“Welcome to my home on the internet!”
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
that I have ever seen,
within these walls
built from love, I’m sure.
This immense bastion
this estate and stronghold
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
of this I’m sure…
Of this I’m sure…
Photo – courtesy of Brian Firth.
Copyright @Susie Hemingway 2016.
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
What would you think of my plan?
but I already knew the answer,
“go do it girl”
I walked in the sun…
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.
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…
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!
Dark these recent stormy skies
battleship grey, gloom filled days
entangled with tears…
Blood spills in joyous places from
young music revellers, flows warmly away
amongst coffee loving gentle souls.
In quiet bistros filled with amore,
mixes in delicious smells of Paris…
Wickedness pours forth, from crazy minds
to mar this beautiful city of France.
It will not happen,
it will not be changed.
Not by YOU!
Your souls are damaged
by promises of a utopian heaven
for this is NOT the teaching of Islam
your minds are radicalised,
soaked from poison dripped evil,
do you not understand what is happening,
listen and STOP,
this corruption of your spoilt young minds,
brain-washed by evil despots
who are themselves the infidels.
Who are themselves the infidels…
Written for my Daughter-in-Law Sandrine – whose sadness for her country I can feel.💔
@ Copyright – Susie Hemingway 2015