Early winter morning remembering
From the soft warm depths
Of an old man’s bed:
Walking through dark streets
Shivering with cold, thinking of
The soft warm bed she’d pushed me
From of with a final cuddled kiss
Before she snuggled back
Under the warm down duvet
So she was back asleep
Before I’d even left the room;
Stolen half nights with my Illicit
Blonde sweet lover girl
Leaving before the village awoke
So I wouldn’t be seen
As i slipped through the woods
And up the tree lined road
Back to the real world
Suffering the Guardroom banter
As I booked in and became
Once more a three figure number;
Time for a shower to wash away
The sweet smell of her love
Then uniformed and booted
The three day cycle began
Before I could once more
Slip quietly through the woods
Check the street carefully
Before I crept into her house
And back into her arms
And that soft sweet warm bed;
A love with no future
Stolen and finite
But the first sweet full love
Of a callow not yet man
And a sweet older woman
Compassionate kind and loving
Over almost before it began
Still fondly remembered
Across all those many passed years.
Categories:
guardroom, first love, growing up,
Form: Free verse
All the soldiers stood proudly gleaming white,
For years they all were smiling bright,
Then one by one off they went to fight.
One by one by the enemy they were got,
And one by one they fell to toffee rot.
Sometimes it was by sheer neglect
Sometimes the cause was a fight.
Sometimes they took a good kicking,
But they sure did take some licking.
They carried on regardless as good soldiers do,
The years took toll yet some still rallied through.
For three score and ten the battle it did rage,
The enemy every one they did engage.
Both North and South they all stood tall.
Until finally the last rank they did fall,
The empty graves of the fallen saw with much dismay,
The final rank, with a simple yank, went sadly to the tray.
Now the barracks are all empty,
The guardroom it is closed.
Those brave and Pearly Sappers,
Will never again be snappers.
No plastic troops will take their place,
No walts or wannabees in that space
An empty cave will be their grave,
They served me well, all of them were smashers.
Now they're gone, I'll miss my lovely gnashers.
© Dave Timperley 20 May 2017
Categories:
guardroom, fun,
Form: Rhyme