http://www.blurb.com/b/7455812-the-box-of-secrets.
Category: Poetry Page 2 of 10
Introducing my new glossy coffee-table book full of ”Poems of Love” and gorgeous photos. You can find it over at www.blurb.com in the bookshop under poetry. In larger print for ‘tired’ eyes.
Not Just A Paper Flower.
This red paper poppy
I wear with much pride
this token, this mark,
this blood red emblem,
not just a paper poppy
well not in my eyes…
As we turn our thoughts back
during this month of November
we stand with glistening eyes
for those brave gallant soldiers,
many who never came back.
This red paper flower is
all that can show, respect and
admiration to those that did go,
to lonely mist filled beaches and foreign fields,
sailed stormy seas and flew bomb filled air.
Those who stood fast together
with much to bear.
Comrades in battle,
courageous but fearful,
the stories do tell,
of so many who perished
in the horror of war,
this nightmare of violence
where so many fell,
this bravery in brotherhood,
tainted and evil,
this wasted crush of earth…
Remember…not just a paper flower!
Praise to the Army, Home Guard,
Navy and Airforce.
As futurity we’ll never forget,
those dark days of war…
Not just a paper flower, well not for me,
How lucky we are,
as we drink our sweet tea!
How lucky we are for the liberty of life.
Not just a paper flower!
These wars of destruction and strife.
Remember them well, keep in your heart,
this offering of self that they gave in their part.
This gift of autonomy so safely saved,
these great comrades of war
who fought on, day after day.
These brave soldiers of war, Ladies and Men,
who stood fast together
our sovereignty to save,
who marched on for freedom,
our kingdom to defend.
Oh no, not just a paper flower.
They held on forever
so did they dare,
to dream of hearth and home,
of their  loved ones who
they were protecting being there.
This right of liberty so costly paid,
with fervency of pride they gave all
during dark days,
from oppressive evil, our birthrights were saved.
Through Germany and France they marched,
across the desert of El Alamein.
in Palestine to name a few…
for the Italian campaign of Monte Cassino,
we will remember them too!
Not just a paper flower, well not for me,
Not just a paper flower,
This state of being free…
In memory of:
My Father – Brindley Robert Pickering – Germany, France, and Poland.
My Uncle – Thomas Edward Pickering – Monte Cassino in Italy.
My Uncle – John Llewelyn Rawlings. – Egypt, Germany and Palestine.
My Uncle – Albert Stanley Pain. – El Alamein,Egypt. And India.
My Uncle – Robert Applegate Hodgson. The Skies over Europe
My Grandfather. Christopher John Rawlings – ARP Warden ,The City of London.
My Uncle Robert Applegate Hodgson was stationed in Iceland for a time and also with coastal command, patrolling Scapa Flow.He also help drop supplies to the Orkneys and Shetlands. Later involved with towing gliders to Arnheim. He mentioned Berlin and being horrified by what he saw and said “poor devils they had it worse than us”His squadron was sent to Malta but he came down with pneumonia, a lucky escape indeed, he was sent to a beautiful manor house for recuperation. His squadron were shot down and either perished or were captured . Later he became a squadron leader towards the end of the war. His family had all of his relics- a sealed pack with a cyanide pill in! Also altered photos in case he was captured. Just a little of their bravery.
Just as a child’s fairy tale
this vision of mystique dreams,
this magnificent realm of
chateau magic
that I have ever seen,
romance abounds
within these walls
built from love, I’m sure.
This immense bastion
this estate and stronghold
is more,
this private kingdom
magical, mystical, spectral
it is of fairies, spirits,
it is of goblins,
of this I’m sure…
To live this life without romance
without dreams and fairy tales,
would dull the days
make indolent the evening song,
no ‘folly’ that provides such delight
where feasts the eyes such tranquility
and joy,
of this I’m sure…
Of this I’m sure…
Photo – courtesy of Brian Firth.
Copyright @Susie Hemingway 2016.
Najood heaven.
I walked in the early morning sun
and thought of you…
I was filling my mind,
I was contemplating a plan
you know, the sort that
gives you joy, faraway places
the sand between your toes,
that kind of plan.
You invaded my mind
as you often do,
I saw you clearly, dark eyes
that smile…
What would you think of my plan?
but I already knew the answer,
“go do it girl”
I walked in the sun…
Tuk Tuk
Blues skies into long sultry nights
draws us back once more
music plays “this guys in love with you”,
cascades the water and pours its charms
through and down under tiny coin filled bridge.
Tan men, beautiful ladies, the smell of sun,
cologne and the odd cigar
mixes and blends with Asian ‘fusion’ delights,
the aromas reaching our noses before we
step over the glinting water…
We settled on smart sofa’s as the handsome
‘chef de rang’ brought cocktails to delight,
refreshing Long Island tea, vivid pink Daiquiris,
the green mint from the sweet Mojito’s shining
in catching candle light, the clinking ice…
It was a delight, it made another memory,
It served us well,
And when I can no longer travel
It will remain, Tuk Tuk and those
warm balmy nights.
It made another memory…
Dedicated to my son Jo.
Copyright@susiehemingway2016
The World is Crying.
Sadness fills our streets our beautiful places
it invades our innermost thoughts
it soaks through our clothes
it permeates our skin
it floods our eyes with salty tears
the warm balmy air carried that special aroma
of sun-kissed bodies and laughter
of garlicky rich delicious food
from smart hotels and cafes along
the Promenade des Anglais
such evilness invaded
marred and tried to spoil
occupying and seizing us
when lost so many souls
too much sadness in that evening air
memories now spoilt
imbued with different visions
they must be redeemed
yes they must be redeemed
or ‘you’ have won with your evilness
the world is crying…
They spread their petals pink and white
scatter like snow flakes amid the green
a sea of roses this beauty seen, unique their faces an elegant theme.
