Heaven or Hell? #Poetry

Image by jplenio from Pixabay ~ Poetry by A Dawes

The title of Anita’s poem, Heaven or Hell, struck a chord with me today.

Basically, because of the news that is filtering through to my office from the TV in the other room.

Boris Johnson has reached the end of his rope, apparently and will be resigning any minute now. I am not a fan of politics, all that chaos and mayhem, and what good does it do? They are no better at running the country than I am at running for a bus!

To answer that question, definitely hell …


Broken by Fury…

She walked through the night
An angel on fire
Embers flying, scorching the earth behind her,
Searching for one whose promise broke her heart.
He fled the great war
when Heaven dipped below the horizon
Fury burns away her tears,
Her reasoning mind broken
Trapped in our world, she walks in shadows
Trying not to be seen, her wings
Eaten away by her anger
She is lost, searching for something that cannot be.
Her life broken by fury
Heaven cannot call her back
Angels need our prayers…

© Anita Dawes 2021

Breaking Heaven… #Poetry

Image by Karin Henseler from Pixabay

Breaking Heaven

I am hiding under a wing until my mind has grown
Until I know what to do with the life given to me
I am small, curled into a ball
My limbs thin, as yet ungrown
I see myself walking, running, playing in the park.
My mother sits on a bench speaking with another
She cannot see the wings where once I hid
Tears blur my vision the sun smiles as I cry
Dark clouds break heaven
Rain falls, joining my pain
Knowing all the joy I gather
in a lifetime is only borrowed
We wait many lifetimes to return again…

©anitadawes 2020

No More than a Whisper… #Poetry

Image by Pedro Figueras from Pixabay

I awoke after nine days in Heaven
Screaming, where is my body
I am no more than a whisper, a puff of smoke
Is no one here to answer me?
My voice, sailing back to ears I cannot feel
Yet the sound penetrated
the part of me that was mind
What dark trick is this?
A new sound entered, bells ringing
Reminding me of Sunday mornings
Walking to church my vision returned
Letting me see the road I stood on
A church in the near distance
People entering the large arched doors
There, I hoped to receive some answers
I couldn’t tell if I walked or floated
Once inside I felt temper mixed with despair
I stood alone in my smoky form
Where had they gone?
Is the church a gateway to another realm?
If so, why have I been left standing here?
I waited until I heard the church bells rind again
Finding myself outside
The street empty, yet familiar
Walking towards the house I grew up in
I was swept up by the family
My family, rushing out to answer the call to prayer
Sat in the pew between my father and mother
My sister and younger brother on the outer edge
Ready to drop our tithe into the waiting plate
With the clang of coin against brass
The smoke holding my body vanished
Had my sins been paid for by the love of family?

©anitadawes 2020

We’ll Meet Again…

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

We’ll Meet Again

The minute Ian walked into the waiting room; he knew he had come to the wrong place. Rows of uncomfortable looking chairs, most with old people sitting in them, all waiting patiently. Some of them looked as though they had been there a while already.

The bright light in the white painted room hurt his eyes and the constant faint humming was beginning to annoy him. He sat down on the nearest empty chair and discovered he had been right; it was uncomfortable. He had never understood why. If you must make people wait, surely a comfortable chair wasn’t too much to ask?

He looked around, wondering why he was there, and if he wanted to wait to find out.  He felt so tired.

A younger man walked past him on the way to the door Ian had just come through. The man pushed the door, but it didn’t open. He was trying again, using more of an effort, when a nurse in a white uniform appeared, took his arm, and led him to a chair.

This posed a question for Ian. Why hadn’t that door opened?  Something else occurred to him, something that made no sense at all. He had been in so much pain for a long time, but it had gone, and he felt fine.

More than fine in fact and a thought came to him. He didn’t need to be in this waiting room at all.

He stood up and walked to the door, wondering if the door would open for him, then, somewhere behind him, someone began to sing.

He recognised the song and turned to see who was singing. A tall, elegant, and attractive elderly woman was standing at the front of the room, singing the song everyone remembered so well from the days of the last war.

She smiled at Ian and held out her arms as she sang the last words of the song.

“I knew we would meet again, one sunny day…”

In loving memory of Dame Vera Lynn and Sir Ian Holm

At Last… #Poetry


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Image by Pixabay.com


At Last

I found myself leaning against the gates of heaven

As if they were no more than the local pub doors

If I push them open, would I find a pint waiting?

I doubt it. Then again, God has been known

To surprise and devastate. With the speed of lightning

Taking my soul. She was the summer rain

I prayed that dry weather should never come

That my arms would hold her for eternity

Now I care not if storms rage for ever.

The air shimmered with star dust; the gates opened

As I fell, I heard her whisper

You’re home at last…



#FlashFiction: ST.PETER


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Image by Pixabay.com


In the dream, I was standing in front of St.Peter who was holding the keys to the pearly gates.

As I stood in front of him, I thought what a lousy job, did he ever get to go inside?

I wondered about the shadow behind him. St.Peter held his head to one side, as though listening to someone whispering in his ear.

Was the devil standing behind him?

I was hoping it might be, telling him, “You can’t let this one in. You have to send him back, for he has more work to do.”

In my head, I could hear myself pleading. “Yes please, send me back to work…”

It was something I hated, as it took up too much of my day.

St.Peter looked at me for the longest time. I was trying to tell him that I was only 24 and that I could do better.

The shadow stood beside me now, whispering. The words were too fast. I couldn’t understand him. Before I could ask who was speaking or what they were saying, my alarm went off.

For the first time in my life, I was glad to be going to work, but I spent the morning wishing I could remember what the shadow had been trying to tell me. I ended up deciding it was no more than gibberish, dream speak.

But I spent the rest of the day hoping that was true…

Anita Dawes