Translate

    Translate to:

Categories

Poetry

11th day, 11th day, 11th month, 11th year…

For the first time since the anniversary of Armistice Day has been used to commemorate those lost to war the 11th of November in 2011 will fall on a palindromic date – and won’t do so again for another 100 years.

PoppyThey 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.

Visit The Royal British Legion

Continue reading

Why?

It's a stone you moron!

You’re with me when I sleep, you’re with me when I wake;
You’re with me in the daytime, and with me in the dark;
With me in the fields and with me in the park.

Not a care for what I say, and not a care for what I do;
You’d be still beside me, if I was a total twat.

Why the fcuk – would anyone want a bloody cat!

Quote – The Grinch (Dr Seuss)

And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?” Continue reading

11th Hour, 11th Day, 11th Month…

PoppyThey 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.

Visit The Royal British Legion

Continue reading

Rupert Brooke – 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. Continue reading

The Hollow Men – T.S. Eliot

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar Continue reading