Flanders fields evoke memories of the first war battles of Ypres and Paschendale where so many thousands gave their lives

Poppies grow on Flanders fields
Poppies deepest red
On those ****** battle fields
Where so much young blood was shed
Poppies,  poppies nurtured by the blood of boys
Poppies deep blood red
Thousands lift their heads towards the sky
Perhaps to glorify those boys who died
The poppy has four petals
One petal for every boy who died on those blood soaked fields
Petals red and whole nations grieved
And mourned the loss
Of youths not yet fully bloomed

Where has gone the lands we knew?
Of waving grass and glistening dew
All fallen to the housing plan
Devised by an educated city man
Educated!!!!
Those once green green fields and woodland tracts
Have succumbed to bulldozer blades and felling axe
No more the places where as kids we played
On those beautiful sunlit days
Now landfill sites and city dumps
Cover the places where we once ate a picnic lunch
Gone are the fields and woodland glades
Where we once spent our sun filled days

I'm an avid reader of books,  many different books
Tolstoys War And Peace took me seven days to read
Lord Of The Rings Trylogy just 3 days
One of those books I've read just once
The other I could almost quote
word
for
word
I read some truly great works of poetry here
Some simple with a message loud and clear
easily understood
Some long but with a rhythmic flow
the sort of poem where you cant let go
Then there is the long drawn out dirge
full of metaphors and unusual words that I don't even understand
I might read it once,  try to understand then file it under done
I just write the simple stuff,  that's what I do best
But, no matter how or what you write its all good.

                           After all, poetry is not a test ~
                      it is an expression of our humanity.

Yes tis just a simple stew cooked six hours in the pan
But a hearty filling meal and I hope you find it grand
Diced beef, lentils, pasta to mention ingredients but a few
All of them do have their place when I cook up a stew
Tomatoes in abundance I have placed in there
Carrot and potatoes diced with precision and care
Sliced green beans, leeks and onions play their part
Its lucky I was trained a chef so I knew where to start
All slowly cooked in a succulent gravy with added rich beef stock
As well as button mushrooms simmering in the ***
This stew to be served with a crusty roll, food so very fair
I invite you to my table,  and I will serve you there

Can't believe my eyes
But still nature can  surprise
I might be thinking like a fool
But honestly there is a whale in the pool
But how then can this be
We're more  than 30 metres from the sea
And there are no whales round Malta
So this ones compass is out of kilter
But now to my surprise
It's a man who wallows to the side
Stomach saving to his knees
It bounces when he has to sneeze

Honestly,  I really did think it was a whale

Shakespeare, Keats, Byron and our own Nat Lipstadt
Great men, great poets but!!!!
What do you lesser mortals want to read?
Simple words? Simple phrases?
Some of you just like me
Can't work out the difference between a green salad and a metaphor
But that doesn't matter
We care not
Because we write with love
No pretentious ideas of lasting glory
We write primarily for you,for us
We write because we love words

Forgiveness is the heady scented perfume from a flower when you crush her under foot
She knows you didn't mean it, she knows you didnt look

A few short hours ago she was there
Felt her precence there, smelt her perfume so sweet
Her sweetness had filled the air
She had made an entrance
Her presence was revealed

She's now battered bent and torn
But her memory still lingers on
As her bright colours start to fade
Her sweet perfume still fills the sunlit glade

Although she's long dead now and gone
She has also stayed alive
Because the seeds she had inside
Were scattered far and wide

Next spring she will again appear
To the delight of hummingbird and woodland bee
To stand in her full glory, for all the world to see

At an early age I was trained to ****
To enjoy the moment enjoy the thrill
When the 7.62 found the mark
And ripped apart another's life
Getting high on cordite smoke
Turning the moment into another joke
Dipping fingers in the blood
That from my victim on the ground had spread
To glorify in his death
Then deprive another of his breath
With another one through his lungs
Wow killing can be so much fun
Do I care that their families weep
No they were just a bunch of creeps
And I'll **** some more if I get the chance
Then walk away without a backwards glance