A single rose becomes my garden
a million is my world…
Hedgerows sweet and heavily pungent,
drooping their white may-flower blossoms
falling like drifting snow, as on the gentle breeze
scented air, carries to eager senses.
Minute petals form the flowers of
Gods perfect creations.
Such are the delights of
these sweet scents of Summer.
Light tawny bricked cottages,
row on cobbled row,
the dark gothic mullioned windows,
their secret beauties contained within.
As hanging adorned, heavily
decked the lavender blues
of stringy wisteria, its dripping faded beauty
a Summer feast for weary eyes.
Curling petals, shedding blooms surround
old doors, sills, abundant heavy and wayward
‘Shakespeare’ roses weighty in beauty, itself
the sweetest scent of summer…
Awaits you here…
Susie Hemingway @copyright 2016
Come into the garden Maud,
An open day of gardens galore,
some long, some short, some thin, some broad
all I’m sure deserve awards.
June came round double quick
as we tried to make our lawns lush and thick,
to coax and water blooms to show
the magic as our gardens grow.
A little tweak here and there,
a rake, a broom, a weather prayer!
Come on Roses, show your faces
we need some colour, some perfect Acer’s.
Poppies, Geraniums, Lavender blue,
delight at every corner anew,
hanging baskets lend their hues,
as birds sing to add to pretty views,
of twinkling ponds and water features
the bubbles of the little creatures,
that swim beneath the lush green creepers.
Hosta plants with waiting blooms
to lift our spirits from Winter gloom.
Hydrangeas, Rhododendrons, tomatoes in pots,
delight our eyes and produce a lot!
Trellis’s of Sweet-peas reach our noses
their pretty faces in tangled motion…
Tall fir trees sway in breezes, good
not to have hay-fever sneezes.
These beautiful gardens, prepared for you
with care and love, I must applaud.
So come into the garden Maud!
 
Adrift, swooping swallows our only shade
ends indolent inert day,
laying naked in sun warmed ‘muddle’
the gentle sway of bobbing boat
reveals this sleepy scene,
the postprandial glass in hand,
a passage, a chasm,
this hiatus, this pause in time,
adrift, at mercy of our circumstances.
“Up Where We Belong”
plays loudly in my mind as
swallows break this torpid air
serenading their mating call
and this evening song…
@copyright Susie Hemingway.
photo: courtesy of Anne Manning.
Swallows are able to produce many songs, which are used to express excitement, to communicate with others of the same species, during courtship. The songs of males are related to the body condition of the bird and are presumably used by females to judge the physical condition and suitability for mating of males. The typical song of swallows is a simple,sometimes musical twittering.
The sunlight crept over the wall slowly
pulling itself as if tugging a tank
the heavy night seemed distant
the dreams seemed real…
With heavy heart I looked at the sky
the soft blue of a summer day
was nearly upon me,
light puffy wisps of pearly white clouds
pushed into my vision,
as this voice inside vibrates,
a heart bleeds and dissolves.
This circle goes round forever
this wall withers my needs
as I look above…
Difficult heart cutting days.
The wall that holds me back.
The wall, tall, dark and brutally gloomy,
this barrier to a new life,
this wall so near my face,
this wall that snaps and breaks me
and withers my heart…
This wall so heavily built against me
unyielding,
this block of bricks
returns its view…
@ copyright Susie Hemingway.
As tumbled snow does softly lay
where safe in warm this cosy realm
a tableau forms of quiet moments
this rhymester peers at hamlet small,
still, as the day does dawn this sonneteer
sees trees of silvery sparkles
light the view with crystal shards,
the easy set of spire shows
a clustered centre of gentle ‘bards’.
As scene unfolds another day
in pictured calmness.
The verse makes eyes
that steal the view…
High way above all mortal things I touch the white scudding vaporous clouds of heaven, In views that capture gold’s and ambers, burnt and used in shades of burnished Autumn. I breathed the air of peaty leaves dry and trodden, across damp moss and rustic trampled ferns beneath my feet a story tells… High in England’s lush green land, the last of wayward Summer reaches my nose, crunchy cinders beneath my feet call this beauty to me. The bending track lays silently beneath the ancient stones of tiny handmade bridges, as round the bend comes chugging “Nunney Castle” it’s white plumage of steam and tooting calls. Faces press closely the panes of vision, recalling the many journeys made across these pastures, vales and leas of changing hues. This beloved land softly speaks to me, this right, this heritage, this beauty. This much loved England…Photo: Courtesy and Copyrighted with thanks to Peter Foster.
The faces staring out you see
a legacy from the past
linked by love it seems to me
a marriage that will last,
this primed, set and ordered way
made this for Miriam, a special day.
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The ladies all in hats so fine
brought in boxes and decked in time,
dripping with flowers, covered in lace
see how the little boys know their place.
Brush your hair, pomade at will,
shine your shoes, bring Grandpa’s pills!
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Sparkling jewels on collars and cuffs
has Aunt Maud brought her muff?
Our handsome pair have walked the aisle
a special breakfast in a while,
but now we must look our best
for Hubert’s ‘heaven’ in nineteen eleven.
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Don’t forget your gloves or cane,
dear God, don’t let there be more rain!
Bring the chairs for we must pose,
young Jimmy please to wipe your nose.
Are we ready in our places,
a little stern, for happy faces!
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Poof and Bang! the camera goes
who’d have thought the world would know…
All rights reserved with no reproduction of Photo.
Copyright @ August 2009.
With special thanks to Ged Tucker for the 1911 Family Photo
and also to Janey Johnson for the restoration of this wonderful Photo