Best England Poems
I
when the world had no headsets
the sunbathing crowd
fell asleep to the sounds of
transistors played loud
while the deckchairs and windbreaks
kites, beach balls and more
formed the stripes, lines and circles
that painted the shore
and the longer I walked
on the sand to that sea
the more the sea seemed
to get further from me
and the crunch in my mouth
was that one grain of sand
in the sandwich I ate
with my sand covered hand
while the lemons and melons
and plums I'd watch spin
would stop short of a cherry
one click from a win
and the postcards we sent
from the end of the pier
had us writing such half truths
as "wish you were here."
II
from the end of the pier
through the stiff breeze
and spindrift
I can still hear the tunes
of the promenade bands
and I can still see the stripes
of the deckchairs and windbreaks
and the box kites
and beach balls
that painted the shore
and I can still taste
the butter
- warm like the canned ham
and the crunch of that sand
in the sandwich I had
and I can still hear the djs
laughing and talking
spinning hits of the sixties
from transistors
played loud
and I can still smell the onions
frying wild in the fairground
to the sound of the claxons
and the lemon. click. orange. click. melon.
click. click.
and I can still breathe the deep smoke
swirling in sand dunes
from the benson and hedges
and
player's no.6
and I can still see those grown ups
staring at mirrors
- their bodies distorted
like the dreams
they once had
today on the pier
the rain that's now falling
falls from a same sky
on a same sand
and same sea
and a same me
- yet this air
this air
is not the same air
as that air I
once
breathed.
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
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
I could see the virus approaching so why couldn't he?
But he had to keep investors happy and save the economy
On his watch people in their thousands, died needlessly
The U.K. had a spiralling death rate, a preventable tragedy.
He didn't listen to the top scientists, they have said so
I hope he doesn't try and deny it and say he didn't know
Care home residents from hospitals sent home to die
A ring of steel around the vulnerable, seems that was a lie.
Denials and lies seems to be a politicians stock in trade
Many have looked on in horror at the decisions he's made
Lockdowns were implemented but sadly too late
While the virus was spreading at an alarming rate.
He said " no more lockdowns, let the bodies pile high"
His advisor said he said it and of course he'll deny
The Bereaved Families for Justice, want a public enquiry
A waste of taxpayers money because he governs with impunity.
He stood in his doorway clapping with a smile on his face
What he offered the NHS 'heroes' is nothing short of a disgrace
They were offered a paltry rise of a measly one percent
Many put themselves at risk and are now struggling to pay rent.
These pandemics are nothing new and this one won't be the last
It's a shame that he and other leaders didn't learn from the past
Politicians are sparse with the truth, and they often deceive
But please make up your own mind on who you want to believe.
Written on 25th May 2021.
Irelands' famine, England chose to ignore
The potato blight caused devastation
Michael stole corn from a granary store
To stop loved ones dying from starvation.
Arrested and charged with theft from the crown
Judge passed sentence and he got twenty years
Outside prison walls in old Galway town
His wife Mary and family shed tears.
Ne'er again see the fields of Athenry
Sent to prison thousands of miles away
He would ne'er again see the free birds fly
From that harsh prison in Botany Bay.
The ship sailed that day on the evening tide
His dreams for the future had all but died.
Written July 26th 2019.
Inspired by the song 'The Fields of Athenry ' The music and lyrics were composed by a Dublin folk singer Pete St John.
Written for the Winter Solstice sunrise at Avebury, Wiltshire, England
I have waited for you
Where no shadow seeps
Deep in the earth
Where the slow damp creeps
Under the stones
Where the sunlight sleeps
I have waited for you
I have listened for you
In the eaglet’s cry
In the echoes of rooks
In the empty sky
In a new born’s breath
And a dead man’s sigh
I have listened for you
I have looked for you
Where the elders grow
Followed your steps
Through the virgin snow
Through groves of yew
And mistletoe
Looking for you
I have watched for you
By the door and the gate
Risen up early
And lain down late
Doubted your love
And cursed my fate
Watching for you
You said you would come
You said that you will
Appear as the dawn
On the curve of the hill
I have waited for you
Through the dark, and the still
You said you would come
I lit you a fire
I kindled a flame
In the fear of the darkness
I called out your name
I thought I was dying
And then you came
You said you would come
And here you are
The promise of light
Sweetening silence
And softening night
And all shall be well
And be blesséd delight
You said you would come
© Gail Foster 21st December 2016
It’s Jubilee tea at my auntie’s care home
Aunt Phyllis’s hair could do with a comb
But she doesn’t mind and puts on her hat
The queen won’t be there’s no need to flap
The table is laden with all sorts of food
Ada burps loudly she’s so blinking rude
The cucumber sandwich crusts are cut off
My hair won’t stay curly I hear Mable scoff!
