So, bird, keep singing out your song
At dawn, at noon and dusk
And make us feel that all that’s wrong
Will turn to all that’s just.

We Will Remember Them

I posted this poem once before, but have decided to post it again as it's 100 years since the Armistice on Sunday. I hope you enjoy it. 

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.

I’ll never truly understand
How World War I began.
The death of Archduke Ferdinand
Started the deaths of many more,
The young, the old, the rich, the poor.
All died with guns in hand.

My Grandad went with Uncle Jim
And Our Poor Willie, too.
They sent them off, singing a hymn.
Grandad went to Gallipoli,
Uncle Jim left his love, Polly.
Gas in trenches did kill him.

I cannot see, in my mind’s eye
Grandad with gun in hand.
A peaceful man, sent out to die.
He fought for us, for you and me
So we can live and so that we
Safely in our beds may lie.

Grandad came home, and Willie too,
But millions more did not.
Their duty they all had to do.
They died in fear, in noise, in blood.
Everything was caked in mud.
Yet in those fields the poppies grew.

The War to end all wars, they said,
So terrible were the deaths.
The youth of Europe all lay dead.
Yet 21 short years to come
Another war. Once more a gun
In young men’s hands brought death.

One hundred years have passed since then.
What have we learned? Not much!
Too many men are killing men.
Wars still abound around the world.
Bombs and missiles still are hurled
At those who disagree with them.

I hope you liked this poem. Please leave a comment.

I am Soul Virtual Blog Tour – Day Two

I would like to welcome Yecheilyah to my blog today. She is a poet, and is doing a virtual blog tour. Today is the second day of the tour. You can find out more about her by visiting the other blogs she is appearing on. The dates and addresses are at the end of this post.



Tuesday, August 14, 2018 @ 1:00p EST





Bio.

Yecheilyah (e-SEE-li-yah, affectionately nicknamed EC) is an Author, Blogger, and Poet and lives in Marietta, GA with her wonderful husband. She has been writing poetry since she was twelve years old and joined the UMOJA Poetry Society in High School where she learned to perfect her craft. In 2010, at 23 years-old, Yecheilyah published her first collection of poetry and in 2014, founded Literary Korner Publishing and The PBS blog where she enjoys helping other authors through her blog interviews and book reviews. The PBS Blog has been named among Reedsy's Best Book Review blogs of 2017 and 2018 and has helped many authors in their writing journey. I am Soul is her fourth collection of poetry.





THOSE WHO LOVE
It’s their presence alone
that lifts the floor
commanding the clouds to unclench their fist.
Love wraps its garment around
their bodies
like insane prisoners to compassion,
confined and restricted
to the affection that binds them.
Stitched and knitted
like a fresh garment,
like fresh skin
to the beautiful body of genuine,
Call them
the mentally insane
‘cause they’ve got to be crazy
to be binding themselves
like this.


Fun Facts about Yecheilyah:

She loves to laugh, and her favorite comedy TV show is Blackish
She is originally from Chicago, IL
She’s been married to her husband 8 years, together for 11 years
She believes eggs makes everything better
She is a twin
She is addicted to reading and new notebooks
Her favorite desert is ice cream

I am Soul is now available on Amazon, iTunes, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, and Scribd.
Click Here to choose your retailer.

Greenbriar Mall
The Medu Bookstore
2841 Greenbriar Pkwy SW
Atlanta, GA 30331

Author Website: www.yecheilyahysrayl.com/
Blog: https://thepbsblog.com
Amazon Author Central: www.amazon.com/Yecheilyah-Ysrayl/e/B00ML6OHFA/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/literarykornerpublishing
Instagram: www.instagram.com/yecheilyah/
Twitter: twitter.com/ahouseofpoetry
YouTube: www.youtube.com/channel/UCdquShfqCN6lIX8IDK9MnSg

A Roman Legion A Poem

Some time ago I posted a poem based on a challenge. Take the seventh book on your bookshelf, find the seventh page, count down to the seventh line and write a seven line poem. In writing that poem, I forgot that it was suuposed to be seven lines. I wrote several verses. Then, realising my mistake, I wrote another that is acthally seven lines long. I posted the longer one some time ago, but I think I should give the 'correct' one an airing.

Let me know what you think. The line was the first line of this poem.

