'They Live Beneath The Bed!'

A fortnight before Halloween
Eight-year-old Jenny said
‘I’m scared of nasty things I’ve seen,
They live beneath the bed!’

Her parents tried to reassure
And listened to each word
Yet blamed imagination for
A story so absurd.

On Halloween night lanterns blew
In lashing rain and wind,
As tension and excitement grew
Bright pumpkin faces grinned.

When trick-or-treating had been done,
When there was no more play
Full up on sweets and witchy fun
Asleep young Jenny lay.

At half past midnight she awoke
And sensed that something leered,
Feet scuffled and cruel voices spoke,
The very sounds she feared.

Too shocked to scream, her nerves became
As taut as rubber bands;
Out from the bed there slowly came
A pair of withered hands.

In darkness they climbed up the sheets,
Each spat an angry curse,
Compared to harmless trick-or-treats
Small demons are much worse.

The parents lived on with the stare
Of Jenny lying dead
And five words hanging in the air:
‘They live beneath the bed!’


©

That settles it. I'm going to bed with my green face and witch's hat on tonight. You think I'm kidding. Hmmmm.

Thank you Mr Mustard x

Don't forget to put away your broomstick too Biz I can never resist writing horror poems for Halloween


My pleasure Evangeline

Musty, that is a STONKER! Stick it in Its Mine immediately!!

Ta Twass, I shall do

No chance. I'm keeping it tucked up in bed with me in case I need it.

A Stroll Along the Prom

No stroll is quite as winning,
The effort isn't hard,
With afternoon beginning
I walk the promenade.

Far from the hurly-burly
Here off the beaten track
If I smile at a girlie
It's nice if she smiles back.

While passing chalets lined up
And blue tides in a dream
Sometimes I make my mind up
To buy a cool ice cream.

I only have but three goals,
Enjoying sand and sun
And feeding hungry seagulls,
Well that's the other one.

Our local band are playing
In red and smartly dressed,
Each melody displaying
The old ones are the best.

To every trumpet they blow,
To every moon and June
Sat in a quaint gazebo
I reminisce and swoon.

And when the day starts going
With night time drawing near
I watch the light bulbs glowing
Along the darkened pier.

I take off shoes grown sandy
Back home where I came from,
Then pour a welcome brandy
And think about the prom.


©

What a relief. I thought the ghouls had got you.


Ahhhh yes! Memories of summers past. A pleasant escape from the chill and **bangs** of this evening.

No trick-or-treaters here Biz, thankfully That's about the fifth version of Prom, which is odd as it's quite a simple poem. I'm finally happy with it now

You're a perfectionist, and I approve of that.

Thankfully I haven't had any trick-or-treaters for a few years. Probably because the ones who used to come are too grown up now. There don't seem to have been as many fireworks either this year - however it isn't 5th yet.

Last Stand at Rorke's Drift

They waited, ordered not to grant
A single Zulu goal,
Yet when there came a distant chant
Its volume was enough to plant
Fear in a soldier’s soul.

They only had some bags of maize
To use as their defence,
Beneath the sun’s relentless blaze
Against the thousands in the haze
Death’s gateway seemed immense.

This garrison, this small enclave
Was feeble in design;
A hundred stood against each wave
With grit and rifles aimed to save
The ragged British line.

Defying drums that loudly beat
And unprepared to shift,
Red tunics shimmered in the heat
When heroes fended off defeat
So bravely at Rorke’s Drift.


©

Good news

The older I get the more upset I am about senseless killing. Lovely brave young men whose lives are wasted.

I watched a programme this morning in the run up to Remembrance Saunday. I didn't intend to, but having started, watched to the bitter end. From the eighty-eight year old veteran of D-Day, recalling tearfully the eighteen year old boys who jumped into the sea, ran up the beach, only to be mown down; their lives stopped before they'd begun, to the beautiful young men who to this day are being shot or blown to smithereens.

I suppose if there had never been wars and killings, the earth would have become over-populated long ago. What a mess. What right have the rest of us to enjoy peace and happiness? So sad.

I just watched a documentary on D-Day Biz. All manner of strange machines were deployed to cover the troops on the beaches. Though successful overall, they failed at Omaha Beach, where 4000 mostly American troops were wiped out.

A life sacrificed is the ultimate act for your country, whether at Rorke's Drift or on the Western Front. We should never forget them

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

1914 V: The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke

For The Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon,

All great poems Jon, but this is one of my favourites. So sad and yet so uplifting

I agree with Musty Jon. So many of the lines in those poems are etched into our brains.

The Bag That Blew Away

The bag that blew away
Was orange, white and grey,
A plastic castaway.

Some careless shopper sinned,
The bag he never binned
Was guided by the wind,
It hurried till it slowed
Where busy traffic flowed
Then landed in the road.

Avoiding every car
It soared off very far
Beyond a reservoir
And rested by a post
And floated like a ghost
Until it reached the coast.

On pebbles there it lay,
The bag that blew away,
A symbol of today.


©

It's a bit of a problem these days isn't it? Even though they're biodegradable, it takes years.

I had a narrow escape recently during the high overnight winds. I'd put a new bin bag in the bin, but the next morning the bin had blown over and the bag was hooked onto a rose bush. I managed to retrieve it, but not before I'd been stabbed.

Gawd, you be careful Biz I have eight or nine plastic bags that have lasted for ages. It infuriates me when I see shoppers loading up endless new ones. What a waste

I've just been informed that the poetry site I belong to in America is closing on December the first Even with just over four hundred members, not enough material was being posted. In some respects we're lucky here, as the thread stays alive by being a small part of DS.

Sad news, but life (and poetry) goes on

Just shows how lucky we are to have DS.