A Christmas Poem

The tree is up, the air is chilled,
the candles snuffed, the stockings filled.

The night is quiet, dense and pure
and morning will be great, I'm sure.

Yet we forget about the few
without a home, or feeling blue.

But all year long, there's help at hand
charities, shelters; all well-manned.

Few also think of those away
at war, in care or for the day.

But at this season of the year,
we should all stand together, here.

Although this year it may be hard,
I say, "Our Christmas Won't Be Marred!"

Let's deck the halls, and keep our distance.
Goodnight to all, and Merry Christmas!

---

For context, this was written on 13/12/20, during the 2020 coronavirus pandemic.

Fury from the Night

I'm blinded by fury

at the world tonight.

I feel my heart beating

with all its might.

Wherever I turn

I just see human blight.

I can't be the only one,

am I right?

Nothing makes sense

and the hatred still grows.

There should be an exit,

but nobody knows!

My blood still boils

as my ink still flows.

I'm one with my anger

and, good God, it shows.

Hellfire rains down

in an unholy shower,

while git after git

are still left in power;

and while this does happen

my anger'll still tower –

it's not a small problem

to be solved in the hour.

As the clock ticks past midnight,

I'm starting to tire;

but I cannot escape

from the furious fire.

Oblivion will reign:

a nasty, old liar –

a horrible insult

to our planet, Gaia.

But still, time roams on

and I start to see light,

cutting in like a dagger

and banishing the night.

There's a flutter of wings

as my hatred takes flight.

I'm free from my anger –

for now, at least; right?

Why Should We Wear A Poppy Red?

Why should we wear a poppy red?
For all the sweat and tears they shed.

Into battle, troops were led;
the aircraft swarmed and bullets sped.

Explosions, sirens overhead;
fiancées, lovers left unwed.

Expected glory. but hell instead!
Over miles of mud they tread.

No-man's land, a place of dread;
flooded trench, now grim deathbed.

Disease and injury were widespread,
mental torture wrecked the head.

Why should we wear a poppy red?
For all their words, all left unsaid
and never to forget the dead,
or sacrifice of their bloodshed.

Their futures, ours — please, go ahead.

---

Note: This poem was originally written in 2018, but I seem to have forgotten to upload it. You can read the article in the Hexham Courant here.

Blog Maintenance

 Hello, everyone! Just a note that, to make my blog simpler, I'll be moving my poems from pages to posts. The original pages will be left up for two weeks, for copyright protection reasons, but everything will be done soon enough. Thank you!

Memory

 Today, well over seven billion people walk, crawl and wheel across the Earth.
This very minute, 301,640 of those people have just been born,
and 126,695 have left the world as we know it.

Most people only really get to know around seventeen others;
but who remembers the rest?
If everyone is just another face in the crowd, another brick in the wall,
who will notice any one person?

When I am gone and you are gone, a hundred years from now,
who will remember you and I?

Look again.

I don't just see humanity, I see people;
not just the forest, but each of the trees;
not just Earth, but all 7.8 billion people,
20 quintillion animals,
132 billion plants,
and everything else that comes between them.

Someone will remember you, and someone will remember me,
and someone will remember every other person that once was on Earth.

Today, well over seven billion people walk, crawl and wheel across the Earth.
Look again.