A Roman Legion also had other skills:
Engineers, builders, tailors too.
They built the roads so straight and true.
They built a wall across the hills,
Built bridges over foaming rills.
They made their clothes and built a fort
And fought the foe without a thought.

It wasn't an easy challenge. Perhaps you'd like to have a go. I'd be interested to see your results.

Samhain, A Poem.

Samhain is the pagan pre-curser to what we now call Hallowe'en. It was thought that on the nights of the equinox the veil separating the world of the dead from our own world thinned, and the dead could come through.

Not all the dead were consindered scary, though. The people thought that their recent dead visited them, and they put out food, or set an extra place at the table to accommodate them. These dead came to see their loved ones were going on alright.

Evil spirits, though, could come through, too, and so bonfires were lit to keep them at bay. The home fires were put out, too, to be relit the following day from the bonfires.

Pope Gregory decided that some of the pagan dates should be incorporated into the Christian calendar as psople were used to celebrating on those days. Samhain was one of these. The Pope designated it to be All Saint's Day, hence the night before became All Hallow's Eve. (Hallows being another word for 'holy' or 'saint'.)

Pope Gregory also fixed the date of Christmas to co-incide with the pagan festival of Yule, and turned some of the pagan gods into saints. He also used pagan worshiping sites to build Christian churches, on the same principal. People were used to going there to worship.

Here is a poem I wrote for Samhain. I hope you like it.


SAMHAIN

Don't go near the graveyard, darling,
Samain is tonight.
Don't go near the graveyard, darling,
The dead will walk this night.

Keep your candle burning, darling,
Keep it glowing bright.
Keep your candle burning, darling,
Be sure it gives you light.

The bonfires have been lit, darling,
To fill the dark with light.
The bonfires have been lit, darling,
Their flames reach such a height.

Put your home fires out, darling.
Be sure to do it right.
Put your home fires out, darling.
From bonfires we'll relight.

Put food by the door, darling.
Leave it in plain sight.
Put food by the door, darling.
For our own to have a bite.

Do not be afraid, darling,
They see that we're alright.
Do not be afraid, darling,
No harm from them tonight.

But evil spirits come, darling.
We must put them to flight.
But evil spirits come, darling;
Them we must try to fight.

Go and watch the bonfires, darling.
Stand in their bright light.
Go and watch the bonfires, darling,
They keep us safe this night.

When I realised just how many words rhyme with 'night', I just had to write the poem using as many as I could. Unfortunately, I could not use as many as I would have liked, but it made the only rhumes in the poem to be ones that rhymed with  'night' or 'fright'.

I hope you enjoyed my poem. Please leave a comment.

The Storm. A Poem

A lovely day, the sun was warm
It had shone on us since dawn.
The heat oppressed us all the day,
Even as in bed we lay.

We went to Leipzig in the heat.
In Thomaskirke we took our seat
To hear St John by J.S.Bach.
It did not end till after dark.

When we emerged it was in rain.
We rushed to find our car again.
The thunder rolled across the sky,
The lightning flashed, but now we're dry.


We drove towards Chemnitz and saw
O'er Dresden, flashes like the War'
Was it '45 again
With bombs falling like the rain?

The lightning flashed, the thunder boomed.
We thought that wewere surely doomed'
It must at least be Armageddon,
Such brightness in a sky so leaden.

The storm went of for several hours
Showing nature's awesome powers
And even though it scared us some
We were impressed. It struck us dumb.

If you liked my poem, which was written after an actual storm in Germany, please add a comment and I'll get back to you. If you woul like to re-blog it I would be very grateful.

England--A Poem

That misty isle across the sea
Will always be a home to me.
The cliffs of white that guard our shores,
The rolling Downs, the bleak, cold moors,
The skylark with his liquid song
Soaring high above the throng
Of hikers, picnickers and such,
Whose hearts he never fails to touch.

The little streams and brooks do run
Through woodlands, glistening in the sun.
The little fish are swimming here;
A kingfisher is always near.
A flash of blue above the stream,
A dive, then gone--that silver gleam
Of minnows. Gone to feed his brood
In holes, all waiting for their food.

I cities where the pigeons fly
The wind-blown litter flutters by.
The cars and buses, cycles too,
Line up at lights, forming a queue.
The city’s clamorous roar assaults
The ears, but never, ever halts.
The busy folk all rushing past
They never slow, time goes so fast.

