The storm knew my name as a child
crashed early through my door.
My small hands were no match
I knew the shadows voice before.
Years passed, the waves smashed
yet still I crossed each sea.
Damaged like the winter oak,
yet His roots grow deep inside of me.
Always a peace in the aftermath
once suffering has had its way.
I feel the Holy Spirit of God,
not pushing - but a steady stay.
I rise again yet this, I wonder,
through all this fire and pain.
A forge to shape a humble man,
for work beyond his name.
Toby Jug
Boots off by the Milton rug,
She brings me lager in a Toby jug.
Friday fish 'n' chips, stroll by the sea
A half-time pie, a cup of tea
Cobbled lanes and Sunday bells
Royal pomp and roast dinner smells
Rain taps, pointing blame
A good old pub relieving pain
Stubborn oak and sceptred blood,
Sarcastic wit beneath the flood
Glory to God who gave us St George
England stands, like iron in a forge
With Winston's spirit steady and snug.
I'm English as this Toby jug!
Untouched by Aim
Friedrich got me thinking - as I reach
for the impossible.
My hands tremble as I write.
My hope attacked - morning, noon, and night.
Those eyes I once loved - red like the fire
in which I stand.
Still it trembles - but I ink with this
right hand.
Its unsafe to write a poem when ached
in purpose, or a song that's sang in pain.
In a search for something higher,
the soul, never to blame.
Let the demons mock my weakness,
let the storm oppose my will.
Elegy's aren't created easy, but my heart
can climb uphill.
If I fall Lord, let it be forward, my eyes
fixed on the distance flame.
Better to die while reaching, than to live
untouched by aim.
A Beatiful Regret
I could tell by her movement she’d been drinking
not drunk, just enough to make a sane man look away.
But want was louder than my sense.
With every step closer, the smell of cigarettes and french perfume grew stronger.
I should’ve run, but the moment was stolen. I knew every touch would later bleed.
She was trouble, yet there was a twinkle in her eye — or maybe it was the tight jeans, the dark, straight hair.
Now she screams inside my peace, a beautiful regret!
The wee Church in Overleigh Cemetery.
Standing high where the silent sleep,
Among the graves the English earth keeps.
Sword-cross of stone, a cenotaph stands,
Guarding brave souls, the names of this land.
Incense drifts on the solemn air,
Byzantine chants weave the branches bare.
Saint Barbra prays above the grounds,
Where life has departed. yet Christ is found.
Time meets eternity, the living pass.
Faith growing strong in the roots of her grass.
Here beauty blooms where death may lie.
A sacred bridge amidst earth and sky.
Shrove Tuesday
Pancakes and laughter tossed in the air.
Mummy mixing more - flour everywhere.
Children cheer - pancakes, dinner, dessert.
Sugar rains down lemons squirt.
A table laid, wine and beer.
Family moments we hold so dear.
As the syrup flows in ribbons of gold.
Daddy recalls a story told.
The feast before the fasting phase,
Christ in the desert forty days.
Flip the pan and fill your plate.
Yet pause - Shrove Tuesday contemplate.
The man I was
Bent steel still warm, tight in my hand,
Heart cold - anger blazed, its blurred where I stand.
Demon on my chest, his blood drips from my fingers,
worry whispers, but hatred still lingers.
Out of hell, were not the same,
ash in my breath, got the devil to blame.
One not enough, so in fury I swung,
blade rise and fell 'til no breath my lung.
Turned his head so I plunged his back, he be dead.
I left nothing unsaid.
Sirens crying, still blood on my skin.
War on the street. I know my battles within.
Years of this life without the cross,
I didn't just stab him - but the man I was.
Lines
I tried to read between the lines.
I snorted them. Still half a bottle of red.
The cocaine like the logs - lost to the burner.
I have an impulse to run aimlessly.
But now I must be the earner.
Their forefathers cry to the moon.
Bury them at sea.
I'll fight them for my daughter. Defeat them with my sons.
What more must we see.
They need us we don't want them.
As it bubbles in the channel.
The lion must raw once again.
My wife cry's. Christ, next to her as one.
In sacrifice we heal. We must remain.
We cant be gone.
Six Nations
As winter thors over hallowed grounds
six nations wait on thunder pounds.
In the cold air - an ancient battle call.
In pain or glory - anthems sang loud,
anthems stood tall.
Red and Blue - marching separate toward
the same fight.
Emerald Green or blood stained White.
Flowing through the veins - a stubborn pride.
A broken line, a wounded stride.
Six nations - one burning aim.
The honour to lift - rugby's finest flame.
Saint Valentine
Before the cards, the wine, the flowers.
A courages soul, love has powers.
In Romes dark days the faith is banned.
A Priest stood strong in loves own hand.
In a secret vow of incense flare.
Married as one he did dare.
In prison he prayed, in death he proved.
That Christ is love, love unremoved.
So with every rose and poem we send.
remember our faith, our spirited friend.
In the season of love birds...
St. Valentine is more than art...
A sacrifice, a daring heart.
Smith Shine Poetry 