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Rob Apr 2014
A man-made cave of brutal grey
Damp and dark on sunlit day
Void of what it used to be
Yet a thousand souls I seem to see
Oppressed I felt I must escape
So through narrow door my way I make
A few steps more on grassy knoll
To sit, and breathe, and take control
I stare across the open fields
Wide and flat, and Poplar healed
I want to write
Yet words won’t come
For in this place all words are done
Upon this knoll, one long past day
Were penned the words of John McCrae
So instead I ponder field’s banks
Fresh turned earth in neat trim ranks
And watch the flowers bob their heads
With diaphanous petals
Of deep blood red.

RD © 2014
Today, my wife and youngest daughter are on a school trip visiting Ypres.  About five years ago I made the same trip with our eldest daughter. Amongst many places we visited was the Essex Farm Dressing Station and I admit that quite soon I found it’s atmosphere oppressive and so sat outside about 20 feet away on the grass bank of field, where Poppies were growing in newly ploughed earth. I tried to write something then, to imagine, but no words came. So I took a photograph of the closest poppy instead and it was only when I was walking back to the coach that I saw the inscription that explained how John McCrae, Canadian Army surgeon, had just failed to save his friend in the dressing station and came outside to sit awhile, where he wrote “In Flanders Fields”  (3rd May 1915). And I knew all the words had already been used for this place.
Rob Mar 2014
I once fell for a poetess
A lyricist of songs
She alliterated everywhere
With such cracking shaped diphthongs!
Rob Mar 2014
I thought of you the other day
Standing ten floors above wet grey streets scoured by gales
A drop of rain absurdly climbs the glass
Yet I focus someplace far off through the miles of murk.
And there, all rush and bluster, eyes flashing, you pull me close into the doorway
Your smile just a little crooked , like you weren’t sure you could
or should or would…..
And then what was is past
Now just for a moment I let myself feel
And it catches in my heart and makes it ache
With the indigestion of something lost
And I wonder if you are standing
Gazing through some storm soaked pane
A drop of rain absurdly climbing your glass

I thought of you the other day.
Rob Jan 2014
How can a hollow ache?
Or a poet write?
When the part that felt is cut away
Excised with a razor of reason
Bandaged with the dressings of the Sensible
To be healed, so it is said, with time
Yet like the morbid curiosity of the child who picks at the scab
Or perhaps more akin; the itch of an amputee's phantom limb
There is still an ache
How can that be so?
How can a hollow ache?
Or, come to that,
A poet write?
RD © 2014
Rob Jul 2013
When she’s hot
She’s very, very hot
And when I’m hot,  She melts
So drown us both with gushing hose
And soothe our steaming pelts!
It's awfully British to moan about the heat after a while, but it's so rare that we should just get on and make the most of it!
RD © 2013
Rob May 2013
It’s unnerving how after all this time
Even with clarity of experience
Of the conflagration and how
that burning pain eased so slow, then subsided to a dull ache
and finally to acceptance
How after all that seeming resolution
You are still a pretty moth with slightly singed wings
who appears to see a light in me
And I am still fuel to your particular spark.
Always know where your extinguisher is :)
RD ©2013
Rob Mar 2013
Metaphors like similes
Alluring alliteration
Onomatopoeic sounds
Swish swash through its creation
Full of figurative constructions
To skyscrapers of the soul
That rise to a crescendo
Then with bathos quickly fall
So what is it I have written?
Just a stream of consciousness?

For if I claim a classic poem
Then you’d be right to take the …. :)
Just a bit of fun !!
RD ©2013
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