The little market towns do snooze.
The slightest little thing is news.
In pretty villages with greens
Are cottages with oaken beams.
The church bells echo o’er the fields
Calling us with merry peals
As they have done for many a year
Bringing hope and lots of cheer.

This land does not a climate boast,
Just weather, blown from coast to coast.
All in one day this land can get
All four seasons, sun and wet.
Though no extremes do us attack
Do not go out without a mac
For rain can come at any time,
Though rarely with a gale force nine.

The English folk are stubborn, too
As we evinced in World War two.
We do not push, but stand in line
Waiting patiently 'til it’s time.
We do not wail and wave our arms,
For such behaviour has no charms.
But when we’re roused, then just watch out!
We’ll demonstrate, wave flags and shout.

And so my country is unique;
Its people are not really meek.
An upper lip that’s stiff conceals
A wicked humour that reveals
Our lack of deference for power,
Our love for bird and bee and flower.
Abroad may have its charms, it’s true
But England’s magic’s ever new.

V.M.Sang
April 2014

The Legend of Grillon and Parador from The Wolf Pack

The legend of Grillon and Parador is one of the legends of the world of Vimar. Grillon is the god of nature and wild things, and Parador the goddess of agriculture. This tale is told on the first day of spring, the equinox, which is also considered to be the first day of the year. It is celebrated by feasting after a religious ceremony, and people let down their moral standards for that night.
Any children conceived on Grillon's Night are not considered illegitimate, but rather, are blessed, being thought of as Grillon's children.


One day the Lord of Nature was walking all alone
When beside a hidden pool a lovely sight was shown.
For bathing in the moonlight, where no-one should have been
Was a beauteous maiden, the loveliest he’d e’er seen.


Lord Grillon lost his heart to her
This maiden oh so fair.
He vowed that she would be his own
His life with her would share.


He showed himself at once to her
As forward he did tread.
She said “And who are you, good sir?
Should you not be abed?”

Oh lovely maid, my love, my life,
I ne’er will rest again.
Unless you come to be my wife
My heart will feel such pain.”

And so fair Parador was wed
To Grillon. She agreed
To always sleep within his bed
And others ne’er to heed.

But evil now will turn to dust
That love and bliss
For Barnat after her did lust
And swore she’d be his.

He poisoned Grillon’s mind and said
She was untrue
That she had been into his bed
And others too.

Lord Grillon he was truly sad
That she should treat him so.
He thought that he’d go truly mad
So far from her he’d go.

Now Parador had done no wrong
To deserve this fate.
She could not any more be strong
Beneath Lord Grillon’s hate.

So mourn she did and all the world
Did join with her in sorrow.
All green things died and creatures curled
All safely in their burrow.

But in good time, Lord Grillon found
How false the god of war.
He came to her and he reclaimed
The love of his wife once more.

So once again the land grew green
And springtime came again.
And summer’s warmth and life serene
While she forgot her pain.

And so each year the land remembers
The love of Parador
And autumn comes and winter’s embers
Till Spring returns once more.



If you want to find out more about the world of Vimar and its inhabitants, you can buy The Qolf Pack, Book 1 of The Wolves of Vimar by following this link.
mybook.to/thewolfpack

Spring. A Poem

Dandelions, like gold, cover the meadows.
Newborn lambs frolic in fields.
New leaves on the trees are casting their shadows
And winter’s cold grip quickly yields.

At the edges of woodland the primroses glow
And cowslips their scent fills the air.
Anemones dance when the breezes do blow
And birds sing with never a care.

Then bluebells and campions come into bloom
Their colour the blue of the sea.
The cuckoo, that herald of spring, will come soon
His call echoing over the lea.

The song of the blackbird is like molten gold.
His notes are so pure and so clear.
Hearing him seems to banish the cold
And brings joy to all those who hear.

Robin is nesting, and other birds too,
The hedgehog is active once more.
The young of the deer and the badger and shrew
Play their games as in old days of yore.

The sun climbs higher and higher each day
Giving more of his heat and his light.
It sparkles like stars fallen into the bay.
All smile at the beautiful sight.

Hope and excitement come with each spring morn.
What blessings will come with this day?
New starts can begin once again with each dawn
And send us all hopeful away.


