HEADLINE

Image courtesy of Pixabay  free use

HEADLINE

Not for him the comfort

of a warm, cosy hearth

on a chill autumn night..

rather the deceitful friendship

of a cheap flagon

unopened - full of promise

emptied - full of nothing.

Few were his hopes, or wishes

or dreams.

Cold wet grass doesn't lead

to aspirations

or thoughts of grandeur..

rather to chilblains

and eternal desolation.

Tinned soup, cold,

his daily sustenance

at least for the first few days

after the fortnightly pension

and then -

whatever he could scrounge 

wherever he could find it.

The report was stark,

brutal, horrifying..

'VAGRANT BATTERED TO DEATH'

It came with our morning cuppa

we read it

shook our heads

and turned the page.

(c) Crissouli May 22, 1984

MEMORIES (SUCH SWEET SOUNDS)

I sit, listening to your voice
How warm and loving it sounds
even as you tell my small son
"Not like that, don't do that.."
interspersed with praise
as he struggles through the intricacies
of the organ, much larger than the one he's used to.

We take these occasions
a simple gathering of family
so much for granted.
You, and Dad, instruct gently
but firmly, while my younger brother,
the owner of the organ, shivers, quietly.
In the background, the voices mingle
each with their own part to play
in this family theatre.

For so long, I haven't heard your voice
we no longer have the same gatherings
though we do gather, without you.
Our family is still just that
but how we miss you
your presence, the sound of your voice
and how grateful we are
for the memories of a simple family gathering
recorded on a cassette.

 (c) Crissouli June 4, 1983

I AM - AS YOU ARE..

Image courtesy of Pixabay

THE LAST SALUTE

THE LAST SALUTE

As the cold grey blanket of dawn lifted

he shivered, just as he had so long ago. 

He couldn't get the noises out of his head

nor could he forget the smoke or the screams.

Yet, today, his eyes were filled not with smoke, 

but with tears.

They rolled silently down his cheeks

as memories flooded back.

He started to shake, just a little

then she took his hand in hers, 

warm and comforting..

he felt a little easier. 

"Grandad, all these people are here because of you,

because of your mates, because of all you did for us."

She led him to the memorial 

and they laid their poppies, 

then, as they turned to leave,

the small crowd parted and all..as one,

raised their candles in salute.

The last of their ANZACS 

passed peacefully that evening

to rejoin his unit. 

LEST WE FORGET.

 (c)Crissouli 24 April, 2016

Image free use courtesy Pixabay

I'M COMING HOME...

I'M COMING HOME

If he closed his eyes, he could see her still

her soft brown hair teased by a gentle breeze

her smiling eyes, glistening with tears 

as she kissed him farewell.

He'd taken her hand and touched the shiny gold ring

he'd placed there just twenty four hours earlier.

He'd reassured her that it'd be over soon

he'd be home before she knew it.

He promised to bring her a present, whatever she'd like.

"Just a flower, something to show me where you've been,

nothing more."

They found him in a field of poppies

one perfect flower tucked into his pocket, 

along with a half written letter...

"I'm coming home..."

© Crissouli April 23, 2016

In memory of all who gave their future for ours.

Image Free use, courtesy of Pixabay

GATHERING YESTERDAYS

GATHERING YESTERDAYS

Reams of paper, maybe stacked precariously high

or neatly filed, in carefully labelled folders

"Notes of births, of marriages, now what year did he die?"

Coloured pages, inserted here and there

notepads and photos, pencils, clips and pens

"Really must get organised, this desk gets too much glare."

Bookmarks noted, from one website to another

two monitors make it easier, just scroll a little more 

"Mmm, that census looks interesting, is that another brother?"

Dinner won't be long then, or so it ought to be

lots of scribbled notes now, then a happy dance..

She's off, gathering yesterdays, for her family tree.

                                                                                (c)Crissouli 17th Feb, 2016

WHEN I GROW OLD...

WHEN I GROW OLD....

When I grow old, I will not long for youth, 

rather I will celebrate what has gone before 

and look forward to what each day brings.

I will enjoy the company of myself, as well as that of family and friends..

of new discoveries, of revisiting old interests and developing new ones.

I will revel in choosing yes or no or maybe.. without guilt or reason.

I will enjoy friendships, both near and far....

I will take time to watch butterflies flit among the flowers

and listen to bird song every day...

I will drench myself in summer showers..

and sing in the moonlight...

I will write what I wish and read all I can...

Silken threads will be my palette

as I create simple things of beauty...

I will surround myself with roses and violets and daisies

I will bake at midnight if I wish

and eat fruit and cream for tea...

When I grow old, I will be me...

 (c)Crissouli Jan 24, 2016

Inspired by the post of my friend... Angela...

Retirement: Smelling roses, enjoying brandy and learning to spit!