Trbal Entrenchment
Go to war; kill your brother,
Fight to the end for your country,
Slay the enemy; kill another,
Both sides the same,
How can either win?
poem by Derek. A. Sim
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Has Anyone Got The Time
Dreams live far in the future,
Memories dwell back in the past,
The only time that is real,
Is now, and it surely won't last,
This is the moment to live,
The only time that is true,
All other times are irrelevant,
Now is the time to be you.
The time to enjoy, is here now,
Because "now", will not happen again,
This time is unique and un-charted,
So make happy the memories that remain.
You may plan for the future you wish,
You may save, and prepare, even steer,
But the future is coming; you can't change it,
Re-arrange it, or stop it, or veer.
On arrival, it's "now"; you must live it,
For in a fleeting moment, it's gone,
Then all that is left is the memory,
The future is coming……………….it's gone!
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poem by Derek. A. Sim
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My Tynedale.
My Tynedale. (Summer)
Hedgerows green, wood pigeons preen,
Quiet valleys seldom seen,
Winding lanes for country miles,
Run down farmhouses with missing tiles,
Field after field of ripened corn,
This is my Tynedale, the place I was born.
The guns and the beaters all head for the fell,
Their target; grouse, maybe pheasant as well,
A year’s work done, it’s the glorious twelfth,
The birds all released in the best of health,
Thrashing and flailing, and waving their flags,
Brace after brace dropping down to the crags.
Farmer and labourers amass in field,
Make hay while the sun shines and gather their yield,
Cutting and bailing, trailers stacked high,
A ploughman’s lunch under Northumberland sky,
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poem by Derek. A. Sim
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The Place I Love!
The Place I Love!
You’ll never guess the place where I’ve been,
You’ll never believe the things I have seen,
I’ve been to a place that’s hidden from most,
To a secret place, off the north east coast.
It’s quiet, remote, and way off the track,
A place once visited, you’ll long to go back.
A place where rare birds, from Kittiwake, to tern,
Fly to far away places, to always return.
Where the shells on the sand lie, undisturbed,
And the Puffins of Farne, may nest, un-perturbed.
Where the mighty North Sea, meets the place I would be,
To the Farne isles, up north, in the coaly North Sea.
Where the fishermen steer clear, so as not to upset,
This wonderful wildlife, few people have met,
For here is a place, where few folk have been,
Where the fish can swim free, and the waters are clean.
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poem by Derek. A. Sim
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Better Late Than Never...
Better Late Than Never
I had to work late; you're home all alone,
you're probably wondering, ‘Why didn't he phone? '
You'll be heating the oven and preparing our meal,
as I slam on the brakes, the tyres all squeal.
You're changing your work clothes for homely attire,
as the car starts to spin, the consequences; dire,
preparing the veg, you uncork the wine,
as the car clips the kerb; and ploughs through a sign.
You're pouring two glasses, expecting me there,
the car's on its roof, there's blood everywhere,
you switch on the telly as your patience wears thin,
the windshield is out… the earth's coming in.
Whilst you wait and worry, ‘Just where can he be? '
The car enters the lake after glancing a tree,
I'm trapped and I'm sinking, with no help at hand,
the car fills with water, the doors… both jammed.
I'm panicking now; thinking, ‘Is this the end? '
My thoughts turn to you… my soulmate, my friend,
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poem by Derek. A. Sim
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The Heat Of The Battle
The devastation mounted, stacked high on layers of grief,
damnation comes to visit, taxing all belief.
Scanning all about me, the air thick with battle's noise,
in craters of mud, stained the colour of blood, lay heroes, made from young boys.
Rat-a-tat-tat, the din from a sten, releasing to the smoke filled air,
singing pellets, searching for flesh, I'm reciting; ‘The Lord's Prayer'.
Engines roar, from tanks galore, and mortars rain down from the sky,
my friend is smashed beyond repair, traumatised... I'm unable to cry.
I carry the fight, with all of my might; I'm a soldier, that's what I do,
I'm killing another, who has a mother, who's praying for her son, too.
I watch him fall, as he tries to crawl, then lay still in his filthy grave,
‘Forgive me', I pray, as his life ebbs away, I'm shamed by the way we behave.
Whizzing past, it sings in my ear, a tiny missile goes by,
as close as can be, though still missing me, the soldier behind me must die.
Where does it end, why can't we bend? There must be an easier way,
instead of this killing, and wounding, and hurt, we are more than creatures of clay.
Young men to the slaughter, like lemmings, like sheep,
climb out of the trenches, I watch them and weep,
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poem by Derek. A. Sim
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