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Lizzy Sharples Aug 2018
Some anniversaries
Don’t stir good memories
It’s just another day
No different in any way
Than all the others that have past
Since that day that was your last
It’s just a date
Why does it hold such weight?
Time spins it’s wheel
How can I know what to feel
When a portal is opened
To all that hateful emotion
As if I’ve gone back in time -
Time
ticks on in a straight line
But my head moves through space
Taking me back to that place
Reliving dark memories
On this anniversary

But I won’t hover here
Won’t linger too near
To fury’s fierce grasp
I’ll pause to raise a glass
I’ll lift it high
Try not to drown in the ‘why’
Find space to remember you
Leaving darkness less room
Don Bouchard Mar 2017
Dad,
Can it be that you are gone now,
Five years' comings and goings,
Five solar journeys now, around the sun?

I can still see your shape,
Thin and worn,
Overalls, too big,
Cap pulled down,
Pliers hanging at your side,
Lace-up boots, worn,
And your face, lined,
Eyes still twinkling, though
Weary after a day's work,
Fixing,
Farming,
Fencing,
Feeding.

In my mind, you're
Going off to the barn,
To hay the cows,
Like an old imam
Heading mechanically
To daily prayers,
Moved by routines
Impossible to ignore.

The man and the work,
So embedded in the other...
No more thought of leaving -
Though as a younger man,
You spoke of some day retiring -
There was no way, and no desire,
Farming was your one remaining fire.

So, five years are gone,
And yet, everything still
Standing on the farm
Bears resemblances of you.

The peeling buildings, sagging still,
The gravel paths you tended,
The panels your hands welded,
The barns and sheds you built
Still stand, and bear the evidence
Of Arthur Bouchard's hands.
Time is erasing us all, but as long as I am able, I will remember. RIP, AB.
about a year ago
we met, you and i
and about a year ago
well, i didn't want to die
and this year
we write it
all down, you and i
put a pretty little
stamp on it
throw it in the mail
and bite our lip
hold back the tears
when we do
because one year
just shouldn't hurt
like this
but i can't
be with you
Delaney Jun 2015
But how many days in this past year
have I cried over what you did to me?
How many nightmares have left me breathless,
grasping for a light, and for restful sleep?
Tell me, how many flashbacks have haunted my memory?
Do you even know the multitude of conflicts
that you forced upon me?
Do you realize the significance of your thoughtless actions?

I bet you don't.
But I sure as **** do.

(d.d.b)
Today is the one year anniversary of the day I was *****. I'm still living in ****.
Sarah Pitman May 2015
Call a funeral
For the sadness
That had overcome my life.
Say goodbye
To the things
That had once given strife.

They told me I'd be happy
Now finally,
They're right.
Thursday morning and I board
the Preston train, a dumpy DMU,
but less of a cattle-truck today.

Over the bridge or beneath
lines to Platform 5 to wait:
Branson's Scarlet Pendolino
will glide in soon bound
for Birmingham - wonder
who I shall meet and share
travelling moments with ?

At the caverns of New Street
I must wend to Moor Street
and a Chilterns train trundling
me south for Warwick's 1,100th.
birthday weekend and 100 years
since trains of Lancashire PALS
cattle-trucked themselves to
Flanders fields never to return.

(c) C J Heyworth June 2014
Warwick Words is the annual literary festival held in two parts, early June and early October, each year in the city of Warwick.
2014 is the 1,100th year that Warwick has been recognised as an English city.
2014 is also the anniversary of the commencement of what my grandmother always referred to as "The Great War".
On Preston station there is a splendid plaque which records the embarkation of thousands of NW soldiers to fight in France and the Low Counries often characterised as Flanders Fields where Remembrance Day poppies grew after the land had been pulverised by incessant shelling.
Lord Kitchener amongst others decided that the most attractive way to recruit soldiers by the thousand was to establish PALS regiments so that men would be fighting alongside their mates; hence PALS regiments.

— The End —