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Best England Poems

Below are the all-time best England poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of england poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New England Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best England poems are below this new poems list.

In a Forgotten Field in England by Halling, Carl
New England by Jennings, CayCay
Lost England by Lewis , Gail
THE NEW ENGLAND FOOTBALL TEAM MANAGER - SAM ALLARDYCE by Ashton, Darryl
To be a gnome in England by One, Silent
ENGLAND AND WALES EURO 2016 - THE STORY SO FAR by Ashton, Darryl
England will shake by Dover, Anthony
O ENGLAND a lament by Strand, Brian
A NEW ANTHEM FOR ENGLAND - NEW GOLDEN DAYS by Ashton, Darryl
Afghanistan England Iran France Iraq Belgium You by Harris, STANLEY

View all new England Poems

The Best England Poems

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Here, Again: The Autumn Equinox

Written for the Avebury Gorsedd, 24th September 2016  
I wish you well...

I’m here, again…
Come riding in, upon the western wave
My hair all wove with golden leaves, my breast
As pale as moonlight on a hidden grave
And all the sins of summer long confessed

I come, again…
In sweeping skirts, with white swan feathers strewn
To brush the summer dust from weary grass
Make ash of aspen, damp the flame of noon
Before the frost freeze water into glass 
 
I bring, to you…
Windfallen apples, berries from the hedge
Long shadows on the barrows, and the chalk
Wild winds to stir the willows and the sedge
And mist, and myth, down every path you walk

I’m here, again…
The promise of the harvest to fulfil
The energy of autumn, streaming through
The swirling springs that spiral round the hill
To drench the land in red and russet hue

I come, again…
Between the longest day and shortest night
To fill the blood and marrow of your bones
With all the orange glory of the light
Before the dark descend upon the stones

I bring, to you…
A cornucopia of ripened fruit
Dark juices of the vine in bottles bright
To nourish soul and body, to transmute
Your thought to dream, your dream to second sight

For I am She…
Am Autumn writ, in every field and tree
Am mistress of the Owl and running Hare
So yield unto my kiss, and blesséd be
And dance with me, oh Druid, if you dare…

@ Gail Foster 23rd September 2016


Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2016

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The Maid of Orleans

Reflecting in her garden sits a winsome little maid;
She holds a purple flower like the circlet that she made
And wrapped about her braids to grace her forehead like a crown;
Her thick and shining braids that are the shade of chestnut brown.
A soft and dreamy smile lifts her lips of cherry rose
As she so elegantly lifts the flower to her nose
To smell the rich and heady fragrance rising from its soul-
Upon this day in early May, her heart with joy is full.
But look! The heavens open wide, and joy is changed to fear,
For Michael the Archangel in the garden does appear,
And with him stand Saint Margaret and Saint Catharine, sent to seek
This girl of twelve, and in her frightened youthful ears to speak
Words form the Lord, of how someday, somehow, she'll have to save
Her native land, her land of France, from lying in the grave.
When in their bright angelic garb these saints to heav'n returned,
She knew they had been sent from God, her heart within her burned
With strong desire, with heaven's fire, to do her Father's will;
Her heart beats hard, while all around is silent, calm and still.

The years pass by, now seventeen, her hour is fully come,
And what is now but distant fancy, dull and throbbing hum
Will be her life, her joy, her pain; her darkness or her light:
For God and country, king and freedom, must, she must needs fight.
The chains of England must be broken, young prince Charles crowned:
A source of hope, of inspiration must for France be found;
For civil war rakes raging claws through weary, hopeless men,
Who fight and die, and sacrifice, and lose their homes again;
Their gardens, flocks and herds, and treasures, all are swept away:
With nothing left but life itself, and naught to do but pray.

