Tom Balch: Poems

Tom Balch Nov 2016

They carried him in to Vivaldi´s spring
as we sat there so quiet and sombre,
suffering pain that this service would bring
on this freezing cold day in November.

We spoke of his life, sang psalm twenty three
and offered up prayers whilst down on our knees,
fought back the tears that were wanting to flow
in this old grey church with soft candle glow.

Puccini played as they carried him out
to the grave that was dug on that morning,
Pavarotti sang, we followed the route
the effect of our loss was now dawning.

Lowered him into his bed of cold earth,
his darkness eternal, same as our love*.

The Spirit of Christmas

Tom Balch Dec 2016

The Spirit of Christmas

Co-Lab with Maggie Magnolia.

On a cold Christmas morn long years ago
lay a soft fresh dusting of pure white snow,
covering the trenches and no man’s land
turning signs of a war to a place so grand,
somehow this beauty affected all men
the cold winter silence broken and then,
a single voice singing O Silent Night
sung so beautifully putting things right.

Everyone joined in from every side
then Stille Nacht stopped all men in their stride,
and with every line the voices just grew
all men sang Schlaf in himmlicher ruh,
they laid down their arms and walked unafraid
meeting the enemy on this Christmas day,
showing their photos of loved ones back home
friendships were formed and a hate for war grown.

Each man and young boy were afraid on that day
but good actors they were, all their fears hid away,
grasping that moment of peace in their hands
they thought of their loved ones and dared to make plans,
alas all was lost as new shots reigned clear
in place of their hopes was a fresh feeling of fear,
nothing has changed as we march forward to war
this Christmas we ask: What was it all for?

On this cold Christmas morn stood in the snow
are millions of crosses row after row,
each bearing a number, unit and name
reminding us all that war´s not just a game,
and yet they played football in no man’s land
forgetting for a moment wars evil plan,
the spirit of Christmas had won over the day
the soldiers became friends to the generals dismay.

Time Will Help

Tom Balch Oct 2017

Time Will Help

There´s not a lot
that I can do,
feel useless in
this situation,
maybe offer help
and understanding,
comfort with
soft spoken words
of sympathy
and caring.

I´ll quietly go
and make you tea,
whilst healing time
I know can do
a better job than me,
but know I,m here
and know I care
and know you´re not alone,
there´s not a lot
that I can do...

just share the pain
with you.

My piece for Paul Hansford´s "Comfort" challenge.

Treasured Times

Tom Balch May 2016

Treasured Times

Old photographs, five in all,
unknown faces in black and white,
a frayed and faded ribbon, the palest of greens
with blonde hair trapped tight within a knot,
coloured beads, and a stone with an hole in it,
probably picked up on some secluded beach
or romantic stroll.

Two ivory pegs, cribbage perhaps,
a silver locket and chain, hallmarked,
a faded fragile train ticket stating that the sum
of one shilling and sixpence had been duly paid,
where did she go on that day, I wonder.

A letter addressed to Emily from Sis, the
loveliest hand writing I think I have ever seen,
an art long gone, Sis is so sorry that she
could not attend Emily’s father’s funeral,
but sends her love.

Every item in this dusty box which had been
lovingly covered in a floral patterned material
must have held special memories
of treasured times for Emily.
I smile warmly, as I replace the lid,
keeping her secretes secret…..forever.

Watching Reds At Tarn Hows

Tom Balch Jul 2016

Watching Reds At Tarn Hows

Here in the midst of lake and fell
where lake-land poets once did dwell,
penned their words in romantic style
I too will sit and dream a while.

Sat at the edge of mountain tarn
looking back over field and farm,
watching Merlin and Goshawks fly
on thermal winds high in the sky.

The scent of pine from forest deep
red squirrels search for nuts to keep,
native to this Cumbrian land
to watch them scurry, really grand.

So tranquil here midst lake and fell
where reds and poets do still dwell,
the only sound is natures song
this is the place that I belong.

We Each of Us Have Memories

Tom Balch Feb 2018

We Each of Us Have Memories

There is an emptiness that can´t be filled
and sadness envelopes the heart,
the loss of one so dear to us
is tearing all apart.

But strength is found in memories
and forever they will last,
for me it was the garden wall
he built with bricks and broken glass.

I´ll not forget his smile that day
his grin was ear to ear,
proud he was of the wall he´d built...
"Here, Pete come and look out here".

He told me all there was to know
about this marvelous construction,
with bottle bottoms, green blue and brown
"And Pete, I never had instuctions".

We stood together side by side
in the warnth of the summers end,
that´s the moment I´ll remember
and I was proud to call him friend.

