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Heather Apr 2014
My mother always kept a supply of chocolate and rain boots close.  

I never questioned her morals because mother knew best.

I realised down the line , after many attepmts to work it out , she showed me her love in many different ways.

There was no problem chocolate couldn't fix , sometimes chocolate wasn't enough so she would hand me my rain boots and tell me to go stand in the rain .

She would join me and  hold her hands out , palms facing upwards towards the sky that was crying, I would copy her stance and hope I understood.

I never quite liked the feel of wet hair draped against my neck , wrapping around my face , it always resembled a tangled mess.

But my mother always looked content with the rain pouring down , beating off her chest.

She often told me life had a peculiar way of showing you what needed to be done.

So with her hair wrapped around her face, getting caught in her mouth, the water dripping off her chin a smile would appear.

She told me good things come in three but so dose the bad, she told me don't hold your nose up in the air unless you plan on smelling the rain .

She looked at me and said " rain is good, it washes away everything , i hope you learn from this "

We would go in and hang up our coats , make sure to wipe our  boots , she really did love that wooden floor.

Years on I released something that I'm sure she knows herself, rain can cause a mess , but like she always said " wipe your feet on the mat darling , the past is in the past"
Daylight 4U2C Jan 2014
If you give a wishing stone,
she'll travel out all on her own.
She'll  leave behind the fear and pain,
and keep herself from going insane.
While her friends are getting diagnosed,
she'll be somewhere in her boat.
Maybe she'll have tea for two,
but at least she'll know what to do.
And they may ask, and plead, and beg to be in her world,
but she'll certainly say,
"Be gone, be gone, or off with your head."
Which should be said, since they cursed her be dead.
If you give a girl a wishing stone,
she'll truly feel all alone,
and for those who never cared "be gone!"
The queen has finally sang her song.
She was never a fool, just a withered small bud,
and those pigs would throw her around in the mud.
So sure she dreams and dazes off,
but she can do whatever she wants.
She earned a bit of recognition,
for all antagonize and inhibition.
Give that girl some cheer,
she fought a war for all those years.
Stop the hate for her being crushed,
unlike some, she had no love!
The glass shattered hard,
it's no surprised it became shards.
Giving time and yells,
doesn't heal, it kills.
If you give a girl a wishing stone,
you've given her one happiness finally of her own.
Kaye B Anderson Apr 2014
Laying in a puddle of mud-
*****.
Now Thirty,
Paying for it at a spa.
15 word
Jack Pedlow Apr 2014
Next to the marshes
The muddy smell fills my nose
The cat tails shutter
Joe Wilson Mar 2014
Mud goes so stiff as it dries on the clothes
And it gets in the rifles and ammo
And men live in the mud for day after day
And they die there as the death tolls just grow.

The lads call it Wipers, but we know it’s called Ypres
And we don’t know the language but know mud
And the massive field guns that are firing this way
Causing lots of men to stay here for good.

In two months I’ve not heard the sound of a bird
With the fighting and dying you don’t listen
But I saw a dead blackbird lying out in the mud
And memories of home made my eyes glisten.

I’d rather be back at my home on the farm
Tending cattle and working the land
But I’m lying here shooting at men I don’t know
In a hard ****** war that I don’t understand.

We’ll soon be coming to the end of this year
We were told that it wouldn’t last too long
I don’t know how much longer the men can last out
The spirits willing but their bodies aren’t strong.

We’ve been pounded for hours, we’ve been pounded for days
It seems like so long and it’s so cold
There are men who've got frostbite and gangrene and sores
But it’s the dysentery that makes some men fold.

When will it end and who will make peace
They’re decisions that aren't made at the front
But by men back at home who think they know best
Not by poor dying men bearing the brunt.

©JRW2014
One in a group of poems recognising the centenary of WW1

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