God heard their prayer and sent her there for their deliverance,
To lead them on to victory through every circumstance
Of treachery or deviltry that loomed on every side.
Urged on by all the saints above and martyrs who had died,
She bound her armor to her body, helmet to her head;
A troop of eager soldiers to the Orleans siege she led.
Without a fear she faced the battle, banner held up high;
It filled each fainting heart with spirit, waving in the sky:
Unfailing, never falling, always standing at the fore,
And filling every weary soul with courage to the core.
Though wounded by an arrow striking close beside her heart,
She still pressed on to victory, she played her vital part.
The Maid of Orleans did her best, she held back not at all,
But risked her life at every turn to heed her heav'nly call;
She fought and bled and braved the beast until her king was crowned,
And even then she carried on, she traveled all around:
Each city gained broke off the chains of power-hungry kings,
Who killed to gain another's land, his citizens and things.

Alas! She met her fate at hands that should have helped her cause;
The countrymen she battled sold her to be judged by laws
And men that all disfavored her, yet still she firmly stood,
Proud head held high, two gleaming eyes; she answered best she could
Each twisted question meant to trap her clear but simple mind:
With wit and art she answered each; they really could not find
A cause for death, but death must be for such an enemy
The fate; who sees such visions full of vile heresy,
Of saints and angels revelating mortals with God's plan.
They also charged her with the sin of dressing like a man,
But it was of necessity she donned a soldier's guise;
For all throughout the war-torn realm roamed pairs of hateful eyes
Who did not heed a woman's cries, but did what pleased them best:
They killed or maimed or stained for life from eastern France to west.

So thus it is, not twenty years, they chain her to a stake-
The final chain that no amount of bravery can break.
Within her dress, hugged to her chest, she tucks a wooden cross;
The symbol of the Son of God, who faced such early loss
Of life, and like her was betrayed and mocked and led to die
Without a cause, without a crime, without a reason why.
Ten thousand people press around; she feels the burning heat,
As flames grow hotter, ever hotter- licking at her feet:
But on one thing and one thing only both her eyes are fixed;
Upon the figure held before her- on the crucifix.
And she is thinking of a time that seems so long ago,
When as a girl she used to sit and watch her garden grow;
She'd pick the purple petaled flowers, braid them in her hair;
Her life was simple, pure, and sweet, she hadn't any care
Until Saint Michael gave her calling to her way back then.
But if she had another life, she'd do it all again,
For God and country, king and freedom she could die this death;
And so it was that thus she died, and with her final breath
Her soul and body parted ways, and while her body burned,
Her soul went on to realms unknown, her soul to heav'n returned
Into the hands of He who made her, to the arms of Christ the Lord;
Who made for her a better body, more than just restored.
Here ends the troubles of this maiden, gone are jail cells dark:
Forever live the Maid of Orleans, known as Joan of Arc.



{Written by Isaiah Zerbst. For the first time published on October the 13th, 2014.}


Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2014

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Admiral Lord Nelson

Blessed with ingenuity, he fought advancing tyranny
That stormed the sea in twenty-three  great warships sailing furiously.

That day, October twenty-first, saw Admiral Nelson at his worst,
As cannons roared, while gunners cursed. The times were changed, the tides reversed.

Lord Nelson, as an admiral brave with all his fleet defied the grave,
His native land and king to save:-- his life for freedom's cause he gave.

In but a half a dozen hours he humbled Europe's finest pow'rs,
And toppled Tyranny's highest tow'rs; yet Vict'ry found him crowned with flow'rs,

And not a place the crown to lay, on him, nor all who died that day
In sending Britain's foes away, across the stormy seas of grey.


Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2014

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Concerning Math and How To Say It

The British call it maths,
but the Americans ditch the s
causing much international scorn.
But for our sake, p'raps it'd be best
to keep subjects
only halfway grasped
in the singular form.


