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Terry Trainor Poem
Many years ago, way back in time the month of April was known as the Blackthorn Winter,
It was the time of the year when the blackthorn begins to dress in her finest blossom,
Deep in the country the small hamlets custom says is the time for bitter cold weather,
Time for east and north-easterly hard winds chill all, hail, sleet and sometimes snow.
The blackthorns and the plums in sheltered orchards awaken and begin to come to life,
They quickly showed themselves thickly clustered with tiny little green bursting buds,
Blue whiteness of the blossom half revealed, like the wide smile of a beautiful girl,
A rich white that makes your heart and eyes light up at the sight of unrivaled beauty.
Cold are the winds buds of trees swell and they grow like a naturally beautiful woman,
They come forward and bloom standing cold but fearless, determined to wait for the sun,
On cold grounds a lilac stands it looks so green flushed with it's half-unclosed leaves,
A yellow rose fights to start its new life just as custom says in a Blackthorn Winter.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2012
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Terry Trainor Poem
A walk to school out of the backdoor, through the homemade back gate, through a narrow alley,
Cars parked on the curb, guarded by paraffin lamps, no garages, no parking area,
Walking down my road, past the bully's house, all is very, very quiet, careful
Then the front door opens, a big kid comes running and chases me down the road.
Near the end of my street was a large piece of wasteland, called "the logs"
Huge logs cut down hundreds of years ago, grey, split, tall trees chopped down,
Stinging nettles in large clumps, cars abandoned, a play ground for children,
Into a road full of bungalows, the posh side, people looking through curtains.
About a mile down this road, there was more wasteland, with a muddy shortcut,
Shoes covered in mud, trying to clean them with an old bit of paper, no good,
Out of the wooded shortcut, past the entrance of a railway, through a tunnel,
On the other side, up steps was a sweet shop, looked through window, no money.
Past the bank on to a main road, told many times to look left and right, careful,
Walking up another street, then a short cut through, an old mansion falling apart,
Down the coke covered road, into a road where huge flats were being built, ugly flats.
The into my school play ground, seeing class mates, queuing up to go into the school.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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Terry Trainor Poem
Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.
Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,
As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.
If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.
An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.
The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.
Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.
Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.
These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,
As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.
These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,
Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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Terry Trainor Poem
Father Christmas is in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
A family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.
Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats, frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way
Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.
They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good and well behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.
Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums,
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children.
In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the rag dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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Terry Trainor Poem
Human tastes vary and so are the desperate cravings to capture the best in human ambition,
A more desperate thirst for fame, riches and for power can be a low, vulgar bitter taste,
I admire the spirit of the man who sees richer recompense as a sign of alleviated misery,
And I see goodness in smiles and enlightened hearts of happy people that enjoy their life,
Men who enjoy what's free in life, the softness a beauty of a June night and warm breezes,
The calm clear loveliness of a dark sky where moon beams shine and an evening star glows,
Acknowledging wonder as the smallest sounds of the night, owl's hooting, crickets singing,
Enjoying the night time smell where different breezes unlock, the sweetest secret essences,
It could be the leafy aroma of the trees or the scents of many wild lovely forest flowers,
A man who knows the price of a wives 'I love you' when he comes home from his daily work,
A man who knows the value of money and would rather his name valued in poor mans prayers,
There are two choices in this world, greed or contentment but they do not go hand in hand,
So we see these choices as two garments spread out for your selection, which do you choose,
One is tattered slops of your own righteousness for ambition, to waste life chasing money,
Or be happy and live in a world that you can enjoy and afford, no one banging on your door,
Choosing between the two seem to be very simple and even a child would tell which one it is,
The fact is most grown men would choose the road to ambition and riches and all its burdens,
To these men a brilliant morning sunshine means nothing, a morning mist on a lake is wasted.
