The Pals battalion,
Young soldiers of nineteen,
The total death toll reached a million,
On the Somme in nineteen-sixteen.

The men in splendid spirits,
There was optimism in the ranks,
With co-op bombs and bayonets,
Gathered on the sunny banks.        

The first bombs fell on Picardy,
Now they stood in lines to push,
They will annihilate the enemy,
No need to charge or rush.

But the German men were ready,
Their intelligence was good,
They knew about the enemy,
Their intention understood.

Our men walked into open fire,
So many lives they stole.
Shot and maimed before the wire
On their gentle morning stroll.

Bodies crushed in defeat,
In a field of flying lead,
Soldiers dropped to their feet,
Leaving many dead.

The slaughter would not stop,
In this futile ****** game,
All deserters would to be shot,
The only gain was being maimed.

Battle planning was inferior,
Senseless death was inhumane,
In the carnage and hysteria,
On the pretty red poppy plane.

A fairyland of undergrowth, with a damp musky air,
St Lawrence has a faithful oath, to cultivate and share.
A thrive of all alive, in lush green leaves of old,
The trees in mists sublime, inside a micro climate wold.

A secret world of organisms, multiplying million fold,
Where delicate microcosms, dare to be so bold.
This natural habitat, from seedlings very small,
Quenched by a water vat, chalk streams a waterfall.

Waterlogged muddy bramble slips away at will,
Fertilised to nourish, it's hard to keep it still.
Thatched cottages blend, among the evergreens,
Flowers wildly transcend, into unexpected scenes.

A house made of glass or stone, brick or thatched,
An array of different homes, wholly mismatched.
An under cliff protected, from wind and heavy rain,
Where settlers have constructed dwellings on delicate terrain.

Red rocky backdrops, contrasting in the light,
Emerald carpet covered tops, against a cliff of white.
A multitude of Cretaceous hidden footprint tracks,
Of pre-historic fossils providing us with facts.

Alum bay provides the candour, steep hill cove, the English day,
Black gang chine, the entertainment, screams above a silent bay.
The noise of nature's habits, where a gentle hush is heard,
Of scurrying little rabbits, or a cheerful songful bird

Home to Dickens and to Darwin, Carl Marx to name a few,
Alfred Lord Tennyson inspired by the picturesquely view.
The Osbournes, Alan Titchmarch, are living here today,
To escape from commerciality, and keep all fame at bay.

Well-trodden shutes take a stranger to the sea,
Along a Pirate's secret route to claim his offshore ******,
Time has not dissolved these perfect pretty scenes,
Well used in the past and still there to be seen.

A quiet friendly cloak, behind a rich and wealthy hive,
This isle of natural opulence, where many past events survived,
Ancient stone church steeples, where priests left their gold,
Built for religious peoples, as a refuge from the cold.

Take a step back in time, to unspoilt and unruly soil,
Where the elderly recline, in this haven for the Royal.
The Victorian architecture, preserved in perfect light,
An outlook of conjecture, is called the Isle of Wight.

Life is serious,
When freedom is at stake,
No time for frivolous comment,
Progress striving for a break.

He campaigned for the poor,
The persecuted blacks,
The fight against the white man,
Segregation were the facts.

Change was resisted,
Some died for the cause,
He was one to be respected,
And reluctant to use force.

Stubborn history of those,
Who would not budge,
Commanded by their forefathers,
To continue with the drudge.

But this man stood his ground,
Fought for freedom rights,
His ideas with a sound
Fairness in his sights.

Equality for all men
Regardless of their colour,
His heart was open,
For us to love one another.

Like a pretty bird
Colourful and bright,
Rage and jealousy,
Extinguished his bright light.

The Baptist Minister,
Changes he did bring,
Civil rights activist,
Was Martin Luther King.

She was born into poor deprivation,
With ideas higher than her station,
She landed a job,
As wife of the mob,
With riches way above expectation.

The **** like a panther prowls,
He hides in nooks and crannies,
Where he views his prey for hours,
With keen eyes fixed like trannies.
A playful pounce, may announce,
His attention to a need,
To catch a bird or little mouse,
With agility and speed.

The instinct never fails to serve,
Though doubtful he will eat,
Today's domestic feline verve,
Leaves dead birds at our feet.
To seek and **** with great prowess,
Is naturally on his mind,
With silent paws and callousness,
He will hunt until the find.

After a busy day stalking,
Gathering his stock,
Tired of all the walking,
He'll look at what he's got,
Then curl up by the fire,
Stretch his crawls and preen his fur,
Of his routine he'll never tire,
And he never forgets to purr.

Tomorrow through the flap,
A territory to mark,
No need for a map to set his evil trap,
Even when it's dark.
The underworld of cats,
Is here with us to stay,
Not always sat on mats,
He's out killing easy prey.

With pomp and ceremony, and hidden meanings, can,
Poetry with its snobbery, reach the common man?
He's never heard of Keats or cares about the word,
To live without the melody of poetry, is absurd.

Can a line of rhyme reach deep inside his mind,
Ruffle and disturb, bring him to his knees, this lucky find?
With a special message to penetrate his soul,
Enlighten his boring life, or is he dead as coal?

Can a phrase we raise, perforate his thick tough skin?
Encapsulate with heart-break his swinging brick within,
Lay him on his back to gaze at the stars above,
Smell the pretty flowers and hear the sound of Love?

Of course we can reach him, this is what we do,
All men have emotions which are hidden from our view,
One single word can be so profoundly clever,
Infiltrate the common man and steal his mind forever.







Poetry over the centuries has been written by men and women from all walks of life.
Poetry is for everyone.  Yet there is still a fear and a certain snobbery surrounding
poetry which prevents many from entering this world.

I questioned fate and found no answer,
As fate was unpredictable,
A doubtful fickle chancer,
Unstable and unreliable.

Reliable stability,
With chance I keep my date,
A fickle predictability,
Was my answer when I questioned fate.