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

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A CASTLE OF TEMPTATION - collab with JA Fraser

A CASTLE OF TEMPTATION Proudly standing amidst three lochs, verdant hills a Castle enciente breathing beauty but sadly chants passed feuds sparking battles having harried their foe and it's demise caused by Frigates cannonball screams. Colonel MacRae-Gilstrap rebuilds now redeemed: stoned arch bridge supersede the sea highway flow, circular stairs and ceilings with coat of arms grants changes made but its history today remains still Tourists not deterred by ghost tales scary extreme But await they exercise for imaginations to show the setting, a romantic reincarnation that enchants attracted lovers to celebrate their matrimonial thrill Eilean Donan Castle in its stunning reachable location pose the Western Highlands of Scotland a temptation. Written by: Olive Eloisa Guillermo and James Andrew Fraser 8:46 pm; August 18, 2015


Copyright © Olive Eloisa Fraser | Year Posted 2015

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I'm not nosey but

I've never been one to nosey but
Looking through my net curtains
I just happened to have a pair of binoculars in my hand
I'm a curious kinda man
Ooh you wouldn't believe the things I've seen
Not being a gossip of course
It's so posh around here the mail is personally
Delivered by the Queen
And across my vast sprawling country estate
Someone's skinny dipping in my lake
I think I'll choose a masserati today
And wave at the peasants on my way.

There goes Dietrich on her penny farthing
Listening to some Hank Marvin
Toqyen is drunk again
Casarah is walking her lama
Tim has just worked out at the gym
And Jan is looking nice and Trim
Peter and Vera 
are in the garden
Singing Shakira
Poet destroyer is cutting the grass
Ooh she has a lovely fast
Mower that lass.

There goes Mary Jo on her pogo stick
She doesn't look too well hope she's not sick
Over there prince Harry is having a party again
A fancy dress
And he's dressed as hen
Well folks Think I'll get in my hot tub full of champagne
And wait until tomorrow
When I can spy again.




Peter Dome. copyright. 2014. Sept.


Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2014

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A Room Full of Butterflies

Inspired by a Art gallery and a poem by Shelly.


A room full of  mottled multicolored butterflies
captured within a creative space
of artful design
to inspire and aspire
Flirt and flutter a delicate ballet
among the pot plants
A splash of color
an oasis
among a drab row of urban gray
The door is opened
and the butterflies are released to freedom
flying high above
lush green trees
in clear unblemished skies
floating like autumn fallen leaves
in a gentle breeze
painted Ladies
that rested on my heart for a while
and made it smile
bringing pleasure to my eye
A symbol of freedom and eternity
filling my dreams
with all the treasures of summer.




Peter Dome.copyright.2013. Sept.


Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2013

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Broken England

Broken England
By Steven Cooke

My Brave ancestors of England,
Look away, for I offend thee.

For your England is no more.
Decay eats away at this fallen empire.
Your people divided,
Its laws weakened by Europe’s power.
Its leadership, protecting the few.
The fresh air of your Country gone,
Only the stench of anarchy remains
Heroes of The Somme look away for I offend thee.

Stock Market Parasites, take without producing
Corporations overwhelm, the weak,
Without paying their due.
Their off shore havens digest the life blood of this once great nation,
Leaving the scraps of minimum wage for the masses to beg. 
The dead of Pashendale look away for I offend thee.

Government legislate to keep us in bondage to 66
Over the hill at 50, to wonder the dole queues
Youth denied education, 
Universities at a price,
Qualifications for the chosen few,
Unemployment, for the poor.
Our brothers of Gallipoli look away for I offend thee.

Our Cities are in pain.
Hopeless lives, with hopeless dreams,
Hopeless choices, drugs, crime,
Or silence behind closed doors.
Babies born to fail,
Children, exposed to depression and chips.
The ghosts of Arnhem look away for I offend thee.

A voice in the darkness, shouts its rage
The iron curtain of youth descends on England
This is no Lennon revolution,
This is youth with no future, abandoned by government
No rules here to obey, No Civic pride,
 No sense of History, no Country to protect
The Saviours of Goose green look away for I offend thee

But fat cats beware, for there is a dream,
That cannot be bought.
A warning from history.
A country cannot go forward,
Without learning from the past.

