A poppy, a teardrop, a memory

On the 11th day of the 11th month at the 11th hour each year we remember those who gave their lives in times of war with a two minute silence. The closest Sunday to this the UK traditionally marks to remember all those who have given their lives for the peace and freedom by wearing a red poppy. These are almost our blood stained teardrops as we think of innocent lives lost in the senselessness of war. However, we should also shed a tear for those that did return home but are forever scarred by the sights and sounds they witnessed.

This year is extra poignant as marks a 100 years since the start of what is known as World War One, which those that fought would be the biggest war of all time but sadly it was not to be. Even as we pause in remembrance, many globally have their every day marked by seeing seas of red and hearing the battle drum get louder and louder, as the songs of war continue to be heard louder than ever as the words of peace and understanding become almost footnotes of history themselves.

Will we ever learn that the rivers are not meant to be red, but to run clear, free from the red, let it flow with love and understanding?

© Fi S. J. Brown

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The rivers of war

Out from London Tower a river of red blood falls,
In memory of the fallen in wars now history books.
Each poppy is to mark a life taken far too soon,
A Sacrifice in freedom’s name for each one of us.

If we look the poppies are not just red of blood,
There are hidden colours that need to be seen.
Stems of green showing the jealousy and envy.
And black of the darkness and fear war brings.

Across the world there are many hidden rivers,
Filled with tears of pain, anger and depression.
And turned red with the blood spilt in revenge,
But where is the white of love, peace and hope?

© Fi S. J. Brown

Tales of a city

This city is full of dark whispers and lies of fifty shades of grey,
Echoes from childhood still ring out in malevolent laughter.
As she traps me with her seven invisible craggy walls of green,
And strangers act as judge with the streets as their courts.
Shadows filled with the beating of her cold and bitter heart,
That loves and loathes all that come to see her ageless beauty.

Locals say I sing the song of far away lands and not hers,
It’s not from here as do not know the lyrics nor want to learn.
As rumours swirl in the wind that is her invisible breath of life,
Making fools of many as she can as one of her many games.
Some days it is impossible to tell real and what is a reflection,
And scared to shatter the glass for fear of getting hurt again.

She calls me back whenever I leave her as wants me to stay,
But I stopped loving her many years ago now want a divorce.
Freedom from her endless suffocation and choking hands,
To look through the eyes of a stranger at her from a distance.
As I wipe away the rain as like tears falling from my face,
And wishing one day to find where my song’s home really is.

© Fi S. J. Brown

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Autumn – the multisensory season

Listening to the rain falling on autumnal leaves,
Like tears trickling down a clown’s tired cheek.
One a pulsating beat to dance long into the night,
The other ghost notes with no discernible pitch.

Watching the leaves turn from greens to reds,
Like traffic lights but few stop and wait a while.
One a sight of natural beauty for all the senses,
The other to warn of man made jungle dangers.

Seeing the leaves are individual shapes and sizes,
Like all human beings are all over Planet Earth.
One a mixture that few recognise the differences,
The other many want to change to look the same.

Look as well as listen, watch and see this autumn,
Like a child experiencing its magic for the first time.
One will awaken your senses to the whole world,
The other will bring you happiness outside and in.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Autumn in Pitlochry