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Best Poems Written by Clare Innard

Below are the all-time best Clare Innard poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Blood-stained poppies

Blood-stained poppies mark the day that human
sacrifice did harden the skins of the less murderous mass
for such a brutal aghast affair, how the God all mighty
would formidable bear witness to grief beyond repair

Out into the fields, neither would yield-with bullets they
would tear but what would a stealthy, shrewd general care if many
died on duty which left a nation dumbfounded by the levity and 
gravity of a war that was deemed
to be of grandness, valiant soldiers of fallacious valour 
mercilessly gunned down and with
no gratification, them forsaken, while the gutless
general is less sanctimonious, pious in his approach for the
fighting did persist, until finally that last shot,
at last serenity in the calamitous storm, birdsong instead 
of less fanciful peaceful flight, that night the serendipitous surviving
soldier did sleep so tight, a nation did succumb to pitiful sorrow 
and pain-so the poppies do denote blood-stain and brutal,
grim, gutless gain

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Always to remember

Always to remember

Stillness, silence marks the day
Where out in the fields bodies did decay
Row upon row of entitled tombs
A baby was once in her womb
Always to remember

The sky ablaze, succumbing to smoke
Into the earth, blood did soak
Pitiless players in the night
Who would return to fly his son’s kite
Always to remember

We did fight unfanciful, all the same
The devil’s unsanctimonious game
Until the bitter bloody end
Over the trench, more troops they did send
Always to remember

Shot in a merciless way
Man upon man in a bloodbath they lay
Crows did swarm the defeated field
Neither side wanting to yield
Always to remember

Woefully but wilfully poppies worn for the respected occasion
To church for the service without much persuasion
Over the top, but with the last gunshot
The fighting did stop
Always to remember

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Winter Wonder

Trees do sway in the bitter-cold breeze, a field full of snow to the naked eye, it does please.
Hark the angel, carol singers do praise his holiness, holly holly on which the child does pierce his finger; the scent of the dog's trail does linger. Many a traveller did avoid the road but the truck driver like Saint Nicolas must deliver his load.
Fire ablaze in every house, left over pie did attract more than one mouse.
A jovial jocular month spent with gratitude in God's giving and grace
where around the tree children do challenge and chase.
Love and laughter to rejoice this year, a baby in a cradle to shed a momentous tear.
Winter wonder did delight, the star lit sky was all so bright.
Where angels on his immaculate conception sing throughout the night, a season in which to celebrate with a welcome heart-rendering reason

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Passing of the New Year

Passing of the New Year
We could have had champagne and not Buck’s fizz, but then we aren’t in showbiz. We glorify and harness God’s creation in full spirit, praising his glory. The passing of the year, nothing to fear, his goodwill to mankind, it is without deploration, acutely aware of the labour ahead-January blues, that first Monday does lamentedly lurk, far from jovial or jaunty as work is around the cruel corner. Unadorned is now the room but the fire still ablaze where the cat does lethargically laze. Snow did disrupt December endeavour and to avoid the roads, we’d be more than clever-force winds doesn’t hinder the odd ocean swimmer-madness to those who take hot wine from the beach’s cafe with views of breaking waves which battle the surfers. Many a woman is all too aware that more mincemeat won’t make a tactical nighttime dancer trimmer. A fanciful occasion for many albeit far from a duchess, but prone to impress to celebrate the New Year is without much persuasion.

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Brutal trench battle

Brutal trench battle

I am only 18, a young yearning lad
In battle I killed a man today, bashful does that make me lawfully bad
Now living day to day, guilt-ridden and far from being gay
Over the trench, not one hurried soul will less haphazardly reach a finish line
I wish it were me to just jadedly enjoy my time
You’ll forget me if I go, so for remembrance you’ll put on a show
We lived in fear and pitiful pain, where for a general it is all to gain
The fields did turn blood-red, but a new chapter so enough sorely said

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Easter Essence

Spring sunshine as winter has now past
That tempestuous wild weather did not last

Pollen-covered daffodils do permeate the air with their fresh scent
What will the pious sacrifice for lent

The easter hunt did unanimously excite
A fine lamb roast with heartfelt the family they did invite

Rabbits were seen but scattered when approached in the field
Churchgoers took communion and for the priest they piously kneeled 

A time of sorrow but laconic love engulfed in the lord’s presence
A celebratory time for their children, in their element and entitled essence

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Home glory

Seen from below, there was nor a coward or cloud in the sky that day
Billowing smoke, it was bloodred, he’ll be home she’ll prey
Terror and hell throughout the night, she’ll hold her baby tight
With Dutch-courage him by my side said for him to give him another ride; he’ll want to fly for the winning side
For he wanted fame in the air, but he was hit right through the head but what do they care
They send us killing for yet another night, I can’t turn back for her though the stars shine so bright
For, I hoped for a clear-run and safe journey back, but tomorrow we’ll change tack

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Spring Arrival

How the birds chitter chatter and the church bells ring.
Daffodils fill the graveyard and are picked by passers-by.
Families attend the spring fair where a florist sells arrangements.
The chided children are guilty of picking flower petals but are
Pacified by their parent’s sternness by partaking in a Spring dance.

Dancing deer dart away out of view in the village field.
Freshly hatched chicks are made victims of the foxes.
But not before the farmers so threaten their temptation by 
A gunshot or two.
Another Spring rainfall, the grass greener and greener still.

Dogs are walked in the woods where children accompany wilfully.
They attend church with holy communion and in his honour bread and wine is consumed. 
In his remembrance of his resurrection, it is such a ritual, and they are thankful for his offering.

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The Donna

The florist does deliver upon the hour-not to leave the women dour, last-minute coddling, a sycophant in fact. A Christmas turkey was spent with the in-laws; an act of bravery to cater for the nieces, nephews, a widower as a cousin but a miraculous occasion that it is without much persuasion, his immaculate conception we sanctimoniously celebrate. The table laid to mark his grandiose day, perhaps also a miraculous milestone for the much praised ‘donna.’ She’ll devotedly serve them in full spirit and humour, but the angels do deceive for his holiness one should infact grieve, but not to ensue deity as well as on the restless chicks who race and chase around the tree with alacrity, zest in God’s sacred grasp. They have been angelic all year therefore they need not fear. As for the far from ‘prima donna,’ just the gift of goodwill, they’ll of course go Dutch with the bill. Splendour and much tearful heartfelt praise for her in the household, for the ‘donna’ is willing and the lions may lethargically laze. A loving day for the dove was sighted denoting purity in perhaps the virgin Mary’s blood, with not one guest left unchosen or unkeen. The ‘donna,’ is deemed gracious, virtuous as saint Mary. One could rejoice to stay for her offering a popular choice.

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Spring nature and endeavour

Daffodils’ mild scent does permeate the air.
Through the fields dogs do dither then tear.
Rabbits serendipitously spotted that sunny yet showery day.
Many an egg the local farmer’s chickens does lay.
Easter hunt, easter hunt school laxation-professor 
Does bear the brunt.
Buttercup, buttercup held bashfully to her face.
Out in the fields, they fiercely chase and race.
Horses, horses are ridden proudly and well.
Pancake day, pancake day, a broken shell who could tell.
Sunshine and shower how nurturing nature makes us far from dour.