Your greed will self destruct
Your Paradise a lie
For a Dangerous wind now blows,
And common sense, will fail.
For England is Broken,
And life will never be the same,
In England’s green and pleasant land.
Now It is my turn to look away, 
for you see this offends me too.




Copyright © steven cooke | Year Posted 2011

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The Earl of Pence

'Twas a dark and stormy night! (OK - so I'm being a tad histrionic!)
The Earl of Pence was lounging by the fire sipping his gin and tonic.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared sending shivers down his spine.
Even his hound, Lord Percival, was so upset that he began to whine!

'Twas well-known thereabouts that phantoms haunted the earl's castle,
And on such frightful nights they were bound to cause a spooky hassle.
Nefarious deeds had occurred within Penceshire Castle walls in the past,
And were replayed in 'spirited' form leaving generations of earls aghast!

A shriek from the bowels of the castle sent the dog into howling fits,
And brought the earl bounding to his feet, scaring him out of his wits!
The blood-curdling screams were from a former Earl of Pence who in 1642,
Was hung by his thumbs in the dungeon for a fair maiden that he slew!

Suddenly, the ancient organ in the hall began playing eerie chords.
Heard on the floor above was rowdy dancing by ladies, knights and lords.
Ghastly emanations from the past paraded through the terrified earl's room,
Antecedents all, leering and grinning and predicting the anxious earl's doom!

Lord Percival sensing trouble long before, across the moat had bolted!
The storm subsided and the apparitions faded leaving the earl quite jolted!
He felt a bony hand upon his shoulder that took away his final breath.
'Twas his valet who offered a gin and tonic to the earl who now lay in death!


Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2014

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Broken Conch

.



                           between us — 
                           a broken conch
                           empty of waves




.


Copyright © Ruben O. | Year Posted 2016

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MANCHESTER

MANCHESTER

Oh, Manchester, you are such a majestic city 
bathed in your bright blazing lights in the night. 
Everyone has been to your cityscape, 
if they work there or go to see such honoured shops 
like Vinyl Exchange to get their favourite record. 
Such calamities in the past have struck so suddenly 
like German bombers of the blitz to the IRA only recently, 
you survive all this like a Phoenix rising out of the ashes. 
So many different people are there on a Saturday afternoon 
all coming and going, it amazes you 
just to see them all become one with the city.



Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2014

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Bubbletown Blews

Bubbletown  Blews


Whilst sitting and lying by a babbling brook
for once through the water I took a deeper look
then I saw into Bubbletown, bubbles popping with glee
for that is what they are meant to be
Down there, theres no time for heirs and graces
and no disrespect to creeds and races

no single bubble is better no matter how big or small
for history,religion and status there is no need at all
A bubbles life is simple you see to try not to pop for as long as can be
yet when it pops it sets others free

Then with a whip and a splash stuck to a sticklebacks fin
a bubble escapes from deep within 
no record will be remembered of this noble fleet
and  the bubble will join another bubbletown meet
no questions asked just join in the throng
for all bubble's are equal no matter how big and strong

and remember this as long as they thrive
the round little folk keep the whole stream alive
So take from this no matter how small and meek
the powers inside us to be strong and unique

just be like a bubble and raise to attest
then my son or daughter you can be like the rest 
no better no worse and you can fly
your sky is your limit if you put no one down, and greet others from outside of town
with a smile and a welcome instead of a frown !!!

