A small boy runs from his home,
holding his sister’s hand.
Out into the heat of the midday sun.
Shouting run let’s run.
He left his home, his mother dead,
chased by a man with a gun.

The small boy huddles under a hedge.
His sister sobs by his side,
Maybe if he stands in the road,
someone will give him a ride,

An hour has passed, and no one stops.
They are just too busy
with their own concerns
to glance in their direction.

The small boy walks for many miles,
holding his sister’s hand.
He is hungry and tired.
Day has turned to night
Then he sees in the distance
a house, a home with some light.

He bangs on the door there is noise inside.
He can hear their laughter and joy.
A man looks through the glass
and sees the small girl and boy.

What are you doing here,
he shouts,
Get off my land.
Go back where you belong.
Do you understand.

Can we really believe this tale,
Of course it’s hard to see,
that this could happen in a place
so civilized and free.

Yet seventy million refugees,
live in camps worldwide.,
Turned away from safer shores.
Thousands of children died.

This is not somewhere else,
too far away from here.
These are our neighbours
friends and kin.
Can we just open our arms and
let them in.

When I sat down to write today,
I know it sounds absurd,
But I couldn’t write a single word.
Nothing came my way.

My page was blank.
I had all these great ideas,
in the back of my mind,
So far back that I
couldn’t find
even a thread,
of those I thought of
while in bed.

So after spending most of the day,
with nothing accomplished,
I thought ok.
This is really a wasted day.
So off I went to make some muffins,
It took about an hour, with the
mixing and stirring, and sifting
of flour.

Then I sat down to start again,
I looked out the window
and saw the rain.
But no, that’s not rain it’s snow.
Well I must let you know that
where I live spring is not yet here.

I will have to wait till May,
before I can really say
that my plants will not get frostbite,
if I leave them out at night.

My mind is wandering again,
The sun has come out.
I see a blue jay on the fence,
squawking for its mate
The hawks are high in the sky
swooping and dipping
floating on air.

So I will now concentrate
on what I am doing
Which is writing a post for my blog.
My back is stiff
And my mind just a fog.

I was thinking whether
I would dare
to try to cut my hair.
It’s been six weeks or so,
since I had it cut.
I think I am in a
bit of a rut.
This staying home,
Is getting tired,
None of us are really wired.
to be unsociable.

So for today
I will put it away,
And start again tomorrow.

At the time of the Pandemic

A letter to New York, New York

From Manhattan to Queens.
From Brooklyn to the Bronx.
The beating heart of America
Is strangely still

I know your heart is kind.
Your hand outstretched
To touch those who do not have
A piece of the Dream.

Your suffering is palpable
Your grief I understand.
So much poverty,
In such a wealthy land.

So many friends you’ve lost.
So many neighbours gone.
To be buried with out
A single prayer.

But you will grow.
You will return.
To be better than before
As you can see in stark relief
The sighing of the poor.

I hope to come and see you soon,
when once again its safe
to walk your streets
to hear the noise
of normal life.

Until then keep the faith.
Be Strong

With Love,
M

When I am in a place which has a traumatic history, things tend to be put into perspective for me.

As I stay at home, safe and sheltered from this virus as much as possible.

I offer this poem as a tribute.

The cherry trees are still blooming here.
Defying heat and cindered branch.
Tender roots reborn from ashes
To grow to thrive to take their chance.

The ginkgo trees are still standing tall
Their deep dark barks protective shell
Withstood the heat of raging fire.
A blackened landscape out of hell

This fertile soil is so rich with death
It feeds the roots of tortured trees.
So they survive to live again
While mankind is brought to its knees.

The ginkgo trees still stand in Hiroshima
Upon the river bank they sway
Where once they stood in fine profusion
The days before Enola Gay

The soil is rich with death in Nagasaki
One blinding flash and yellow light
Melting bones and future dreams
All hope and reason taken flight.

How many children died in Hiroshima
In that one blast of heat and flame?
Their schools turned into dust and ashes.
Who cannot feel a sense of shame?

And did their sacrifice fall on barren ground?
No lessons learned from times gone by.
War and bloodshed still persist
More pain will come more children die.

And while the trees still bloom in Nagasaki,
No one will find those buried souls.
They will not regrow to bear new fruit,
Or try to reach their treasured goals.

The cherry trees still bloom in Nagasaki.
They lend their shade and sweet perfumes.
For many sit beneath the branches
On sunny Sunday afternoons.

And as we sit we may try to meditate
Upon those horrors gone before.
That we may find a lasting peace.
With thoughts of love not thoughts of war.

At the time of the Pandemic

Letters to the world.

Mumbai
Dear One,

I can see you see sitting there,
In the doorway of your hut.
No traffic now,
Can you hear the birds sing.

