When the pen takes control.

Winter leaves in haste

with few aspects enduring

frost cuts the blossoms

Silent but proud in lines they stand

in cities and towns across this land

In memory of those who stood before

doing their duty in time of war

some still lost while many returned

horrific images on their minds burned

for all these lives we can but pray

for our tomorrow they gave their today

A sheltered inlet

free from effervescent waves

with Spring comes the storm

When I first started living on the street

many kinds of people I was compelled to meet

I expected to encounter some antipathy

and I was certainly not looking for sympathy

but what shocked me was the sense of apathy

The old, moss-covered granite, packhorse bridge stands proudly above the noisy, never ending brook. Both have served the community for many ages past but today the relatively youthful bridge is doubly proud, for his carefully placed, leafy decoration has donned its frosty Winter morning jewellery. “Aha, he thought, top that my friend, with all your haste, your sun-dappled ripples cannot compare.” Just wait, the Goddess of the stream hissed, for in times to come the unseen, slowly creeping ice will stretch your bones and then you’ll ache,” and turning over lazily, dived deeply, a cold smile spreading over her face.

Raising the cover

I hear each chirp as hello

a cry for freedom

I can tell you a story about two brothers

as twin boys go they were like no others

for one was a shy boy who never said a word

the other loquacious and always to be heard

as he questioned his parents about everything

while the other brother just stood there listening

while seeming quite puzzled by the difference in their sons

they often quietly pondered on the prospects for each one

they agreed that one should be a politician

while the other would just get things done.

The men of war of England made us what we are

our unique character was fashioned by Jack Tar

with his powerful cannons and iron balls

that’s why they called them the Wooden Walls

Free from worldly woes

the cobbler attends his last

all men have their worth

I am Doctor Jones, a practitioner in a small village. I like amateur dramatics and act as prompt for our local society. A few years ago we were doing, “The inspector calls,” Tom the lead was prone to forgetting his script. He had mentioned feeling rather queer but the show was a great success and surprisingly Tom was word-perfect, something I had been concerned about. After the show the performers took their bows but Tom was missing. I found him collapsed backstage half-dressed with no response. I was certain that he must have been dead for at least two hours.