I hope you enjoyed this poem as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Winter Night (a poem)

I intended to post this poem some time ago, when it was really winter, but I didn't get round to it. I suppose it's still technically winter until March 21st.

Snow covers the ice-hard ground
And ponds and lakes are frozen.
All is muffled, every sound.
The birds are silent in the trees,
No moths or butterflies or bees
Just snowflakes by the dozen.

The moon is full and her pale light
Shines gently through the flakes.
But creatures shiver through the night.
The icy wind makes branches quiver
And every living thing to shiver
In trees and hills and lakes.

Across the field there trots a fox.
An owl flies by on silent wings.
On the frozen lake, some ducks.
As snow falls gently on them all,
And cattle low within their stall
We are waiting for the spring.


If you enjoyed this poem, I would greatly appreciate it if you would follow me. I can then read an;y comments you might make.

I Am Earth. A Poem

I am Earth.
I am your mother.
I gave you birth.

I gave you a nest.
A wonderful home
On which you can rest.

I gave you food .
Plenty to eat.
You waste all that's good.

I gave you the seas
And forests and hills,
But you chop down the trees.

You think you're so cool,
But you pollute the air
By the burning of fuel.

You heat up the air
And care not a jot
For the poor polar bear.

Animals die
Because of your greed.
You hear not their cry.

I teemed with life,
Both great and small.
Yet extinction is rife

Like a cancer you spread
Throughout the whole world.
It won't end till you're dead.

But I'll make you pay
For all you have done.
You'll be sorry one day.

I'll shiver my skin.
Your buildings will fall
And bury your kin.

The land I will flood
By raising the seas
And drown all in mud.

My mountains so high
Will belch forth their flames
And you will all die.

I am Earth.
I am your mother.
I gave you birth.

BUT I WILL DESTROY YOU.




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Crisalisk, The Red Dragon (a poem)

Today is the third Tuesday in the month, and so it's poetry day.

This poem is about a dragon who you can meet in my next book, yet to be published. Crisalisk and her mate Monarlisk are separated by Monarlisk losing a fight to another male dragon for the attentions of Crisalisk, but this poem refers to a time before that.
 
Her scales are the red
Of sunset in Autumn,
Her eyes are the gold
Of midsummer sun,
Her horns are as white
As snowfall in winter
And she dances on high
Like the birds do in spring.

Her beauty is evident
To all who do see her.
Her grace in the sky
Is a joy to behold.
With pinions spread wide
She dives then she soars
But beware, if she sees you,
Her flames she'll release.

She thinks she's the queen
Of all that surround her.
All other things living
Are there just to serve.
If any refuse her
She roars out her challenge
As Death on wide wings
Dives down from the skies.

But who is it comes
On black wings high soaring?
'Tis Monalisk who
Is her mate and her love.
For him she will bow down
Her arrogance dwindling
For he is her only
True love in the land.

This is a poem that has no rhymes. Poetry does not need to rhyme, but it has to have either rhyme or rhythm or it's just prose broken into lines.

Poetry nowadays seems to be that way, I've read many so-called poems that have neither rhyme nor rhythm. One had short lines, then suddenly a long line that took up 2 lines of text. Some of the poems I've read are incomprehesible too. I may be old fashioned in my ideas, but those things aren't poetry!

Hypocrisy. A poem

Today is a day when I publish some more of my writing. Today it's a poem about how hypocritical we are.

Hypocrisy

We like our village churches
But we don’t go there.
We love our local pub
But we don’t drink there.
We don’t want them to close
Though no one ever goes.

Our roads, they are congested
With cars for everyone.
The others shouldn’t have them
But we, of course, need one.
It should be other folk
Who give it up and walk.

Aircraft fly above us
Polluting all the air.
We think there should be fewer
But we still fly o’er there.
We need our holiday
No matter come what may


We don’t like highest earners
But want to earn as much.
We eat our meals with wine
But we don’t know too much.
We really like to think
We understand our drink.

We highly praise the classics,
 But we don’t read them.
We talk of works of Art
But never see them.
We think we are so highbrow
But brows are really quite low.

 We say we all hate rumour
But spread the gossip.
We say we understand things
When we don’t, not one bit.
Hypocrites are we
And we always will be.