Herald - Issue 380

v THE NEXT HERALD IS OUT ON 14TH NOVEMBER v 24th October 2019 • The HERALD • Page 73 Poets Corner PART TIME SCHOOL RUN DRIVERS REQUIRED School run drivers required to work for a friendly family run business located in the Totton area. Drivers must be flexible & reliable with a clean driving licence. A New Forest Private Hire licence would be an advantage. A Car and fuelcard will be supplied to the successful applicant This position would ideally suit a retired/semi retired person. Hours will be between 15-20 hours per week with good rates of pay. Please contact Paul or Ross on 023 8086 2040 between 9.30am-4.30pm or email drivers@tccsouthampton.co.uk HERALD RECRUITMENT POPPIES RED by David K Wilson Poppies red are worn with pride As they line the streets on either side Memories overflowing Memories of war Marching bands bring back those days That passing years cannot erase Where happy times and the saddest times Intermingle in a haze Muddy boots on foreign fields Young men sent to war Where bombs and bullets rend the air And of the dead, who keeps the score? A million scarlet poppy flowers Remind us of those days Where blood once spilled in poppy fields Because of mans inhuman ways Boys remembered days gone by The last post plays to tearful eyes Whilst overhead an engine roars A spitfire flying by Memories of what might have been Dear Lord that every death was clean Many rest in graves unseen Unfound as the bugle plays The enemy will always be The reason men fight wars Man trying hard to destroy man And even up the score And a million scarlet poppy flowers Remind us of those days Where blood once spilled in poppy fields Amongst the wheat and maize Still full of pride with heads held high Shoulders back and tears wiped dry The good and bad come flooding back In the comradeship of war Those months in trenches long ago Where suppressed emotions seldom showed Who can ever comprehend? The true cost of a war And still each year A million scarlet poppy flowers Remind us of those days Life’s blood spilled in poppy fields Because of mans inhuman ways Today poppies red are worn with pride Streets are lined on either side Memories overflowing Memories of war Just once every year no burnt toast, e reversal of the hour allows me to wake rst, to creep down and prepare: crisp brown toast, lightly buttered, Oxford marmalade, china plate, cup and saucer arranged on linen – my annual gi of love. ree hundred and sixty four days I awake to rhythmic scraping, the acrid perfume of bread absentmindedly burnt but never wasted. ree hundred and sixty four days I receive gratefully these charred o erings, the sturdy mug, contents occasionally slopped on kitchen roll – His daily gi of love. The Last Sunday in October by Lexley George Lady in Red Part 2 by Margaret Bell e lady in Red who was one hundred and three, She knew a gentleman who she would regularly see, He was tall and handsome with a distinguished look, But better than that he knew how to cook!! e meals he would bring would make her gasp! She always prayed this closeness would last, Amazing food presented so well, She loved him for this, but would never tell! He took her shopping for her favourite scent, He didn’t object to how much she spent, Have what you want, have some more shoes, You have red already, why don’t you buy blue! Didn’t want much, didn’t want to be greedy! Didn’t want to take money, didn’t want to look needy, She loved going shopping she found this was fun! But just loved being with him, because he was her son! The Autumn sunset lights the sky, A sudden chill says Winters nigh. Leaves are trodden under foot, Garden chairs inside are put. The squirrel adds nuts to her store, And scurries down the tree for more. Spikey hedgehog with his mate, Looks for a place to hibernate. Logs are put on an open fire, And bats stir from the church spire. The owl from the barn will fly, Silhouetted in the night sky. Migrant birds have left this shore, In Spring will be back once more. The children in armchairs sink, Asking for a warmer drink. Mother nature takes a rest, Another year she’s done her best. The old man lets out a sigh, Another year has passed him by. EARLY FALL by Jim Dolbear Old poets never die ey only reach the bottom of a page On a steady diet of a poem and a pint ey live to a ripe old age ey search their head for one more phrase Or an untitled poem leads to one more phase No, old poets never die. Old poets never die ey merely pause for breath ey scratch away with their old, old nibs On poems about sex or maybe death And they search their head for just one more rhyme Evading St. Peter, perhaps, one more time For old poets never die. Old poets never die But they sometimes get a mental block So they get together for a workshop once again And the room resounds with the scratching of their pens ey search their head, for their running out of time Shouting, bugger me I’m trying but it just won’t rhyme Yes, old poets don’t have time to die. OLD POETS NEVER DIE by Isobel Smith Send your poems into The Herald by email: editor@herald- publishing.co.uk