MB 2013


Copyright © marc barritt | Year Posted 2013

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Choosing Choice

A lighter view of the Devizes Neighbourhood Plan 
referendum on Thursday 17th September

My alarm clock shouts at me with noisy voice
“Wake up!  It’s Thursday and you have a choice!”
Of what to have for breakfast, eggs or bran
And of voting or not voting on the Plan
I’m not that sure quite what it's all about
Perhaps I’ll go online and check it out
The library know their stuff, they’re pretty fair
Could ask at the Town Hall, there’s people there
That funny poet woman says “Vote Yes”
Or otherwise the town will be a mess
Without a Plan we just won’t have a clue
Of what outside developers will do
But other folk are saying “No! Vote No!”
I’m so confused about which way to go
If I don’t vote I haven’t had a say
It’s only a few moments from my day
I’m going to go to town now and the Market
Could take the car but it’s a job to park it
Might take my bike or simply take a walk
And wander round and meet some friends and talk
I wonder what they think, I’ll ask their views
They might, like me, be wondering what to choose
Meat from the butchers, or some humble spam
Or whether to have a quick one in The Lamb
I’ve chosen breakfast eggs, I’m on a roll
I’m going to town, I’m going to simply stroll
I’m going to look at options and take note
I’m choosing choice and I am going to vote

If stuff goes wrong I’ve got till ten o’clock
The day is long, I’m on it (where’s that sock?)

by Gail









 






Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2015

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The British Weather

It's the only land that you can
get all seasons in one day
you name it UK displays it
all the colors from blue to grey
 
It certainly has loads of great variety
from sun clouds snow and  pouring rain
to hail winds storms and freezing ice
has such a staining effect on the brain
 
The north is such damp climate
having wet damp miserable outlook
fills one with negative thoughts
when sun shines it seems a fluke
 
In the south where it's bright
as it's mostly warmer with sunshine
for it's labelled the English riviera
where it matures like a good wine
 
The east has real mighty gale force
as America's conditions effect the west
when they come across from States
on the atlantic waves full crest
 
So that's Britain's wayward weather
like it or lump it that's your lot
remember you guys across the pond
don't send everything that you've got!

(Just some thoughts on the UK weather and how it varies so much, also a little quip at you guys in US where we seem to get the effects of your east coast storms but rarely your sunshine. but no matter we love you all!!!)


Copyright © Gordon McConnell | Year Posted 2016

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A secret love

I was betrothed to another in that forlorn and wretched dominion,
oppressive judgement's, bloodied swords and slayers of unruly opinion.
Alas, my heart was aching to be free of reluctant oath and predatory kin,
silent musing of an erstwhile and fairer maiden, to admit, would be an ungodly sin.

A days toil finished and walking back to my thatched cottage thru a white clover pasture,
she was riding on a noble and dainty chestnut filly, meeting my eyes with demure,
acknowledging my presence with a curious cadence and unfamiliar tongue,
enchanted and beguiled, I thought it a blessed omen, my heart raced and swung.

That night with kith and kin enjoying tankards of ale at the White Swan, the village tavern,
I overheard local folk gossiping about a curious lady who dwelt near the cinnamon fern.
Could this be my lady with the peculiar parlance that held me captive and spellbound,
I listened furtively for erudition and confirmation, she was indeed that lady who did confound.

The next day, I sent her a missive to receive me with my battle scarred and most trusted sidekick,
going about my daily graft to earn the King's shilling, feeling an odd nausea, like I was sea sick.
Just after dusk my comrade and confidant returned with a cheery smile and a sealed note,
she would indeed receive me, as she was intrigued by my poise and countenance her hand had wrote.

T'was that Saturday, a day of rest, I raced on my fasted steed to meet at our arranged assignation,
many miles to the East we did meet by the sea, with a view of a war ravaged castle by Thracian.
Smitten with each others woes and joys and daring adventures, we kissed and made a resolute vow,
we would book passage on a ship bound for the New World, making a free life for us somehow.

Undercover of a moonless night, I shrewdly and craftily stayed in the shadows and crept out of town,
regrets left behind, a future across the sea with my truest love, we would make a family and settle down.
She was awaiting my arrival at the bay, we rode a boat to the ship just off shore watching an orange sun slowly rise,
sailing away with a vexing past behind us, we held each other tight and saw our children in her misty green eyes.


