I am Irish and am writing poetry since 2010. I particularly love haiku, a Japanese form of writing. A lot of my work has been published online and in print. I love to paint - mainly water-colour. I enjoy nature, flora and fauna. In 2015, I started Card Making with cross stitch and many other materials. I craft a lot now that I am retired. I love to combine art and crafts with painting and writing.
My Great Grandfather
W. T. Pickering, G/3371, 2nd Battalion Royal Fusiliers
Died 1916 at the Somme, commemorated on the Thipeval Memorial, France
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Remembrance day ..
A field of bright red poppies dance
As I walk hand in hand with my children
Through the battle fields of the Somme.
In my pocket, I have a bunch of wheat
A token memory from where he fell
At peace, to have walked where he walked.
As the poppies begin to fade....
I hear the thunder of guns, shrieking shells
I see a vast sea of dismembered bodies
A No-Man’s Land of mud and wire
A military display of golden fireworks
Casting light on this horrific hell on earth.
For underneath the poppies lie, the remains
Of so many men, who died, blown to pieces;
Where a river of blood will forever bleed
Passed on from generation to generation
The great loss of war, which nobody wins
As I remember William Thomas Pickering
So far away from home....
It was a wet November day
on the motorway to Cork.
Waiting at traffic lights
a tiny man shuffled towards me,
frail, bald and alone.
His piercing eyes beseeching,
palms outstretched, imploring.
His face ravaged with fear
his shame stirred shame in me
as I turned my face away,
I saw others do the same.
I felt awkward discomfort,
it changed rapidly
to a sickening fear
as the cold face of recession
the demise of my country
the pain of my people
stood before me
in this little man,
an ache so immense
I had buried it deep.
The bubble burst a year ago
but he had just burst mine.
Faced now with utter revulsion
abject anger towards our government
our bankers and developers
those sneaky golden circles
as my eyes met his
I saw my reflection.
For in his tiny frame,
I saw our fragile nation
a country on its knees
begging for a bail out.
In his isolation
I felt my vulnerability
huge impending loss
as my children face emigration.
In his baldness
I saw the naked masses
poverty and pain
still crushing us, the people
Hawthorn blossoms
pearled the hedgerows,
as birds rejoiced
lilting the trees
in the promise of new life,
chiming the air
with heartbeat rhythms,
a cotton crisp spring
as baby buds peeped in.
I carried you,
felt you,
but I never got to hold you.
Another year has passed
and I am lost,
lonely in the black cold of winter,
remembering the day
you left me.
We never said goodbye.
My tears
frozen in time.
Echoes of songs
that never were,
of dreams
that can never be,
my nights haunted
until the dawn.
Fog blankets the fields,
the sky expresses my need.
I hear the clouds parting
I speak with the sunrise
of my love for you,
your movement, your sound.
I would speak of anything
if I could bring you back
but there is only thick frost
and winter dwells in my heart
I see the spring,
but know
I will never feel your warmth.
In the stillness of the morning
I open my window.
I wonder if it is you
who calls me?
through trembling leaves
lilting birdsong
a cool breeze embrace
gently touching my face.
I scan the sky
clouds drifting to the east.
I search for your face
a sign, a trace.
I watch the sun rise behind dark spruce
shadows streak the fields,
a circle of light glides the sea.
I close my eyes
basking in new born rays.
I wonder could it be your glow?
I hear a faint whisper
rustle beneath the red maple.
I sense your aura
as baby pink rosebuds bloom.
House martins skim the trees
clipping in and out of nests.
Dewdrops drip from their beaks
to nourish their young.
I wonder can they see you?
I watch in silence
in wonder.