BUT

No it never was like that
Because you become enmired in the crap
You **** yourself and your stomach heaves
From the stench of blood and ****
Carried on the breeze
No thrills no fun no stupid jokes
Just ****** pants and sweat and trembling limbs
No glory in the site of blood
Turning sandy ground into puddled mud
The stink of gunsmoke in your throat
It could have been me
Not the other bloke

So who is Sharina Salad?
Well she is Malaysian and a great writer
She was my mentor on another website
And but for her I probably wouldn't be writing now
Follow SHARINA

Yep what's in a name?
Mine is Joseph Francis Cole
Joseph for my father
Francis for his brother
Cole hahaha the surname of mothers first husband
Why? Cos I was born out of wedlock
Do I care no?
I heard a story once that when an American Indian child was born
The father would look out of the teepee and name the child
for the first thing he saw
Who the **** was stupid enough to name his son
White Dog ******* Under The Moon

Where do I start?... Its taken me over fourty years to write this


Half a bottle of scotch taken each night to drown out the fears
the heartrending sights
Yeah half a bottle is just about right to dull the dreams and the nightmares that still linger
PTSD they call it this day, councelling given to help them get through
what they did see, things they did do
I remember clearly after such a time being told I wasn't a soldier I wasnt a man for being sick with fear, tears in my eyes at the bloodied remains close to my side.
Yeah well I was a soldier but not yet a man, at 19 my life had hardly begun but I still had to survive at the point of a gun
Yeah half a bottle of scotch is the crutch I have found because I'm still alive... Not just another name on a hole in the ground
thousands of miles from home.
Patrolling the paths in the in a land burnt and harsh not knowing what would come, the bullet the bomb or mayber the mine placed or shot by the oft unseen had
OK so I still did my bit in spreading the ****.... Yes I've had their blood on my hands but I still regret the things that I did in that harsh barren land.
Did I hate them? Those men who killed the ones I called friends. No they were only doing what they thought was right in protecting their home and their lands
Yeah so half a bottle of scotch is the friend I now have, it helps to stifle the dreams of the places I saw, the things that I saw and also the things that I did.

So many differing ideas
So many different interpretations
Of what is/ what isn't poetry
The oft industrial offerings
Of my nephew Sverre
The vivid but real contributions
Of Silversilkentoungue
So good but so misunderstood
Beryldov with his multitude of two liners
Sometimes brilliant sometimes crap
Yakov, word perfect
Classical, readable
Then the good old boys
Francie, Jack, SPT Stephen E Yokum
Harlon Rivers
So many names, so many great contributers
Not forgetting Quinfin
So much romance in his soul
All of you
From the youngest, newest
You are Hello poetry of today
And the future of OUR tomorrow

The battles finally over, the deck is rent and torn
By the shot and shell that struck us in the battle storm
So sew him in his hammock lads, put the last stitch through his nose
Place a roundshot at his feet then over the side he goes
This then is the way we say goodbye to our comrades of the ship
We never knew their real names, maybe Harry Tom or ****
Yes we gave our mate the deep six, he's now six fathoms down
Lying on the bottom on his final resting place the sand
No time yet to ponder on his untimely death
We must make and mend and make our ship the best

Making love to the Log in five words

Wam Bam thank you mam

Not poetry, just reminiscing

When I came out of the army in 1985 after serving for 24 years I settled in the county of Suffolk where my first wife came from

Suffolk with old fashioned ideas and old fashioned views. In fact unless you had been resident for at least 20 years some of the villagers still classed you as an outsider.

Anyway I decided to get an allotment (not sure what you call them in the U S) so that I could grow my own vegetables.

Just across from me was the plot rented by Allen, 70 going on a hundred years old. I never did find out. Anyway it was early spring and I stood there scratching my head when Allen wandered over

" What's up boy" he said

I explained that I was new to the area and new to growing vegetables and wasn't to sure about when to start getting seed into the ground

He looked at me with those timeless eyes and said

"Sit bare arsed on the ground boy and if your **** still ain't cold after 10 minutes then that'll be the time to sow"

