Remembering…

 

This is the time of year when I remember my father, thinking of what could have been if the Second World War hadn’t taken him from me.

I pay tribute to the man who gave me my height, my patience, my creative streak and my weird sense of humour all the time, but especially on Remembrance Sunday.

I know all of these things about him because people have told me what he was like. How he looked and sounded when he sat at the piano, belting out popular ragtime melodies.

They laugh when they tell me how funny he looked, stomping out the beat in his huge army boots.

I have lived all my life with these images, but have no way of knowing if they are true because I never met him. He didn’t return from the war and never met me.

I like to think that my life would have been so much better if he had come home, for my mother never got over losing him.

People say I shouldn’t feel sad for someone I didn’t know, but in a way, I do know him. He is a part of me and it certainly feels as though I knew him well. As well as I know myself.

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I wrote a post last year about these ice soldiers, and you can read it here.

When we moved to Hampshire, one of the first things I wanted to do was visit the coast. Something I have done many times since, but on that very first time, we walked past the D-day Museum on the seafront. There was a huge tank outside and this bronze statue of the Unknown Soldier. As I studied the soldier, something about his posture and bearing had me imagining that this is what my father would have looked like.

To me, my father is the Unknown Soldier, and I like to think I will get to meet him, one of these days…

©jayemarie

Days Gone…

 

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Days Gone

I heard a shadow scream

With bodily form within

My heart wrenched with need to help

The cry held the tears of the world

Weighing heavily on my mind

Stepping into the darkness

I heard the whispered words

She took my life, I was flushed away

I cannot move back nor forward

My spirit lies in limbo.

I knew this spirit, my mind

rushed back to my 11-year-old self

On instructions, it was my hand

that flushed this small body away

my life went on. It’s now in later years

I hear the echo of those days…

©Anita Dawes

#Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge…

Colleen’s 2019 #Tanka Tuesday #Poet of the Week & Honorable Mention(s), No. 142, “Character & Wild,” #SynonymsOnly

 

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Old

Toy box

memories

Hidden treasures

hands no longer play

Time trapped in an old chest

Why do we keep these old things?

When we have no time left to play

Too often life takes joy from our hands

Why is it so painful to throw away?

©Anita Dawes

 

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Hidden box… #Poetry

 

 

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In a box hidden from sight

My mothers love letters

Have come to light

Written in 1944

A soldier’s heart she craved

Soft word written with

Such passion

Tear stained aged paper

Belies the woman who

Stands before me

Was it this lost love that turned

her heart to stone?

©AnitaDawes

Snow…

 

 

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I remember the thick blanket of snow

When I was eight years old

I found a stray dog on my way home from school

I carried him home, thinking my mother

would let me keep him

I sat him on the doorstep,

rushed to tell her of the little friend I had found

Her answer was no, but she did however,

let me take a bowl of lentil soup for him

Surprised to see him still there

I say in the cold wishing I was an adult

Then he would be inside with me in the warm

It broke my heart to finally shut the front door on him

And I never did see him again…

©AnitaDawes

#FlashFiction Challenge for Carrot Ranch Literary Community…

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99 words, no more, no less. It’s a simple constraint, an easy-to-master literary art form, and a powerful writing tool for creatives and entrepreneurs. Writers calibrate the usefulness and beauty of 99-words through weekly flash fiction challenges.

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Here in England

We used to have afternoon tea dances

In ballrooms across the country.

Those were the days when a gentleman

Enjoyed dancing with his lady

Holding open the door to let her through first

Pulling her chair out to help her sit

There are so many old-world charms we have lost

Writing love letters, eagerly waiting for the postman

To deliver those words you long to read

Taking pen and paper to reciprocate

A gentleman would also lift his hat when passing a church

I still I cross myself whenever a funeral goes by.

Those golden days…

©AnitaDawes

Beloved…

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Beloved…

She looked at me with salt worn eyes

Tears of a thousand years

Her pain I could not imagine

Her years are old, she has lived too long

Old memories haunt her days, her nights

A plait crowns her beautiful grey hair

Her hand small and gentle, touch my face

Her smile almost invisible, too hard

Her pain holds it at bay, yet I remember

that her smile lit her eyes like night stars

She will forever be my beloved Oma…

Anita Signature

Many Tears…

 

 

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Many Tears

… will be shed today,

Elvis has not just left the building, he has left our world for another

where I hope to God, he finds the answers he was looking for.

I know he may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for me, he was my first real crush. I deserted Cliff Richard the moment I found Elvis.

Sad to say, I never made it to Graceland’s

I am not one of those screaming kind of fans, I felt I could see beyond the performer and the part that haunted me, captured my soul.

I do not say this lightly; I am writing this because Jaye and I were discussing our heroes. Name three, she said. She knew the first one of course.

The second was Da Vinci. I could not name a third

There are many lesser ones that I like

Ones that have the same kind of spark in smaller amounts

Like idols with feet made of clay, they don’t quite match

What about writers, Jaye asked

I could only think of one, James Herbert

I had watched an interview once and he had a great sadness about him

I brought his last hard back, something I never do as I prefer paperback

Then found out a few days later, he had died

That left a little hole in my mind as I had contacted him a while back

His kindness is still remembered

I told Jaye, that’s enough of this nonsense, back to work…

Anita Signature