"picardy" poems
The only man I ever loved
Said good bye
And went away
He was killed in Picardy
On a sunny day.
7.3k
The Pals battalion,
Young soldiers of nineteen,
The total death toll reached a million,
On the Somme in nineteen-sixteen.
The men in splendid spirits,
There was optimism in the ranks,
With co-op bombs and bayonets,
Gathered on the sunny banks.
The first bombs fell on Picardy,
Now they stood in lines to push,
They will annihilate the enemy,
No need to charge or rush.
But the German men were ready,
Their intelligence was good,
They knew about the enemy,
Their intention understood.
Our men walked into open fire,
So many lives they stole.
Shot and maimed before the wire
On their gentle morning stroll.
Bodies crushed in defeat,
In a field of flying lead,
Soldiers dropped to their feet,
Leaving many dead.
The slaughter would not stop,
In this futile ****** game,
All deserters would to be shot,
The only gain was being maimed.
Battle planning was inferior,
Senseless death was inhumane,
In the carnage and hysteria,
On the pretty red poppy plane.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
No social ***********
no discourse on current affairs,
on who's doing what or where or to whom
and that's why you will always be
the silence in the silent room.
In aluminium doorways where the sun's rays reflect
I have always suspected a hoax,
japery that capers about my head,
is it me or the sun that is dead?
Victorian cobblestone paths made from grandad's dry bones
and shells off the front line on the Somme
meandering,
Picardy's never that far from me and
Tipperary just goes on and on.
I sit here in reverie and the world
pebbledashes me
I am becoming a scroll lost to history
a paint *** full of scenery
the brush with the bristles
all gone.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
They told me dip your toes into that hell
Go
and make a daisy chain as well
and each daisy represents a body slain
a ****** great big daisy chain.
So I went and built a wall of sweat and in it tied the lessons which I tried hard to forget
but as these flowers on the wall began to bloom
the chain wrapped me into the doom
I saw a mountain lit in blackened light and on a white horse
there sat
a knight of olde
Taking notes as if foretold a history would need be taken
of lost souls who
forsaken by their breath had daisy chained into their death.
No Camelot
No Camelot
King Arthur has forgotten us
as we forgot the writings in the book
and took it on ourselves to delve into the fiery hells
that live within the hearts of men.
When we learn to make a daisy chain
when we learn that each man or woman slain in the name of God above
will we ever learn of this thing called love.
If and when we start to live in peace again
I wonder if we'll begin to see
daisy chains are not all they're cracked up to be.
The mirror spoke before it broke of another reflection back in time
another line
another chain
another hundred thousand slain
and told of not who was to blame
but pointed wearily
at me.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
I WILL NOT CEASE FROM MENTAL FIGHT
"Hush...hush!" he'd
suddenly shush
us kids
going" "Wot...wot?"
"Snipers!"
"Where...where?"
we'd whisper half scared.
"Everywhere...everywhere!"
he'd hiss under his breath.
Even in his beloved
red and yellow rose bushes.
( Fred shot in the head
still bleeding in Picardy ).
Or the *** in
the garden shed
which we'd storm
with a barrage of conkers.
"The bleedy blighter
got away!"
They had followed him
home from Flanders.
Or just...
never went away.
Mother said he'd
lost his....
but he'd play
marbles with us
kids
all day.
Rubbed his tolley
against his bonce
"Big Bertha"
he'd call her.
"Yer losing 'em...yer losing 'em!"
he'd sing with great gusto.
We had to let him win
or he'd swear like anything.
"Stop dat slanguage!"
Mother would swear at him.
He sang saucy French songs
"mes saucisson mes amis!"
but only when he be-
-came squiffy
which was more
than often!
Mother begging us:
"Don't listen...don't listen!"
But we inky-dinky
parley-vous'd with him.
A chorus of us kids
belting out:
"...Oh I didn't know how
to tickle Mary
but now I know how!"
"War is all about
saving your skin!"
Most of his mates
lost theirs.
He still calls them
by their names
as if they are
just...there.
"The ghosts of the sofa!"
They sit and watch
the radio with him.
"Manchester Utd 2 -"
He sings ADIEU LA VIE
and cries in French.
Left his left leg
in a trench
but still loves
to dance.
"I dance as badly or
as goodly as I did before
no less...no more!"
More and more
often he hides
under the stairs
eating raspberry jam
or marmalade
in the dark
crying now
in English.
Hiding still
from the Wipers' snipers.
He hates apple and plum
"all we...ugggh...ever got!"
And loudly the cupboard
it sings.
"...without food so long
I've forgotten where my face
is..."
(Fred lost his...)
I always remember him
coming out to salute
surrender to us
as he recites
in a little child's voice.
"When the Rock of Gibraltar
takes a flying leap at Malta
you'll never get yer ********
in a corn beef can."
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
You're my picardy
third, the major apex in
this slice of life
the one that brings the audience to
its feet like so many jacks from their
boxes with the pop-out love you
shine all the time
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
It's raining in my heart;
My holidays lie in ruins.
And what is this dampness I feel
Seeping through my underpants?
My beloved lies dead
'Neath the bloodied wheels of a coach;
O how short was his life;
And now he's squashed like a tortoise.
The poppies are waving in the wind
Bidding farewell to my obese lover,
A victim of heavy holiday traffic
On the byways of summertime Picardy.
My ***** feel my pain keenly:
Where on earth shall I find another
Dirty-minded *** beast like him?
O, it's raining in my heart!
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
There's a meeting of the minds today
people of all kinds will meet
and pray and
someone's bound to say,
'lest we forget'
Old soldiers at the cenotaph
can
still raise a laugh with other ancient friends,
while ends don't always justify the means and
peace it seems is just as far as Picardy.
eight hundred thousand poppies may remind
us of the dead they say,
they
remind me that life is not ceramic
life is that dynamic force
forced out from some
by the gun
and thus we live or die.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Tightrope strung
too high
above a reckless
orchestra, can’t
find a downbeat:
conductor’s
lost her
ictus, and the
soprano’s slipped off
the descant
stumbling drunken
dotted rhythms
in stepwise
motion just
short of lilting
glissando.
Concertmaster’ll break
a string to
catch the pitch
carry a well-chewed
tune. Good boy.
Don’t
miss the entrance
or you’ll tumble,
ritornello
to double bars and
slide straight down a
spit-slick trombone
tuner. Wouldn’t
even mind if Ms.
Grey-Eyed
French Horn
would sneak a
wink, but
we’ll get no
Picardy third
tonight, just
minor keys
and fully-diminished
encores.
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 9:38 PM UTC