Grandad's in Burma

Cheers and cheers came from the crowd.
Grandad stood, looking proud.
Shiny uniforms as all marched off to war.

Medals galore, all for bloody gore.
Grandad stood on the verge of the devil’s door.
The jungle was mighty quiet, no Japs around.

Billy crouched down, but missed a single sound.
Captured, where all had gone to ground.
Grandad still stood, feeling rotten and proud.

The misery of the bridge was dominating the day.
Billy looked slightly grey, all looked old.
The Captain ordered, but nobody wanted to play.

All they wanted was to no longer stay.
Grandad looked like he wanted to slay.
Homeward bound after all the cheer.

Grandad looked a whole lot thinner.
Billy had completely disappeared.
And no one could see a large bunch of medals.

VE day came with a slither, no one from Asia had heard it blither.
Thousands of lads had gone into ground.
Some had never even heard, a single cheer of victory.
Still, Grandad, could be mighty proud.

Almost time for more Poetry...

The Dog and Duck

The soldier in the trench stood still, that dark boggy ground held him still.
Thinking of home, the pub, the factory and Elsie too.
A cold pint on a Friday night. Why was he in Flanders?

Too many bodies and not enough gin in sight.

1918 rolling into view, still no end.
Still thinking of that cold pint.
This war was never supposed to be like this.
“Your country needs you” Lord Kitchener cried.
Asleep at last, dreaming of that cold pint.
Suddenly awoken by more screams from hell.
           November’s here, finally an end.
For this man had come out the other end.

Home at last, the old town is the same.
The pub on the corner is still virtually the same.
A comfortable stool, a few faces remain.
A cold pint after four years of hell.

Brighton on Thursday

Shout loud and proud we're off to the local tonight.
At least ten, maybe twelve as Brighton goes Green.
All around are Tories, a few Lib Dems too.

But we, people of Brighton, are amongst a happy few.

The Parliaments hung what can Brighton do?
“Nothing” goes the cry, at least ours is a Green.
“End the government” another demand.
“But we didn’t win” the only sane voice sighs.
The boos ring loud as Theresa appears on film.
“A bloody rout” that’s what Brighton cries.
Tears all round, I still raised a smile.
Lefty Brighton isn’t all that sound.
Jeremy gets a cheer as he appears in sound.
“But we went Green” some stranger pipes.
Corbyn in Brighton was nowhere to be seen.
Brighton isn’t red, it’s a mixture of pink and green.


Oh, famine end this year, no more children dying this day.
Liberation from guns and bombs, cry justice and peace.

Tortured bodies I see, no more love to give.
My mind crushed by unhuman sights.

End! An end! The abused shout aloud.
A happy marriage goes ahead amongst the crashing sounds.

Nine months on a child is born. The future in those blue eyes.
Brighter days as the bombs fly another way.

Five years on and that child is still a young pup.
But look on and the years ahead are turning out great.


London was alive with heat on that fine spring morning.
From Hyde Park to Soho’s busy streets London took centre stage.

From China Town to the old Tower of London tourists made London’s sound.
The Russian Bears had won the league and French Soufflé had won the cup.
London’s son had become the champ everyone singing those classic London hits.
From Islington to Wimbledon the busy commute took us all long and far.
In the background our great success filled the air with glee.
Happy sounds and tramps in vests provided us with some jolly jests.
No more bombs just Rock n Roll as the Stones came to town.
Prayers for the north as Londoners know the feeling.
Step up proud and let culture reign as those who kill will come again.
London centre will not yield the memory of Henry fills the field.
That’s all for now, London says.

I Amsterdam

The morning was still on Saturday.
Central Station still hadn’t awoken.

Only dark clouds made a sound as rain began to fall.
An hour later and everything’s alive.
Smokers, drinkers, no good doers, the red lights are all shinning bright.
Stop! Think, only an hour ago all was dead.
Now brightness and smiling, happy faces.
Fun! As far as the eye can see.
Lovers, eaters, freedom seekers, The Mail’s not in sight.
Happy families, bike riders and throw in a hooker too.
The Canals are quiet at dawn.
The people have yet to charge themselves.
Feeling drowned the day is yet to start.
A quick look at the clock and everyone’s alive.
Weed, mushrooms and throw in a play
Amsterdam has everything.
Van Gogh smiles from the other side.   
“I am free” shouts a voice from the crowd.
Free to live, see, smoke and think.
Rembrandt’s Square made the great man proud.
Amsterdam falls quiet on a sunny morning,
But just there the Dam Square is ready to indulge the world.

Silence in the Trench

Silence after all the days of bombs.
The Trench was quiet,
No more blood to spill.

Standing in a muddy, watery bog
A Rat stops by trying to eat the dead.
He runs away after I shuffle his way.

Thinking of home, the Pub’s only a mile away
A pint or two, on the King’s day
July 1914 was the last happy time for me.

“For the King” the Captains cry goes up.
Up the ladder I climb, everyone’s falling,
 Run, run as fast as god can

“I made it” I cry as I fell down
Hitting the floor blood was pouring all about.
I wake up my leg covered from top to toe

“That’s what happened Jack” I say
“That’s why I’m back”.
A whole in the knee but at least I’m back.