To rush through life chasing gold, not hearing curlews in far off moors, is the poor man,
The rich see joy on a beautiful day listening to quails piping from green corn in twilight,
To feel a flush of happiness along margins of a beach, waves break in flame at your feet,
To hear strokes of an oar, somewhere in the dim obscure and list, wild cries of the tern,
A plover that never sleeps soundly, sweeps past and plunges onward, until gone from sight,
The man who understands real treasures in life, remembers happy times, into his last days,
Greedy men remember too late when old and grey, reflecting through an ocean of wet tears,
These musing men spring forward forgetting poetry of the ocean and a new mornings sunrise,
Then let them go from beauty, the understanding of beauty is wasted, the poor man is rich.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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Terry Trainor Poem
April has come but March still lingers, this is the reality of the east winds,
April and May, a the time for poets, as they write off the tyranny of reality,
Fickleness and uncertainty, has always been the character, a changing climate,
Who would dare to stand up, and blame the seasons for their ancient character.
Who would blame the changing climate that has produced such men as Englishmen,
Men whose science, literature and enterprise have become monuments of progress,
And if our springs are uncertain we enjoy the finer days when warm sun shines,
We dismiss our dislikes we pretend they don't exist, but pretending is shallow.
Can we dismiss the scale of unprecedented casualties that fell in the Great War,
To many thousands of soldiers buried on battlefields in single or shared graves,
Leaving soldiers where they fell with a simple marker and simple, brief details,
Did brave men die a simple death, in simple circumstances, no! Each has a story.
Women stood in streets of Britain handing out white feathers to men in civvies,
Men who owned land bullied their workers to fight to take a one way trip to hell,
Pulpit thumping Sermons delivered in sacred places, men felt guilty so they went,
But nobody would ever understand the brutal hell, the brutal fear, brutal deaths.
It's easy to be patriotic while sitting by a warm fire after a well cooked meal,
It's easy to fight a bitterly cold battle while hoeing edges on a hot summer day,
It’s easy to write a newspaper calling others cowards while working nine to five,
And it's easy to bang a fist at mass on a Sunday while roast beef waits indoors.
An unknown man lays wounded in no mans land, a life is nearly over his heart shot,
His thoughts are of pure anger and bitter hatred, he has been to hell but not back,
He rolls onto his side to see if he knows any of the fallen, a companion in death,
His eyes are dim and he cannot see anymore but feels some comfort from warm blood.
He hears whistles, from a long way off, it reminds him of the train that took him,
An iron beast that steamed furiously into a packed station, the slamming of doors,
His loved ones and his sweetheart waved and ran along side his moving window seat,
He was so proud his clenched fist held on to the kings shilling his hand sweating.
Dying in a sea of mud will go unforgiven, does hell wait to revenge his savagery,
He wants no help, he wants no pity he has done this to others it is now his turn,
Life slowly drains away he smiles at least this day will go never to return again,
And Kipling came to mind, 'If any question why we died. Tell them because our fathers lied.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2015
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Terry Trainor Poem
On a cold frosty night the moon hung in the dark sky like a silver sixpence,
Waiting for a bus that seemed to be hours late, wind dried my face I was cold,
While leaning on the stop sign I could see into rooms through lighted windows,
All seemed warm and cosy Christmas Trees glowed and fairy lights went on and off.
Decorations hung from ceilings they were all colours gold, silver, reds and blue,
Black and white televisions told everyone about cold weather outside on the news,
People walked past windows wearing short sleeved jumpers, children smiled happily,
It was Christmas Eve, and somewhere in the background I could hear Slade singing.
In house windows and on mantle pieces hyacinths blossomed the mingled with the tree,
There were crocuses and Dutch and Florentine tulips adding to the splendor of a room,
Best tables were on show piled with egg-nogg and bottles of cream soda and lemonade,
Stockings full of chocolate, crunchies, buttons and a white milky bar hung on walls.
