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Simon Soane Apr 5
Never won

the money lottery yet,

not that prone to gamble, flutter or bet,

sans engaged with bingo or slot machines,

uninterested in the coin toss of fifty fifty dreams.

But I should,

cos I'm lucky:

in the trillions, billions and millions of folk in the world

our paths crossed

and made my life journey better;

I cherish every letter

of your name:

so glad you're here,

so glad you came.
Simon Soane Feb 18
Its hard to deny the thought
you won't always be here,
because you won't.
One day I'll post if people want to mark your passing
they should get to a place
where your gone leaves that dreaded space.
But not right now:
now we can laugh
and you can hold my hand with love
as I'm getting off the bus,
we can argue about the merits of giving titbits
to that little tabby ****.
We can arrange to meet for dinner
in a greasy spoon
and after our fill of calories part with the words "I'll see you soon."
We can chat about football and how City win supreme,
you can peck my head
about if I'm keeping my flat clean.
Of all this I want more
but for the now
I'll be glad
that when people ask what I did last night
I'll reply that I went for drinks with my Mum and Dad.
Simon Soane Jan 27
Though old

and hands semi broken by time

fingers still cradled cigarettes and wine,

they spoke of you:

caught by age but vibrant enough to do the dance you wanted,

full of life as the shell was cracking,

talking with glorious yapping,

not allowing the beating of the clock to take its toll

with all that sunshine in your soul.



Empty seats emptier without you there,



I love you,



take care.
Simon Soane Nov 2021
Love

for your ubiquitous beauty I'm glad,

I know in the future I'll curse you

because here will be no longer

what I had;

but I wouldn't want it any other way

as you make my life

every day.
Simon Soane Nov 2021
The blood had fell
for many a year,
the bodies never ceased to drop,
and every person shed a tear.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Bob joined up in January 1918
as he had turned the age he had to go,
him and his friends went to enlist
as English pavements filled with snow.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Fred was from a near-by town,
went down to enroll with fear in his tum,
he didn't really want to sign up,
as he'd miss his Cat, his Dad, his Mum.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Fred and Bob had a torrid time
in that drowning stinking mud,
and met when they were deployed together
after The Battle Of Belleau Wood.

In the awful years of The Great War.

They clapped eyes on each other in a trench
and their hearts simultaneously began to flutter,
wonder stirred in their souls,
words of love they wished to utter.

In the awful years of The Great War.

They were both drenched in horror,
shrouded in a bombed out trance,
but began to feel some ease
with every stolen glance.

In the awful years of The Great War.

They talked in down hours,
how they'd eventually leave Hell, sit hand in hand, try to forget what they had seen,
full of peace and calm,
in a field of summer green.

In the awful years of The Great War.

When no-one else was looking
they'd try and dull the machine gun hiss
and find a tiny space
for a fleeting enamoured kiss.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Inevitably they got *****,
talked about what fleshy designs they could be,
Bob said, "I'm up for owt!"
Fred replies, "oh, perhaps you could *** on me!"

In the awful years of The Great War.

Bob chucked, "ha ha, I'm up for that,
anything to please you that is in my power!'
Fred responded, "great my love,
I'll look forward to a *******!"

In the awful years of The Great War.

Fred and Bob continued their covert romance
and anticipated the day when Fred would get a jet of Bob's yellow
but then one became their leader
was the most terrible fellow.

In the awful years of The Great War.

He waltzed in and stated with arrogance,

'I'm now in charge of you, you ghastly bunch of ****!"
He was the most frightful man:
Major Barthomley Pitt.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Despite never seeing combat
Pitt did pontificate, "deserters he would shoot,
cowards would go up against the wall
and the scared get the gun boot."

In the awful years of The Great War.

But what Pitt hated most
was "men who go up other mens' rears,
I ******* hate those sodomites,
I ******* hate those queers!"

In the awful years of The Great War.

Pitt continued that he'd "rooted out sin
whether it be meek or mild
and I have filled with bullets
those who enjoy copulation like Oscar Wilde!"

In the awful years of The Great War.

In the middle of this diatribe a shell exploded,
the debris torn into Bob's arm,
and a mustard gas cloud appeared
before anyone could raise the alarm.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Fred had got a lung full,
Pitt cowering started to look for his own cover,
but both Bob with only one upper limb working started to think about his lover.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Bob ****** on a hanky as he knew ammonia
could relieve the toxic gas and stop a man from being dead,
and in a desperate lunge in the front of Pitt
placed the sodden rag on the face of Fred.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Just a minute ago Pitt was shouting,
off on one of his vile anti ****** rants
but just 60 seconds later a puff was giving another puff in front of him
a pair of hard ons in their pants.

In the awful years of The Great War.

Bob and Fred were rushed to field hospital
and of that abomination of war did get away,
and were both still bedridden
when on the 11/11/11 was declared Armistice Day.

No more awful years of The Great War.

After it had ended Bob and Fred moved to  separate houses in a village,
Bob's inheritance made this dream,
and they would go deep in the woods
and be their serene supreme

No more awful years of The Great War.

They would laugh about how they had made it,
their glee made the sun more brightly beam,
on this peaceful blue calming day
Bob and Fred found their field of green.

A happily ever after The Great War.
Simon Soane Oct 2021
As leaves fall more
in
the wind
and
no longer watered
hanging baskets
become
leftover
summer caskets
you're still here:

you, with your never-ending arc of abundance;

making every season,

making every year.
Simon Soane Sep 2021
Just one more time come around sun
and bring the warm easy
like you always do,
your rescinding shine
has in it all of you;
being the days you were.
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