This short anthology of poems, (yes I can spell), have all been written between April 2018 and November 2020. They are a diverse collection, some rhyme, some don’t. There is no common theme except randomness.
Many are inspired by a fellow poet Franci Eugenia Hoffman who regularly publishes a “prompt” on her site, some by travel, others by mood or situation. Poetry helps me think. I am also an author and my debut novel is on Amazon. Thomas, Wizard’s Son.
A tannoy sounds in the supermarket Another in the mall, We all stand still and upright As we remember all. I cannot remember, And that goes for my son, My grandchild can’t remember, For he is only one Although we can’t remember, as statues we still stand Heads bowed and we remember the loved ones who were slain. Although we did not know them, they weren’t our kith or kin. We just know they went before us to a death that was insane. Many British, German too, American, Japanese, Australians and Indians, Canadians and Burmese. Sent out to be slaughtered while the generals stayed behind, Eating well and drinking tea, to casualties they were blind. But we still bow our heads in prayer and we still remember them. We pray for the next generation that they will not condemn. War is for the foolish, politicians, generals, lords, It’s not them that do the dying, they leave that to the hoards. But war has changed since world war 2, but not for any easier, With guided drones and cyber wars, it’s only just got sleazier. So even though we knew them not, we still can shed a tear. Because of their great sacrifice, we should not live in fear.
Remembering. Nineteen million dead in world war 1 Eighty million in world war 2
This little missive in no way reflects me or anything about me. I am sure it will resonate with many people, but not me, I have absolutely no concept of low self esteem, depression or anxiety. I am the happiest person I know and the happiest you will ever know. I am my own self appreciation society. So, please no messages of support. No DM me babes, no “wanna talk?” This is not a cry for help, it’s just a poem.
Forgiveness is a work of the heart — first, foremost, and forever.
Beginning in the heart, forgiveness reflects a decision made on the inside to refuse to live in the past. This is critical. You can’t move forward if you are still holding on to the past. It would be like looking at something on one side of the room and, without turning your head, trying to see something on the other side of the room.
In dealing with people, you may have heard someone say, “I just can’t get over it” or “I can’t let it go.” These people have not forgiven. The old adage is true: You don’t hold a grudge as much as a grudge holds you. Booker T. Washington gave voice to a profound insight: “Holding a grudge doesn’t hurt the person against whom the grudge is held; it hurts the one who holds it.” He also said, “I will permit no man to narrow and degrade my soul by making me hate him.”
Forgiveness is letting go of the past and releasing the people who hurt us. Archbishop Desmond Tutu declared, “Without forgiveness, there is no future.”
Forgiveness does not deny the pain or change the past, but it does break the cycle of bitterness that binds us to the wounds of yesterday. Forgiveness allows us to let go and move on.
Forgiveness is like salvation — it is a gift that is freely given; it cannot be earned. We can forgive without saying, “I forgive you,” because forgiveness is a matter of the heart.
Not forgiving costs your heart. In time your heart will become cold, dark, and lifeless. The grudge you hold holds you in the end, petrifying your heart.
Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. Colossians 3:13
As Monty Python used to say, and now for something completely different. This is not my normal style, most of the poems you will find on my page are quite serious, some spiritual, some dark, some, according to my friend Laurence, just weird. (I’m mentioning Laurence just to see if he actually reads this stuff like he claims.) But, as a children’s author, I put this little poem in just for fun.
18 This is the word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: 2 “Go down to the potter’s house, and there I will give you my message.” 3 So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. 4 But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him.