As poppies drip blood red petals
Among the fields where souls do roam
A silenced voice, away from home
Buried deep with twisted metals

Khaki men, are dead and rotting
As poppies drip blood red petals
Overgrown with rats and nettles
Men and women stood reflecting

A resting place to end the fight
In peaceful slumber they settle
As poppies drip blood red petals
Weathered cadavers all bleached white

Depressions fade, vista settles
Bodies and branches both stripped bare
Once passionate men, showed they care
As poppies drip blood red petals.

© 27/6/2012

Those little words you easily  forget
is frustrating, causing  you to shout
as confusion reigns, your memory won’t let,
your lips allow the words to come out
old age is not what this is about

Your eyes are roomy and just stare
into the distance but, do not weep
our hands are helpless but they are there
to hold and comfort you and want to keep
a once active brain from an early sleep

Our life in pictures spread on the floor
hoping to bring a smile, or just a grin
though selfish me, I long for more
undeserving pain is ****** on him
as the one I married is deep within

The days of the week are all the same
night melts into day as life ticks by
though in my sleep ,I cry your name
hoping, mine, I will hear you try
as one day soon we will say goodbye.

The poppies; Blood Red
The grief is real
We stand and salute
Those that fell
Bells echo around the land
Till the hour strikes
We line up and listen to
A Silent Concert.

My mistrust, I suppose, stems from a youth,
full of, child like dreams, hopes and wanting.
To stand on sturdy branches, only to have them felled
From beneath your feet. Words spoken with…feeling
Lulling you, Yet entwined with, half-truths and lies.

Like roaming into a dark forest. The child is innocent,
Seeking those long forgotten heroes, who fought
Gallant battles on snow White horses, whose hoof-marks
Are just glistening pools of water. The adult weary of,
Lurking dangers, who…should protect. Not join in.

Call it what you will, they are still foreign words
Spoken from an English tongue, framed in an English smile
You learn, slowly, that things are not always what they seem
Escaping, may seem impossible. The forest is not impenetrable
The wooden gate may be locked, but there is always a stile nearby.

Seconds drag like years. Stuck in a silent mist.
My mind like a “For Sale” sign, tethered
Constrained.  An occasional sway in a breeze,
Resulting in an unoccupied state of mind.

An unbearable feeling of uselessness
Stemming from a grimy background
From which no answers can be elicited
The Blackboard has been erased forever

Locked doors and high walls mean,
Therapy is only good for the Therapist!

That; that was once ingrained, is lost
Danger lies ahead, lurking in the shadows
Waiting for the right moment to strike.
                                      A silent killer.

This; that gnaws at my brain, is without
Doubt, slowly killing me. Extruding life.
My head hurts. My soul is broken.

I have forgotten how to laugh
I have forgotten how to whistle

I don’t want this death!

It is without doubt easier to **** them
Dig a big hole in the garden and bury them.
Saves money on a funeral… but
Where would be the heroism in that?

It’s not their fault they are old, or
Mine that I am young.
It’s not his fault he has dementia, or mine!
Her patience is wearing thin.

He sometimes forgets to take his tablets
I, could forget to leave them out for him
(I have always liked his car)

Opinion is, we are all living longer
The undertakers need the work
Leaders have stopped leading, workers
Have started living,     “Stop Press”
The death columns in our daily
Newspapers are empty.

They have fought wars, struggled
Eventually, they will fall silent.

No-one will ever believe me
Simply because, I never mention it

Next to you as you sleep
I listen to your breathing

Even in the darkened room
Your Blue eyes still glisten

My hands follow your line of breath
In which I write the word….Love.