Take time to be like them

More wise words from Owen (the Beleaguered Servant)

via It’s Always Them

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Hard Haiku

Haiku is not easy, you know!  John Cooper Clarke sums it up:

To convey one’s mood
In seventeen syllables
Is very diffic

 

John Cooper Clarke

Born

in Salford, Lancashire, The United Kingdom

January 25, 1949

Website

http://www.johncooperclarke.com/

Genre

Poetry
John Cooper Clarke (born 25 January 1949) is an English performance poet who first became famous during the punk rock era of the late 1970s when he became known as a “punk poet”. He released several albums in the late 1970s and early 1980s, and continues to perform regularly.

On Being Happy

Having found a few posts today that I thought I would share, perhaps today is just a day that I am open to being impressed; but impressed I am, not just by this poem, but by a lot of Owen’s work. See what you think, and, maybe, you may wish to read more of his fine work.

No Talent For Certainty

find a place you are,

be there when you can,

share it, as you’re able.

find a way to span

all the times between,

when you miss the zest —

making your way back

to that place

of rest

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Burns Night……

Thank you to David for the reminder that I have an excuse to partake of a wee dram tonight (not that an excuse is ever needed). A little reminder of who Rabbie is can be found here.

DAVID OAKES - IMAGES.

13-ROBERT-BURNS-BIRTH-PLACE,-ALLOWAY,-AYRSHIRE----0148

Robert Burns Birthplace…

In this humble Alloway Farmhouse on 25th January 1759 Robert (Rabbie) Burns was born.

In a short life he was a prolific Writer and Poet, work that won him respect and a respect that is still honoured today the 25th January….Burns Night.

Burns Night…the night to respect the National Poet of Scotland, when Haggis, Tatties and Neaps are piped into the room to sound of Bagpipes,  the centrepiece of many a Burns Night Dinner.

25th January

(C) David Oakes 2018

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PHEW – I MADE IT!

I once set about reading The Bible all the way through.  I made it! (although a lot of it was skipped through very swiftly, because some parts are boring {quite a lot}) I don’t take the Bible as gospel (see what I did there!), but it is a tremendous work by many people over many, many years.

One of the bits that many people could recount, although not verbatim, is the bit about reaching the age of 70, and guess what, I made it!

Psalm 90:10 King James Version

The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.

That inspired the following little offering of ageist poetry:

Well, I’m buggered

Whoever thought? Three score years and ten,

and maybe, then, another ten;

but no excitement for the morrow

for it’s bound to end in sorrow,

and even if you reach that stage

you’ll surely creak, and feel your age;

but don’t get too complacent mate,

your number’s up, it’s just too late.

So, make the most of every day

before you have to fly away!

 

I fully intend to make the most of every day, with a little help from my friends.

For those who don’t know the real lyrics here they are

What do soldiers do?

The very last line of Owen’s poem The night in showers came to war… 

inspired me to write the following. Thank you, Owen, for the inspiration.

 

Amidst the noise and battle cry, what do soldiers do but die?

Do they rescue one another? “Let me help him, he’s my brother!”

Can they carry even one, when the bullets cease to come?

Is there any feeling left, or is it that they’re all bereft?

Amidst the noise and battle cry, what do soldiers do but die?

 

Amidst the noise and cry of battle, politicians ever prattle,

seeking ways to wage the war, counting bodies, keeping score.

Do they count the family cost, brothers, sons, and fathers lost?

Do they care for all the strife, grieving mother, child, or wife?

Amidst the noise and cry of battle, politicians ever prattle.

 

Amidst the noise and battle cry, what do soldiers do but die?

No one cared until too late, no one heeded others’ fate.

So long as profits filled the banks, businessmen all gave their thanks.

Politicians counted votes, and journalists made copious notes.

Amidst the noise and battle cry, what do soldiers do but die?

Flowers in the Snow

A beautiful, evocative, glimpse of our ephemeral lives , linked to the image of transient flowers in the snow.

No Talent For Certainty

Just flowers in the snow;
Conceived to joy, and born to grow,
To lives that ever few will know
We live, we love, we come, we go,
Just flowers in the snow.

A boy was born to parents poor,
He always dreamed of flying;
With paper, and with balsa wood,
Surroundings bad but moments good,
To his long-dream applying:
His parents wanted something more
For him: to conquer and to soar,
And so they did whate’er they could
His wish solidifying.
And when, at last, he took the skies
His life, their love, shone in their eyes
That no one now remembers, long ago —

Just flowers in the snow;
Conceived to joy, and born to grow,
To lives that ever few will know
We live, we love, we come, we go,
Just flowers in the snow.

A girl grown old, with hair of white,
Once had a dream of…

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