It's bonfire night and the sky
is full of crackles and bangs,
brightly coloured lights.
The damp November air;
full of gunpowder and
the smell of fires
Oh how I love this atmosphere.
If only I had someone to tell about
'our penny for the guy'
or the terrific bonfires we built.
I have the honour of lighting it,
with lighted match, hands shaking,
searching for dry paper.
Then little fires start to build inside;
the first smell of smoke
as wood starts to light,
this is just the beginning alright.
'It's lit! it's lit!' everyone shouts.
I remember the flames,
that licked the sleepers dry,
swirling bright yellows flames,
leaping higher and higher,
'can't you just feel that fire!'
The heat on my face,
' look my coat is steaming!'
Excited faces all around,
Dad saying 'be careful son.
'Don't get too near that fire
or that air bomb that didn't go off,
it could explode at any second!'
Don't worry Dad, I'm alright.
(never felt better in fact)
This is definitely the best night,
It is just so brilliant it is.
Oh if only I was still a kid,
I'd be outside right now with my friends,
eyes wide open trying to take it all in,
ears primed; ready for the big bangs,
deciding which firework to light next.
Not sitting here enjoying my memories
of November the fifth's gone by---
Just sat at my computer, writing this.
Childhood memories of growing up in Little Hulton, Salford, Manchester. UK.
Almost de-railed, too thin, too pale, looks quite scary for her age,
Hides behind the home page.
Best diet ever tasted,
Direct from How to Look Good Wasted.
Poetry - Cut Out These Cut Outs By Jan McGeachie
How effective will placing
Of serving police officers
Be, inside stores?
Will they deter
Those intent on shoplifting Read more...
Poetry - Pipe Dreams By Terry Ireland Photograph by Roland Standaert
Yet another empty shop;
another set of dashed hopes?
Maybe a young couple who
just didn't know the ropes.
I wonder how they felt,
what plans they had made
and how long it took
for all their hopes to fade.
Poetry - Budget Day 2012 By Terry Ireland
I suppose I'm biased
Being of pension age
Though I must admit
Not really feeling any rage.
For I see no real sense
In having a good bitch
For historically the poor are
Ever exploited by the rich. Read more...
Poetry - Pigeon Toed No More By Michelle Dee
The shell rifling through the feathers
buried in its back, the shock, the stunned shock,
the paralysis, the total loss of familiar flight response.
The avian behaviour, proof only
of existence, not of life.
Further penetrating shots.
Poetry - Six to Pay High Price By Patrick Henry
Six mainly Yorkshire soldiers who died,
Blown up in Helmand, and on the world press front page:
Heroes gone, to feed endless need for power and pride:
Senseless fighting for a poor, poppy-sown lost frontier land.
Might of Alexander, Genghis Khan, the British Raj, the Soviets:
Failed to figure how those ragged tribes had not kowtowed.
Poetry - It's OK By Jenny Halliday
I push the button, scroll, enter and wait.
Hoping, holding my breath just incase.
Desperate to see a message, praying,
to who? Longing for his return. Safe return.
Unscathed, untouched mentally
and physically by the demands of his job. Read more...
Poetry - Still They Fight The Fight By David Delaney
They walk the shifting sand
like those who went before,
now in that ancient land
still fighting in a war.
They once again defend,
the young answer the call,
joined by their Kiwi friends,
they're ANZAC's proud and tall
Poetry - Walk Away By Shaun Heesom
Walk away, seems it's easy for you
Take our dreams our hopes our plans
And walk away
Don't look back, you might not like the view
Take your words and lies, your nonchalance too
Just walk away
Go hide your face in your hands
Poetry - Bless This Handbag By Helen Burke
At crucial moments of my life
you will find me ironing.
A trick learnt from my mother.
She always smoothed things out.
made peace between warring parties.
Now, the only creases left are around her eyes. Read more...
Poetry A Girls Best Friend By Pamela Scobie
The fatal flaw of Nora Dring
Was splashing all her dosh on bling.
She counted carats, never calories,
Selecting suitors for their salaries.
Hence she was squired about by Joe
(Apostate prostate, but loads of dough),
And when she couldn't stand him any longer,
Poetry - Bikers Homage 2010 By Jan McGeachie
In contrast to quiet serenity
Each time a funeral cortege
Passes from RAF Lyneham
This Mothers Day
Heard engines roar and
Saw the largest ever band
Poetry - Blackest of Hearts By Laurenceaux.
I slew you;
yout life it withdrew.
I own you,
to intone and eschew
all that you do.
I trapped your mind
in a picture I drew
Poetry Swings and Stones By Christy Hall
And if I could go back, if you'd take me I'd go,
back to the parks and fields of our youth.
I can still smell the sickly aroma of rubber-bits
heating up in the afternoon sun,
the recently cut grass, the cheap aftershave
and girlish scents, splashed to impress each other Read more...