NaPoWriMo day twenty eight. After yesterday’s frivolity poem number twenty eight is much more sober and was inspired by Anzac day, the centenary of which took place on 25th April.


Sunlight dances on bleached beaches.

We remember a time

when men were killed in their pursuit.

Penned in small coves they fell

over fallen comrades like sacrificial lambs.

Crowds bow their heads

shedding tears for their forebears,

disconnected lines on the family tree;

branches cut before flowering.

Young men, straight and tall

mark the passing of those lives against their own

and thank some unknown presence,

call it God, call it luck,

that they were not here a hundred years ago

I Am Still Me

  NaPoWriMo day eleven and here’s poem number eleven. I have finally caught up.

This is a bit of a sad one inspired by the death of the much loved Australian cricketer and commentator Richie Benaud. I have never been a cricket fan but, for reasons I won’t go into now, I did see a lot of cricket in the eighties and nineties and so saw a lot of Richie on the TV. I’m ashamed to say that when I saw a recent picture of him on the BBC news last night I was shocked at how much he’d aged since I’d last seen him. How stupid of me: he was eighty-four, of course he had aged. The poem is called I Am Still Me. RIP Richie…

I Am Still Me

I am still me inside this worn and wasted body.

Still the man who fought for my country

on green battlefields, serving victory in a cup.

I am the one who made you weep with happiness

and kept you strong when pride was low.

The laconic wit that made you smile and

shake your head is still part of my make-up.

These hands, once prized, may tremble

but I can still hold you in their palms.

Remember me when I am gone

as the man I was, the man I still am.


The Big Man Left the Kettle On

  NaPoWriMo day eight and here’s poem number six, it’s called The Big Man Left the Kettle On. Only two behind now – back on track by the weekend, hopefully….


I think the Big Man left the kettle on this morning

‘Cause when I woke up the world was all steamed up.

I imagine a huge kettle on a gigantic old gas hob boiling away.

Maybe the postman called and he got distracted,

forgot it was there.

It can happen. Continue reading “The Big Man Left the Kettle On”

Blood Red Poppies Grow in This Field

Here’s a poem that was inspired by a book of poems by the World War One poets.

 Blood Red Poppies Grow in This Field

Blood red poppies grow in this field.

Delicate arched stems strain to control

bright lamps bobbing as if on elastic.

Day closes and hanging their heads

they fold themselves in like old men

made weary by the passing years.

Morning calls them to arms.

Tissue petals stand attentive to

the sound of bugles only they hear.

Too quickly their young crowns fall

leaving them bare headed save a cluster

of seeds soon buried in the earth,

a parting gift to remind us next year

that blood red poppies grow in this field.