Copyright © Chris Peers | Year Posted 2016

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late night

Into the kingdom. 

From the kingdom was I bourne ancestral sailed into the fall of the hemispheres equator. Other earth side I became alive.  The table on the fringe.
From the kingdom all my culture my speech unadultured, my faith absolute. 

Into the kingdom was I taken lifted airborne did I rise and fall and gently sail above the Thames in cloud.
oh mighty I land, thence a war that had began.
two children to become lovers we played distanced by nowt but the days. And a haze of hedges, fences, walls. Lonely hence thus I alone until. 
 I pray together I held hands with the love of her and my our kingdom Albion. 
kissed we kissed. Love we love. Listen we listened. 

fettered by oath to because of the poverty. 

Amongst knights and their princes did I train, against the kaffir whom we blamed. Attack now they preached I said laugh instead, this fool feels meek, love, they should not war in the name of the all and that that is above.  Wise words from her. 

war. 
return to
peace. 

oh into the kingdom did I go, into the kingdom there I roamed. Into the kingdom with all that was kind and brute and love and speech. 

This child did roam through into the love of her kingdom, there I did go, into the kingdom I am. In time I am. Oh that I am.  Man I am In the kingdom. Hear me times men of man, electricity I speak. Until I go. Now im away and waiting. Holding silenced im praying for her. 

split speech wreaking for heavens sakes, im in the kingdom. 

I fell for her, she fell for me. In the anarchy.  

that was life and of death I say when that arrives,
until then spring, new loves and life for more we both memory our time we hope we dream we think we speak we remember our promises in youth. 

friends forever more, no matter how we fall, if we fall. Uplift us again in love my friends. 

She knows when the word, I there within, filled love with her our word as words and words the maker makes and doth we wrote, between the love life. 

when the holy finds her, there I am stoic im her man, in virgin, Shield, for I am, im hers.  From the shelter of her kingdom I return to the dark of the deep, the continent of the beasts. A lion roars. 


Copyright © john night | Year Posted 2015

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One Man's Retirement

In Oxford we watched for three months
the old man, his leg in plaster,
lean against the wall outside the building
where the Simon people cared for him.

He always gave a friendly greeting,
with his Irish accent, putting some life
back into our tired bodies,
as we rushed by on our way to work.

His younger mates preferred
the benches further down the street,
where they drank the bottle of cider,
hidden away from the night before.

Later in the day, senile old ladies
gathered on benches and listened
to the lilting of his Irish brogue.


Copyright © Mary Guckian | Year Posted 2015

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bye bye Steven Gerrard

Bye Bye Gerrard 
You scored some good goals
But you’ll always be a poor mans Lampard and Scholes
Bye Bye Gerrard

Bye Bye Gerrard
15 years and you have 0 Premier League medals
Maybe you could hold 1 of Gary Neville’s
Bye Bye Gerrard 

Bye Bye Gerrard 
You will be missed
You could have won it but you slipped
Bye Bye Gerrard

Bye Bye Gerrard
American girls won’t find the English accent sexy anymore when they hear your Scouse voice
Played for Liverpool but supported Everton as a boy
Bye Bye Gerrard

Bye Bye Gerrard 
You were the captain of England
But weren’t the best midfielder from the United Kingdom
Bye Bye Gerrard

Bye Bye Gerrard 
Thanks for the memories you will be missed
You said “this does not slip now” and then you slipped
Bye Bye Gerrard

Bye Bye Gerrard 
I’ll admit you were good at football
But you won no premier league medals at all
Bye Bye Gerrard 


Copyright © Alex Duffy | Year Posted 2015

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he is leaving home

                            
                  In great respect of the band I grew up listening to
                       as sure as Mom passed down Saturday Chores 
                      for I had been chosen to scrub bathroom floors `