Your feet are bare, gnarled and worn
From walking in the dust
No money now
Can you hear the babies cry.

The mothers beg for rice and milk
In the bright and burning sun.
No one is there.
Can you see the clean blue sky.

I see no vendors on the street,
Their carts all gone away.
No shouting now
No selling wares to those passers by.

I pray for better days ahead.
That when this time has passed,
We will not be so far apart,
In poverty or wealth.
In sicknesses and health.

So please take care, keep safe
If you can.
And all your family too.
I can see you sitting there,
On the east side of the world

In my mind's eye,

And I send my love to you.

M.

I know that rhyme is not a necessary part of poetry. However it does say that sound is of importance as is rhythm. I do appreciate free verse, but feel it has taken over the realms of poetry. So that anything that has rhythm or rhyme is kind of frowned upon.

My big problem is that I think in rhyme, and rhythm, my mind is full of it, I do not look for rhyming words they are just there, so creating poetry without it would be for me very difficult.

On that note I offer this ridiculous piece of my mind.

My pen is poised over the pages,
I have been sitting here for ages.
Trying to form a coherent thought.
Not once, not twice but many times now,
I have started to write, but just don’t know how,
To express myself without the rhyme
that fills my head all the time.

So I will try to put it away,
I will try to make it subtle
So as to avoid any rebuttal.
First I start with a word or two,

Here I am
missing you,
Oops you see what I mean?
I can’t even begin without the rhyme butting in.

Here I am
Writing for you
A poem from my heart.
Can’t think what else to say
I don’t seem to have the ability
To use the words with agility,
Unless they rhyme or nest together
As if they were created to be
The waves of one rolling sea.

So here I am,
Writing for you
A poem from my heart,
I have spent the day not knowing where to start.
But I do know that if you read this, perhaps
you will find
Deep within your receptive mind,
A willingness to be kind,
To those of us who cannot find
A way forward without the rhyme.
I am sure it will come with time.
So watch this space, and wait and see, if I can write free verse
Eventually

Once I was asked to write a piece about the “Merry Month of May”. I was less than interested in this theme as it seemed to be a bit of a cliché. So I looked it up and found that it has been the subject of many forms of art. As a schoolgirl I remember dancing around the maypole, a pagan dance of fertility, and hopes for a good growing season and harvest.

It is the title of a poem by the 16th century poet Thomas Dekker,

It is the title of the Regimental March of the 10th Royal Hussars .

It is a movie produced in 1955 and it’s a novel written by James Jones in 1971.

Not to forget the Irish folk song sung by The Dubliners.

So I thought that many, much more talented, famous and generally brilliant folks had written on this theme, so who was I to consider it beneath me. My poem a little different and focussing on the fact that I was born on VE Day the 8th May 1945, and was reared on stories of war and bloodshed, of victory, never of defeat.

My childhood was taken up with games of war with my brother, who convinced me that the pile of old batteries which had been dumped in the dell at the bottom of our garden were all undetonated bombs. Just waiting to go off, if I didn’t adhere strictly to the rules of his games. My desire to be part of his boy’s world, and being two years younger than he, I agreed with no reluctance.

With this as a backdrop here it is. The Merry Month of May:

The house sits in sunshine,
Listens to the drone of bees,
Sees the wasps as they nestle into fruit
Soft and rotting on the grass.
The old oak tree with a swing made of wood,
Looks out to where the old elm sends
It’s suckers shooting up all around
Letting nothing grow upon the ground.
The house is empty and forlorn,
These many months alone it sits.
The ones who stayed here gone away,
In the Merry Month of May.

The house sits in darkness
Listens to the drone of planes
Sees the flash of anti aircraft guns
Fighting for freedom in the air.
A blue eyed boy blond hair on his brow drops his bomb
By mistake.
Wishes he could turn around and never harm another soul.
Wonders who lives below and wonders how
He came to be the pilot with no voice
A killer who never had the choice.
The choice was made by those with maps far away
In the Merry Month of May

The house sits among its trees,
Listens to the soft thud
As the bomb settles in the mud.
Below the oak under the swing it slides and settles.
It stays and hides beneath the nettles.
Four years pass
The war has ended all are dancing in the streets,
Drinking homemade wine and beer, this is the end of all their fear.
Now all they need is loved ones far away to come home come home to stay.
In the Merry Month of May.

So the old house still sits.
Children come to play on the swing they
Play house in the grass, cutting sticks to build their forts
Playing at war, running up and down until one stops and
Sees the shiny object beneath the trees.
She stoops and strokes it, clearing off the dust it shines.
How beautiful it looks,
She calls her brother to come and see.

The house is still here on this summer day.
It has been alone for a long time now.
A new family is coming so they say
And as the darkness falls all around
It will never forget that sound.
When mothers kneeled to pray
In the Merry Month of May.