Poetry Verses Prose
Now Playing: "The Soldier's Grave" (taken from the 'Reflections' CD)
SELECTED VERSE
‘My Son My Darling Son’
by T.W.Ward.
(For every son, who ever gave his life fighting for our country
there are grieving parents left behind, who have to somehow pick up the pieces of their shattered lives and carry on.)
How cold the morning chill that brings the promise of a bright new day, yet doth deceive in equal measure, for that which often lies ahead is true unknown to all, save time itself.
And so it was just yesterday, when all seemed safe and calm within, there came our nemesis to haunt and destroy us to the very bone.
Bastions once so stout collapsed with ease, and fortress seemingly so strong crumpled into the dust.
Uniformed strangers were all we knew, invading the tranquillity of our everyday lives, seemingly at odds with all things mundane and there about, as if in conflict with normality, certainly not invited nor wanted.
Murmured voices, polished boots that sparked upon the stony path, all at once gave witness to a time we hoped would never come.
The sudden shivered gripping spine, the wringing hands, the where are those we need the most? The inconvenience, the feared worst, the mind unsure and unforthcoming, yet somehow knowing, somehow expected.
And then the knock that sympathetic knock, not too loud, just firm enough to be of consequence. The knock that says we’ve come with bad news, you’d better prepare yourselves.
Then the inevitable opening of the door, to be greeted by the initial searching looks, followed by the clumsy attempt at sympathy, and all that offered sympathy never quite manages to achieve.
All too soon it is finished with, over, done, a bit like a tooth being extracted really, only in this case the good one has been extracted, and the bad one left in. The message that you dearly hoped would never come is delivered like a writ being served. All that is required now is courage, and space to let emotions flow.
Suddenly there are waypoints to be reached, the wall, the door jawn, the chair, each a challenge in its own right, but each a stepping stone that must be attained in readiness for the head bowed sorrow which must surely follow.
We must be strong, that’s what he would have wanted. That’s what we were as a family… our strength was in each other.
Now the grieving must begin, and with the grieving love’s fond recalls. The joys, the sadness,' the tears the laughter, when treasured memories through from babe in arms, to schooldays, and on to youth and then manhood proudly achieved, are rekindled clear.
The photograph upon the sideboard, proud and smart in uniform, gives proof that you were once here our son, you of our blood our beloved boy.
No time for tears, not yet at least, time instead to picture you on sunny days, when love was shared, and reasons for that love learned and understood.
What now my son my darling son, what now for us now you are gone? All we have left is an aching love, and cherished memories of a time, when as your parents we first knew you best.
We, who knew your growing pains your helplessness. We who knew your strengths your weaknesses, but most of all your young heart.
Who else but a parent can ever know the pain in losing a son? And who else but a son can ever know the pain in losing a parent?
Go then my son my darling son to wherever, but know in your going that we loved you so well.
‘This poem is dedicated to loving parents.’
Tell me... Do you believe in the power of words?... I do!
Words can evoke such passion, paint the most wonderful pictures, and if used to their full potential, take you in your mind's eye to the very heart of any or all subjects they may attempt to portray. Words can be whatever you want them to be. They can be a means to an end, a statement of fact or fiction, or a quivering attempt at an apology for something or other... for instance...
Words can bring happiness words can bring sadness
Words can bring goodness words can bring badness
They can start or end wars they can open most doors
They can cause love to start and then cause it to part
They can break hearts in two and then mend them anew
They can hurt or be pert be annoying or curt
They annoy they employ they bring hope they bring joy
They are unto their own they can never be known
For words can be fickle they can flow they can trickle
They can boom without sound or be quiteness profound
Words are but words they are clichés absurds
But without them we're lost, as we'd find to our cost
So here's to power of words may they ever...
...Confound both the lacking the would be the clever.
For he who has words in his heart is a king
He will lack but for nothing and joy ever bring.
This website was set up for the benefit of those possessing what I term p.p.h... Three little words that signify, not as many might think some secret formula in some obscure hair product, but something far more stimulating. Ladies and gentlemen I give you the real p.p.h.
'Purpose... Passion... and Humour.'
Without purpose you are as a ship lost in an ocean of confusion... without passion you are as a blank page in a book of nothingness... and without humour you are to be pilloried, pitied, and called 'Bumski'... T.W.Ward.
'Magical things await you within…
so click on and just let the magic begin'
'Poetry is poetry and prose it is prose
some support one whilst the other oppose
Some say that poetry should change and conform
whilst purists view poetry as standard… the norm'
(Excerpt from 'Poetry versus Prose' by T.W.Ward)
to read 'Poetry versus Prose' in full....click here
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