What madness is taking over this world?
Why the mothers, why the children?
When I was a soldier I made a choice
I knew the risks.
I blame them all.
Taliban, Israelies, Americans even my own countrymen
Yes, all the warmongers who make money from the sale of arms
All the radicals who don't believe in democracy
All those who steal the lands and destroy the homes
of those less educated or less wealthy
I hope those responsible can sleep soundly at night
Those who fire the randomly aimed rocket and shell
can wash the blood stains from their hands.
They don't have to listen to the weeping mothers
They can close theirs eyes and ears to the anguish
of families ripped apart
They are never close enougn to smell the cloying stench
of drying blood and rotting bodies

Were it in my power to do so I would take them there
And rub their noses in it
,

When I started this it was Young Poets Write For Me. But the response was something different.
I'd seen so many talented young writers become trapped in a one way street without any avenue of escape.
Well hopefully I've given you that avenue.
With virtually every challenge I receive PM's saying I can't do that when in truth you can.
Everyone of you who writes is brilliant in their own way
But
The horizon is wide and deep so broaden your own horizon


For all the rosebuds waiting to bloom

Oh Carvò Carvò you mindless *****
Why dost thow pen such artless ****
Yes from your artless pen doth grow
Artless work
You are internationally despised
YOUR CHILDISH MIND
So decried by better men than you
And yet... from your rancid pen the crap doth grow
Your artless work, no rhyme no flow
The ***** of an artless mind
You are the lowest of the low
And from your soulless ****
Your inflated ego grows
You pathetic *******
You ******* moronic piece of crap


Hahaha and I rarely swear

He raised the scissors high, I felt them pierce my brain
I shouted out in agony," I came for a short back and sides so man what is your game"
Don't worry son the man replied I'm an expert at my trade
If I'm to truly cut your hair I must expose your brain
And so I surrendered to his skill and the scissors went in deep
Don't worry son the expert said, the incision will be neat
So he slashed and and cut and hewed threw pieces in the bin
I thought that he had finished but still the blades cut in
At last the expert stood aside covered in blood and gore
He said my name is Sweeny Todd as he showed me to the door
As we walked across the room he said that will cost a five pound note
It would have been much cheaper if I'd just cut your throat

I have some followers who have never posted a poem
Perhaps they're just people who enjoy reading poetry
But maybe they are just nervous about showing their work
Anyway here's how I view it
An artist makes a charcoal or pencil sketch
Once it looks right they start adding color
A photographer frames the subject and once its right
Takes the photograph
So start by writing a short stanza and then play with the words
You just might surprise yourselves

In about half an hour I'm heading out of here so the challenge is being posted early and response by Saturday please

Quite simple this time

The story of you

Yeah, none of you stood a chance when I drowned you in the milk
Oh how I did enjoy it so when beneath my teeth you crunched
Yes, yes I'm guilty of the crime and I shall **** yet again
Tomorrow when I fill my bowl with nuts and fruit and grains

Oh yes, I have seen birds in a herd and cows in flocks
And painted the picture just using a sock
Oh
Oh
Oh
Such art is I and not for lesser beings
I see fish, yes fish swimming through the sky
Oh swim fish swim
Such inspiring words from I BUT
words wasted
Oh but but
My brain is going to implode
Such a loss to the world of art
To many beans for breakfast
Oh the ****...The royal artistic ****
Oh oh why are I so misunderstood?
For artistic vision is food
My beret worn with such flair and grace
A halo yes for I am godly
Placed on this earth for your desire
To bring art to your godless souls
Oh you, you artless peasants

Bow your worthless heads in my presence

Well yes I do carve walking sticks
Not two or three hours
But more like thirty or fourty
But then I saw the connection
Between my poetry and wood
Each takes me into another world
Of rhythm oh so good

Where I hear you ask
Can this connection be made
A poem and a walking stick
This man is surely mad

But think dear friends about a how
poem does evolve
You start with just a single word
Then watch the poem grow

I walk in the woodlands
I walk the forest ways
And I see things
That you might miss
In the coppiced hedgerow lays

And so with my trusty folding saw
A wooden stave lies in my hand
Perfectly straight or warped
Wood, oh wood so grand

And so just like poetry the plan
Then starts to form
With penknife and a wood rasp
A walking stick is formed

Sandpaper grades decreased
And long hours pass
Eventually that rough hewn stick
Attains the sheen of glass

Yes I carve sticks with rustic pride
Never do I miss what the cuts might hide
When I write it is with love
I can edit a poem
But not a walking stick