Open fires roared fed by copper coal scuttles mum and dad celebrated with a Babycham,
A glass of Sandymans Port sipped by the grand parents all laughing enjoying themselves,
Then in the cold night air I could hear an engine struggling up a hill to my bus stop,
A green double decker windows glowing stopped and I got on, I silently wished my window
Friends a happy Christmas.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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Terry Trainor Poem
Towards the middle of the April the wind changes and the showers fall,
We hide under the branches of an old fir tree sheltering from the rain,
All is well as the rain sweeps across the shallow mead's rippling waters,
There is a fluorescent greenness in the grass and buds begin to open.
Walking through villages old parks over commons, heaths and meadows,
Stretching legs running over commons after a long and very hard winter,
Larks sing in the sweetest air as blackbirds swoop from grand oak trees,
A child looks amazed at the change nature makes his eyes wide as saucers.
Standing on common land flocks of goslings pale green like new catkins,
Protected by squawking and chasing parents should anything come near,
Gorse in full bloom in the leafless woods while primroses bask in the rain,
Turf on these lands are thick with violets, cowslips grow in fine meadows.
The ox lip, half primrose half cowslip begins to mature into a thick bloom,
Looking across square fields enclosed by thousand year old hedgerows,
Old orchards grass is littered with white violets side by side with daisy's,
A Purple wood spurge hangs pale-green flowers among tufts of alyssum.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2015
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Terry Trainor Poem
Spring is on the distant horizon, another month has gone, now just a memory
Seasons flow seamlessly, path's of time seem faster, now in my golden years
The month of March is vigorous and piping, the month of new life in nature,
The coldness of our winter very gently fades, birds sing high in the trees,
But beware of gales as they rush through our woods, over meadows and glades.
The wild wrath of winter eases, March winds are fast, chasing the cold away,
Branches bend and groan, dead wood falls, ruining thatches and old buildings,
The wind bites but wild flowers spring from black soil in meadows and glades,
Measure the difference of the solemn fitfulness's of autumn, and March winds
As People gingerly look out on mild days time to begin work in their gardens.
The last days of February sees the frost less severe, the slushy snow melting,
All in keeping with ancient character the month is wet from thaw and dampness,
A time for floods as snows melt, rain and sleet pours, this is our wet season,
There is movement in the woods, leas and the forests nature starts to wake up,
Now as sap is stirring in trees, buds begin to show green on bushes and boughs.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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Terry Trainor Poem
As the year thunders on the autumn days begin to get shorter the nights are early,
My old dog stretches out by a blazing log fire only turning over when he's too hot,
Arthritis is slowing him down his hips are so sore he walks very slowly with a limp,
Very soon it will be time to take him out on grassy rich heaths for the very last time.
Although the weather for autumn is calm it is the damp air that makes the pain worse,
Outside he lays watching spiders form radiated circles on every single bush and twig,
And at the silken threads on every blade of grass and he barks and sniffs so quietly,
His mood is solemn but calm, he is in a daze and forgets his way back to the garden.
We walked along forest meadows running chasing sticks and shadows barking with joy,
He would bound up to some lovely hedges or soft willow plots and roll in green grass,
Smoke from autumn’s bonfires has a smell that reminds me of wonderful golden sunsets,
Now it will remind me of loneliness with my faithful old friend running in a dog heaven.
By my log fire my dog’s eyes are brown they are pleading there are tears in the corners,
He doesn't understand that he is old and cannot do the things he has always loved to do,
A haunting stare asks me to help him because you're my dad you will make me better,
Next day I take him out for the very last time a long walk into the vets and I break down.
My hands deep in my pockets I walk where we always walked and soon it will be winter,
Standing and watching the departure of numbers of birds that have shared our summer,
The Curlews, Sandpipers, Snipes and Bean Goose fly across the sky but my joy has gone,
Norway thrush's arrive but where is my dear old friend we watched the seasons together.
The Fern-owls, dotterals, swallows and some of the plovers used bid us a last goodbye,
Today go the flycatchers, white throats, warblers, wheatears and the hardy red sparrows.
Gardens show us autumnal flowers crocuses, autumn snowflakes fall on meadow saffron,
Everything is going and saying goodbye I turn into the wind tears roll down my cheeks.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2015
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