Gerald’s secreted cream scones on his lap
I’d not touch them now he’s a dirty old chap
There’s a heated debate is it scone or scon
I do not comment as they have all gone!
Old Edgar demands jelly and ice cream
It’s not on the menu he begins to scream
So he gets everyone to bang their tea cups
They’re acting like kids and not like grown ups
Along comes the matron she says ‘Dearie me,
You are spoiling our Platinum jubilee tea’
Edgar gives her some lip - he’s adept at verbals
He shout’s ‘Matron you just remind me of Goebbels’
Matron is livid, she turns puce in the face
Edgar’s sent to his room, as he’s in disgrace
He is reprimanded for causing such a scene
At the jubilee party for our wonderful Queen.
06/02/22
Prince William was so sick of being told
He’s receding and is now going bald
So he called in the royal hairdresser
To see if he could ease the heir pressure
He gave him a brand new hairstyle
This ‘buzzcut’ would be so worthwhile
His hairdresser is very highbrow
But his fees have raised an eyebrow
William’s head looks like its been shaved
Oh how the press stories have raved
£180 pounds is what we’ve been told
It’s so costly to look like you’re bald!
The cost Prince William has now denied
It wouldn’t be the first time the press have lied!
One day William will be ‘heir apparent’
And cutting costs will be more transparent
When William’s crowned then we could sing
With altered words to God shave the king!
Based on a story in the press over the cost of Prince William’s news haircut
01/20/18
In eighteen seventy nine; twenty second of January
Was the day of a great battle and for the Zulus victory
At Isandlwana the Zulu army showed no fear
Against British guns, armed with shield and spear.
Twelve thousand warriors from the Zulu nation
Wiped out the British, a total annihilation
With such a large force the camp was soon overun
With hand to hand combat, under African sun.
Nearly a thousand British soldiers died that day
A few played dead and managed to get away
Some headed for Rorkes Drift never looking back
Warning the soldiers there of an impending attack.
Not far from the battle stood the mission station
By the Buffalo river a tranquil location
Five thousand warriors marched on Rorkes Drift
A hundred and thirty nine stood ready to resist.
Dispite wave after wave the British repelled their attack
With rifle and bayonet; they pushed the Zulus back
The Zulus regrouped and moved in for the kill
An officer gave the command to fire at will .
The battlefield was covered with the bodies of the slain
With spears, shields and blood all over the terrain
It wasn't until the morning of the following day
That the Zulus retreated and went on their way.
Eleven Victoria crosses were won at Rorkes drift
For courage and bravery; shown in that conflict
Five hundred Zulu warriors paid the ultimate cost
Whilst seventeen British soldiers in battle were lost.
Against overwhelming odds the British held the line
And Rorkes Drift today is a museum and a shrine
Tour guides at the site will tell you the story
Of those brave British soldiers and their hour of glory.
(The Victoria Cross or VC is the highest and most prestigious award given
to members of the British armed forces for valour in the face of the enemy.)
when winter woke and dealt its hand
it froze the heart of cumberland
as icy air dispersed in spades
to twist and cut like razor blades.
small pools of water turned to glass
to shine like diamonds in the grass
while freezing sprays from waterfalls
formed icicles on wet stone walls.
when nature's breath turned all air warm
the earth embraced another form:
the snow that fell - now sadly gone
decked out a land to look as one.
if elements of that year's weather
could club the fells and fields together
why can't the jokers do the same
and follow suit - and raise their game?
What Would Wallis Say?
What would Wallis say if she were there that day,
a divorcee too, American through and through?
Did she offensively blink when Diana winked?
She and Adolf were friends. Let’s not pretend.
Her man was the King, who discarded all things
to take her as wife, this love of his life.
In that space of time, divorce was a crime
so, he put down The Crown when Wallis was found.
Life was no fairytale but great love did prevail.
Ugly words were said and ugly words they read.
Socialites all the style in unspoken exile.
What would Wallis say if she were there that day?
Would she turn up her chin in a bigoted grin
or grow greatly dazed by the change of ways?
Do you think she’d be glad that this woman had
been loved and accepted where she was rejected?
5/29/18
He lives upon a printed page,
marching golden in a dream.
His words described a brighter age --
which quaffed the milk and lapped the cream.
Fate brought him forth to love and live --
scion of a proud and noble race.
All he sacrificed and all he'd give
was deeply marked upon his face.
No gold survives the final frost:
in his prime death carried him away.
In wars, a nation's best are lost;
as then it happens still today.
His home was England, vale and hill;
across the years, he's with us still.
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.
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
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.