                    Yet a familiar sound would bring me to keep scrubbing
                       The red album, The blue album , The White album 
                        Then .. Abbey Road , always remembering the sad look on
                  Ringo's face ,  something hard to understand underneath~
                       
                      I get it now, what you were saying all those years ago ,
                    the many sad lonely tears , secret tears , secret fears 
                    For Maxwell's Hammer was a real one . It wanted silence

                    Going back ..remembering when John Lennon died 
                      I was in Arkansas saddened with the world .
                      Then seeing his face saying " Drag isn't it " 
                      No .. this was not my hero in music and song .

                      he was a stand in hired William , he filled his shoes 
                      bringing diversity to create so much beautiful music from loss

                       One left standing , alone;; grief struck on back cover ~
                       The other identity hidden, tried to be part of ..coming together
                                                                                                                                                                        
                            his  world of secrets
                        He to suffers today , in fear , Faul~
                       
                        Too many years gone by .let us tell the Truth. Let us be free
                         The very sad long and winding Road ~
                         Let us Bury our real Paul. 

                         No more " Mystery tour "
                             No more fear 
                                Let him be in peace ~


           Inspired by " The Last Testament of George Harrison , Is Paul Dead ? "

                







Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

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Mocking The Raven

When I was young, I would mock the raven,
Never dreaming her harsh call was a cry
Across the water to the castle of her brother
King Bram, the Raven, ruler of the British Isles.
Never did I dream of the destruction 
That would follow this desperate plea
Sent upon the wings of a blackened crow.

When I was young, I thought childhood
Would last forever; secure in my father's care,
Content in the loving arms of my mother,
Never did I dream of the devastating war
That would follow this messenger of our doom
Carried across the seas to inflict upon our land
A war of vengeful purpose and contempt.

When I was young, peace prevailed in our land;
Our King was just and beloved by his people.
Then came a marriage, an alliance between
Ireland and England.  Queen Branwen;
Discontent, lonely, hungry for power,
Hated by her court for the intrigue
And bloody sanctions imposed upon all
Who did not obey her sanctimonious whim;
Queen Branwen, beautiful daughter of England.

When I was young, I stood beneath
The blasted pine, looking up at the black bird
As she screamed out her litany of wrongs,
Watching as she lifted her wings to soar across the water.
My father, general of Ireland, fell upon the shores
Fighting to repel Bran's vengeful warriors;
My mother, condemned by her beauty
Fell among the vanquished women.

When I was young, I did not fear the raven;
Now I live in the court of the Raven King,
He, who conquered my people for naught as his sister
Queen Branwen, the White Raven, took her life
And walks now, shriven and pale, among the graves
Of the fallen warriors; forever singing her lament
Of sorrow and regret; far too late, far too late.

When I was young, I believed in the goodness of men.
Now I am old; my raven hair is streaked with silver.
The voice of Bran echoes through this palace
As he cries out exhortations to his conquering soldiers;
As he cries for peace and fellowship in his land.
When I was young, I would mock the raven;
Now I am old and have harnessed the power
Of the raven's call.  I cry to my people for vengeance;
I wait for their rescue, as I haunt the halls of the Raven King.



[Loosely based on the legend of Bran, the Raven King of England 
and Branwen, his sister, who was married to the king of Ireland.  
It is said that King Bran speaks still in England through the cries of the raven.]


{by Deb Radke -- written for the contest 'Among the Dead'}





Copyright © deb radke | Year Posted 2011

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Great Britain

Government
Royal family, regal, royalties,
England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales are part of GB, Europe
Army, Air force, and Naval support
Treasures, tutoring, training

Buildings and gardens of significance
Rivers, rail and roads
Islands surrounded by sea
Territorial forces, tax tea and traffic
Archaeology, history unveiled and preserved
Industry
National pride, National Insurance, National Health Service


Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2013

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A 'Twisted' Sense of Pride

This June, our national football team
Is going to South Africa, for the World Cup
When we were told not to wear our team colours
I thought, ‘This country has gone bottom up!’

