Bury st. Edmunds
Visit the abbey in ruin,
Greene king pubs beckoning you in,
Amid bloom see the sights you can,
See links to an age that's Norman,
A charming suffolk market town,
That's known by an arrow shot crown,
Named after the martyr king Edmund,
The true patron saint of England,
Sample the local vintage ales,
Take in the area's folktales,
See the history in Moyse's hall,
Bury cathedral standing tall,
Note what's on at the theatre royal,
At the festival enjoy all,
Walk the lark vale and angel hill,
Fondness a visit will instil.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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September 11th
The 11th of september
A date all came to remember
Wounds were made that still remain sore
While razed was that none can restore
Amongst tragedy so severe
Heroes were born we're to revere
Unwitting souls lived a nightmare
Scenes of which all became aware
An evil act changed lives for good
Sited where twin towers once stood
Now dust has settled on the ground
And spirits have slowly rebound
Thoughts go out to all those that died
While respects are paid nationwide
A strength is found to move forward
In this world that's ever wayward
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Child
In these arms you'll surely die,
You'll choke on feathers and lies,
But sadly now is the time,
To light the truth and draw the line,
A wrong step's paired with regret,
And for you I just want the best,
Doubt the words of those who fret,
Prove me wrong and rise to the test,
Empty arms can make one cry,
As one is left asking why,
But to know that they have tried,
Will aid them to cease to pine,
What's owed to you you shall get,
When you strive when others rest,
Although you've far to go yet,
The eyes on you are impressed.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Twilight
Day was set aside from the night,
Owing to the creator's might,
The artist's blue hour of light,
Makes many a magical sight,
As the bleak darkness becomes due,
It edges its way into view,
There's a rich and rarely seen blue,
An almost impossible hue,
The sky enters a splintered state,
Whenever the hour gets late,
Then yet again after a wait,
We see a wiping of the slate,
Each night sight of the scene is caught,
Beauty is found that's often sought,
And though the time it lasts is short,
It turns out better than you thought.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Suffolk
A luscious land of fertile soil,
Upon which there's been years of toil,
The towns and villages appeal,
With somewhat of an old world feel,
Traditionally brewed vintage ale,
Many a bizarre quaint tale,
Out on the broads all is tranquil,
A place to be with time to kill,
Once home of witches and fairies,
Now where to live a life of ease,
A history rearing horses,
Home of the grand national races,
Brilliantly vibrant blue skies,
Folk with Anglo and Celtic ties,
A coast that glows with golden sands,
History built on the fenlands.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Beautiful woman
Turning heads in seductive dress,
Answering the calls to impress,
Worshipped in the role of the muse,
Hated whenever seeds of blues,
Such beauty one can't enough stress,
Around those with love to confess,
Countless suitors from which to choose,
Near impossible to refuse,
Destined to become someone's queen,
The best and nothing in between,
An entirely different breed,
Has only known a fleeting need,
Looks that seem to remain pristine,
Cannot be forgotten once seen,
Singer of siren songs to heed,
A book few will bother to read.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Saint Swithin's day
On the day that marks St. Swithun,
Watch the sky once the sun's risen,
Should the weather prove to be fine,
There'll be many days of sunshine,
Weather the saint's said to foretell,
Is it to be a rainy spell?
Pray that rainclouds will go away,
They can come back another day,
Apples are christened if there's rain,
But clouds will be set to remain,
A bleak forty day downpour,
Or a fine summer is in store,
We have want for more days of sun,
Let our summer not yet be done,
Whoever has sway over skies,
Is truly a saint in thine eyes.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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A mouse called Paul
There was once a young mouse called Paul,
And though he'd no prowess at all,
He felt he could do anything,
So on him danger would befall,
The things that one shouldn't go near,
Failed to invoke in him a fear,
Which led to him imitating,
A remarkably skilful peer,
He saw the prize on a mousetrap,
Somehow retrieved without mishap,
When Paul tried it out for himself,
A squish was heard after a snap,
He's now pinned to a bit of wood,
With two back legs that are no good,
As he had felt himself able,
To accomplish more than he could.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Back then
I don't want to work nine to five,
Just to end up barely alive,
I would rather sharpen a sword,
So to win myself a gold-hoard,
I don't want a means to an end,
I want to live solely to live,
To live like they did way back when,
Life surely was much simpler then,
I don't want to use wit and style,
Without going the extra mile,
I want to use chivalrous feats,
To tempt Madame beneath the sheets,
I don't want chess played as eyes meet,
I want love that's won through peril,
Women as women, men as men,
An age that's not to come again.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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My valentine
I want you as my valentine,
I want to get to call you mine,
I want our bodies to entwine,
Only then will I cease to pine,
I find myself to be spellbound,
Struggling to keep feet on the ground,
I can't believe this love I've found,
Praise for you will ever resound,
Say you'll be my special someone,
Say you will let your heart be won,
Say you're in it for the long run,
In my eyes you're second to none,
There's not a fault that I can find,
You shall ever be on my mind,
You are gentle as well as kind,
Heartache is to be left behind.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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