Allsorts

One lone poppy sitting on a battlefield
Is thinking to itself,
Why in all the colours do I have to be red?
It resembles all the blood that has been bled.
Why am I on a desolate battlefield
Where all the fighting is to be dealt?
A last primal cry is all I hear,
As blood and death are always near.
A smouldering fire, a touch of heat,
A screaming cry, a sign of defeat.
The ‘Jerry’ will be there, dark and dim,
As the soldiers faces are always grim.
Why do I have to be on a grave?
Where fighters die, scared but brave.
Why? Why does the fighting never end,
As the dark war was starting to mend?
As the poppies sway and bow,
I will make a simple vow,
No poppy big or small,
Will stand here not rising tall.
We are not silly flowers,
Because we have great powers.
One lone poppy sitting in a battlefield,
Is finally not alone…

My sister always helps me,
I cannot live without her,
She started college,
To me, it’s as bland as porridge!

Somehow she finds it fun,
It may be,
She just turned 18,
And I got her 18 gifts,
She loves crocheting,
She really is unique to me,
I would rather call her chic!
And her name is…
Lavanya!

Beautiful wings flapping all the way
Incredible eyesight, they catch worms all day
Ridiculously funny, they could make a lion friendly
Digger for worms, always eating them quickly

The morning breaks in quite gold,
And poppies stir where stories hold,
The air is soft, the world is still,
Yet echoes whisper upon the hills.

We stand where silence threads the sky,
For those who marched and did not cry.
For those who flew, for those who fought,
For dreams of peace the world once sought.

Their names are carved, their courage stays,
Through fields and years and solemn days,
A moments pause, a bowed head low,
To honour all we’ll never know.

Though time may fade, the drum and gun,
The memory lives in everyone,
We promise peace – their duty done.

The wind moves through the fields like an old storyteller,
gathering whispers from the grass,
carrying them to the edge of the sea.
It remembers the laughter of children
who once chased kites across the hill,
their voices bright as sunlight on water.

It remembers the scent of rain
that fell on roofs made of tin and hope,
the way the earth sighed when it drank,
and how the trees leaned closer,
as if listening to a secret too soft to keep.

The wind has touched every windowpane,
every lonely road where footsteps fade.
It knows the language of goodbyes,
the trembling hush before a storm,
the quiet promise of dawn.

And when it passes through your hair,
it carries stories you’ll never hear—
of places you’ve never been,
of hearts that once beat in rhythm with yours,
long before you were born.

Present-wrapper

Xmas tree – present

Santa – believer

Mistletoe – lover

Roger Stevens,
He used to be a teacher,
He published his book The Howen in 1993,
I wonder how that feels?
He is a great poet,
He started the PoetryZone itself
For poets like us,
Sharing our poems for many people,
He is so cool,
People who don’t like him are a fool!

I have a friend called Esme
I always say to her, Yes – me!
Guess what? I am Harrison.
I say there’s no comparison!

I wake up and look outside,
Oh no! The sun is not in sight.
The sky is dull, the clouds look sad,
And that makes me feel very bad.
I wish the rain I could stop,
So I could play by the green and I could hop.
But pitter patter starts to fall,
And puddles grow big and small.
I wear my boots and raincoat tight,
Though I miss the sunshine’s light.
I need to go to school, missing the sun,
I feel a day, with no joy and no fun.
Maybe clouds aren’t all that mean,
They help the flowers grow so green.
And when the rainbow comes to play,
It paints a smile across my day!

There was a little rat
Who wore a top hat
That was scared of a fluffy black cat
When the cat appeared
Rat was quick and disappeared
Just like a magical trick!