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even more poetry!
Yes, I remember Lockerbie
Yes,
I remember Lockerbie,
the flames that lit the Winter sky
as Pam Am's remnants rained from on high,
not knowing as we watched that night
that 4 loved friends died on that flight.
Yes,
I remember Lockerbie,
the tears we cried, the shock we felt,
and on Christmas Day, more tears of guilt,
that we were there and they were gone,
no more to sing a Christmas song.
Yes,
I remember Lockerbie,
the shock that turned to righteous anger
when we learned that others were warned of danger,
but our friends weren't worthy to protect -
not officers or government diplomats.
Yes,
I remember Lockerbie,
and still it grates within my soul
the pain, their loss a gaping hole,
2 children never to grow old, or be
parents, or their grandkids to see.
Yes,
I remember Lockerbie,
the tolling of that final bell -
their killer freed from his Scottish cell.
Demeaning further those lives lost
his murderous spree now with no cost.
Yes,
I remember Lockerbie,
it's seared forever in my mind
and those of all that were left behind.
The years pass by and still we grieve
We just weren't ready for you to leave.
Yes,
I remember Lockerbie,
As fresh as if was happening now
And stand with others as I vow
to keep your memories and say each year
We loved you Dee, wish you all were still here.
The storybook witch
When my niece needed a poem about witches for a school project, in 1998, she asked me to find one for her. When that proved difficult, I wrote this for her instead.
Dark silhouette against silver moon
astride a broomstick in the gloom;
soaring over treetops black
long shawl flying, pointed hat -
the story book witch is on the prowl.
Who sees her journey? Mr Owl.
He hoots his greeting from the trees
as she passes by with witchly ease,
and listens to her evil screech
as she swoops and passes within reach.
Her cackle echoes in the night
even as she flies far out of sight.
Round cauldron she and others prance,
cackling loud in ritual dance.
"Eye of newt and powdered bone"
these aged hags their spells intone,
and laughing wildly, eyes ashine,
look to the moon for answering sign.
As moons light dims and dawns sun shines
there comes an end to ritual times,
and back on broomstick headed home
she skims the early sea tides foam,
dark silhouette against the clouds
the story book witch in her long black shroud.
NOW PUBLISHED AS A CHILDREN'S PICTURE BOOK AND AVAILABLE ON AMAZON
Sail Away
A poem for children
I want to sail upon a boat,
across the ocean, blue, I'll float.
I'll visit places far away
Where day is night and night is day.
Places I've only seen in my dreams,
With white sandy beaches and coconut trees.
Places where faces are different from mine.
Oh won't I have such a wonderful time!
Places where pirates once buried treasure,
where rich and famous now come for leisure,
and in the blue waves I'll surf and float.
The places I'll sail away to in my boat.
I'll play Robinson Crusoe, alone on an isle,
or smugglers in caves, hiding loot for a while,
I'll eat lots of foods that I don't know exist
and wake in the morning to spooky sea mists.
I want to sail upon a boat,
to exotic places I want to float,
I have to wait, but I'll be able to when
I've had lots of birthdays and am not only ten!
We Will Remember Them
We will remember them, who gave their all, and those who watched their comrades fall
as rushed they to the landing beach, the German stronghold thus to breach.
Those left are old with withered limb and memories harsh that grow more dim,
yet stand they proud as is their right, for what they did in that awful fight.
So young, they charged, in blood red sea, to save the world for you and me,
That evil would not win the day and push our freedom far away.
They answered, each, their country's call, and sadly many gave their all,
They sacrificed for you and me, that we might live among the free.
Brave men that day so far away, on beaches, on that awful day,
So honour we now, those that remain, and hope it's ne'er required again
PAN AM 103
A chill wind blows over the desolate landscape.
The head of the giant bird lies broken, around her, the bodies are strewn like confetti.
Innocents all.
Laughter will never again be heard from their lips,
their voices quiet but seeking acknowledgement.
The wind carries their souls in its mournful wail,
an elegy to the loss of their love
in lives around the world.
December 21st 1988, an infamous day of horrific carnage,
of pain and sorrow.
The guilt of those of us who knew them
as we celebrated Christmas,
the joy went on
but we cried for our loss
and that of our families and friends.
Dee Woods.
Joe Woods.
Jo-Jo and Chelses.
Names now on a commemorative plaque,
lives ended on a Lockerbie grassland,
memories locked in hearts worldwide.
Angels forever by our side