Since when did our nation get twisted
Into a totalitarian state?
Where certain minorities have their say
Fuelling the ‘BNP’s’ fires of hate

They wouldn’t have even dare to constrain
The Welsh, the Irish or Scots
Who if told not to wear their teams colours
Would rather be hung, drawn, quartered or shot

Their sense of pride in their history
And for their Countries, is world renowned,
For England to bow to the vociferous few
Would be letting the team in South Africa down

Not to mention our troops in Afghanistan
Fighting terror so we can live free
Nailing their colours to the mast
Standing proud in the fight for their country

We here in England must echo that pride
As onwards all ‘our boys’ forge
And I for one, will be flying my flag
For Queen, Country, ‘boys’ and Saint George.


Copyright © Janette Fisher | Year Posted 2010

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The Castle

In the green countryside of Wales,
A castle sits, dark and decaying,
It holds many ghostly tales,
That the locals keep relaying.

Surrounded by majestic, rolling hillsides,
Covered by a gray, misty shroud,
And cliffs high above the blue sea tides,
Where voices still ring out loud.

What was once a beautiful garden,
Where all the children used to play,
Has been left to whither and harden,
Just as the castle was left to decay.

Long cobwebs hang like curtains of lace,
In windows that remain dark and cold,
Someone still walks the crumbling staircase,
Just as they did in the days of old.

They walk the towers and through the halls,
Making the dusty, wooden floors creak,
Their portraits still hang on the walls,
Where the voices of the dead still speak.

The empty rooms will never make a sound,
But, if you listen hard enough to their history,
Stories of romance and love still abound,
Along with secrets of murders and mystery.




August 8th, 2013




Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013

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Madeleine the Spy

Sonia Esmee Florence Butt   ( work in progress )

The year 2014 comes to a close
Another unsung hero passed on, from a time long ago
Poets free to express our thoughts
Due to the bravery of Sonia D'Artrois

The day was may 28, 1944
A parachute and Sonia fell from the sky
Cropte, France, behind enemy lines
Her code name Madeleine, terrifying times

Explosives, and weapons, she understood
Training the Maquis to fight, in Charnie the forest hood
A woman who earned the respect of all around
For she was the leader of the underground

Great distances on Bicycle she would ride
Courier and messenger delivering supplies
Right in front of  the Nazi eye
They never discovered this lady, Blanche the spy!

D'artois she met in  the war in France
Explosions of love, this great romance
After D-Day, more explosions too
Many a Nazi was felled in his shoes

This British heroine when victory was assured
Across the sea to Canada she went
Married her lover
Met in danger, in the resistance of France


Notes Sonia d'Artois passed away on Dec 21, 2014 at the age of 90, a British woman who at a very young age joined the SOE ( Special Operations Executive ) She was parachuted behind enemy lines in France nine days before D-Day to lead a group in the french resistance (The Maquis) There she met a Canadian an officer in the Canadian army Guy d'Artois. They fell in love and later settled back in Montreal Canada.



Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

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not FISH AND FINGER PIE

Looking for British starches,
wanting a "TAKE AWAY?"
Walk past those "ARCHES,"
no 'BIG MAC" for today.

A lovely 'TOAD IN THE HOLE,"
will "GOBSMACK" your soul,
and you'll never go nutty,
with a "BACON BUTTY."

So let's enjoy the "GRUB,"
while here in the "PUB"
and those from "YONKERS,"
can still go "BONKERS."

refrain:

HEY!
Stop messing about with "HAGGIS" and "GHERKINS,"
here lovely "FAGGOTS" go tongue and cheek.
Without "BANGERS & MASH" we'd all be quirking,
if "SPOTTED DICK" could only "BUBBLE and SQUEEK!"

for the write me a pub song contest

copyright: John Trusty 5/9/2013


Copyright © John Trusty | Year Posted 2013