(Remembering JB)

What It Was All About

Tom Balch Dec 2016

What It Was All About

In my Morris Minor
back in those early days
when the sun it shone forever
and we was free about our ways,
I´d drive it down to Cornwall
and I´d drive it to the coast
I´d drive it up to Scotland
but the drive I liked the most
was driving round the corner
to the cafe for tea and toast;

I used to clean the spark plugs
and then reset the gap
with my trusty feeler gauges
in me boiler suit and cap,
I´d change the points and bleed the clutch
I´d bleed the brakes an all
I´d change the filters drain the sump
and change the ***** oil,
then every Sunday morning
I´d clean it inside out
then take it for a nice long drive,
Cos that´s what it was all about.

What It Was Like

Tom Balch Oct 2018

What It Was Like

What It Was Like
( In The Trenches )

Sandbags riddled with bullet holes made up
the parapet, and barbed wire protected the
trenches which were waterlogged knee deep in
mud and stinking from overflowing cesspits.

Every soldier was infested with lice and from
this, many were suffering the severe pains of
trench fever. The cold wet and unsanitary
conditions were causing trench foot, this in
a lot of cases led to amputations.

Over the top "No Mansland" an inhospitable
wasteland of craters and blackened tree stumps.
The burnt out remains of buildings added to the
eeriness of this desolate hell on earth.

Brown and black rats in their thousands
were feeding on the bodies of the dead,
which were then exposed from their shallow graves.
The air was filled with the smell of cordite
and the sickening odour of poisonous gas.

Death was the trenches companion day and night
from the snipers bullet, artillery bombardment,
gas and disease. That’s what it was like.

So was it any wonder that on that Christmas morning
the troops from both sides laid down their arms
and walked out into no mansland, shaking hands,
exchanging cigarettes and chocolate, showing
photographs of their families, and wishing each
other a “ Merry Christmas ”
and guess what, they even played football.

What Sweeter Day

Tom Balch May 2016

What Sweeter Day

What sweeter day
than to walk the way
of rolling summer hills,

where lavender scents
your every step and white
blossoms linger still,

what sweeter sound than
the running stream where
ripples splash and spray,

and melodies of birdsong
travel with you all the way.

When She Smiles

Tom Balch Jul 2018

When She Smiles

And when she smiles
the world lights up
with warming sunlight glow,

and when she cries
the earth is kissed
with tear drops falling slow,

and when she screams
the thunder roars
with such a frightening force
and lightning lights her angry words
as through her veins
the wrath takes course.

Whatever the mood
her beauty glows
from tenderness to rage,
impossible it is to keep
mother nature caged,

but when she smiles
the world lights up...

with a warming sunlight glow.

Winds

Tom Balch Jul 2016

Winds

On ill fated winds
came the sound of Guns,

Guns that took millions
of lives so Young,

Young were the boys
fresh from mother’s Arms,

Arms that now yearn
for a million lost Sons,

Sons who will never
live till they´re Old,

Old... as those ill fated winds.

Winter Beauty

Tom Balch Jan 2019

Winter Beauty

Red breasted Robin on
snow covered fence,
ducks landing and skidding
on the now frozen lake,
icicles hanging from the
branches of trees,
the beauty of winter
never failing to please.

Kids making a snowman
hands painfully cold,
white breath their laughter
as snowballs they roll,
sledging down hillsides
in snow up to their knees,
the beauty of winter,
never failing to please.

Car on the driveway
refusing to go
the windscreen is covered with
three inches of snow,
an hour late already
I´m now starting to sneeze,
the beauty of winter
never failing to please.

Tucked up in bed
nose bright red and sore
used three boxes of tissues
and still I need more,
temperature rising
coughing and sneezing,
the beauty of winter
so ****** pleasing!

With The Warm Summer Sun on His Face

Tom Balch Jul 2016

With The Warm Summer Sun on His Face

He sat on a rock by the banks of a stream
he was armed with some paper and pen,
he jotted down thoughts that came in his head
his first poem was formed there and then.

He wrote of the music the water composed
as it danced its way round all the stones,
he wrote down the words of the water birds song
and he wrote of her colours and tones.

He wrote of the warmth from the mid summer sun
how it shimmered and hazed over fields,
he wrote of the dust a tractor kicked up
and his poem was starting to build.

He wrote about clouds in the Robin egg sky
their fluffiness, whiteness and grace,
he painted his picture on paper with pen
and the warm summer sun on his face.

He wrote of the calm that came in the air
as the afternoon started to tire,
he wrote of the orange and red glowing hues
of a sky that was blazing with fire.

He wrote of the Martins that took to the skies
the aerobatics and speed of their flight,
he wrote of a day that was second to none
the smells, his feelings, the colours, the sights.

And as the day darkened he put down his pen
and his paper he folded with care,
he rose to his feet bid farewell to the moon
and tipped his hat to all he´d seen there*.

— The End —