Dear Poets

we were inspired by the series The Young Pope where the pope writes a letter about love (see below).

Love lost, love found….. we can’t wait to read your ideas and poems on this topic.

Marie, Jarek, Adam

What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found? Don’t laugh at me, my love. I know it, I’m awkward and naive when it comes to love, and I ask questions straight out of a pop song. This doubt overwhelms me and undermines me, my love. To find… . or to lose? All around me, people don’t stop yearning. Did they lose or did they find? I can’t say. An orphan has no way of knowing. An orphan lacks a first love. The love for his mama and papa. That’s the source of his awkwardness, his naiveté. You said to me, on that deserted beach in California, “you can touch my legs.” But I didn’t do it. There, my love, is love lost. That’s why I’ve never stopped wondering, since that day: where have you been? Where you are now?
And you, the shining gleam of my misspent youth, did you lose or did you find? I don’t know. And I will never know. I can’t even remember your name, my love. And I don’t have the answer. But this is how I like to imagine it, the answer. In the end, my love, we have no choice. We have to find.

As I scan the twilight sky, eagerly searching with my eye, for squawking seagulls keen to dine.

Their manic manner such a sign, of trawlers returning from the sea, with nets of fishes we’re guaranteed: a hearty supper for you and me.

Gently chugging into the bay, exhausted fishermen; with nothing to say, look forward to a restful day.

Those with children watch them play, their wives wishing they could stay.  Others with hard earned pay, get out eagerly to ‘make hay’,

Breda Ware 

Wealthy, unashamedly I may not be,
But a truly proud grandma,
Brings much more pleasure for me.
Simple treats not expensive teas,
Romping about, climbing trees.
That’s the world you’ll get from me.
Plenty of hugs and genuine love,
In time watched over from above.

Breda Ware

Take my nest cuckoo and enjoy the fruits of my womb. 

Discard at will as you have, the runts.

Keeping only the bright baubles,

Like that of the devious Jackdaw. 

Once upon a happier time, 

You measured wealth by just one of mine. 

At the end of my days,

My fortune truly is guaranteed, 

A legacy left for all to see. 

Family is all that has ever mattered to me.

Sadly true, some leaves have fallen, 

By the wayside, far from the tree. 

Pray tread gently, for know they are parts of me.

Breda Ware

Road Trips

Road trips are fun, I think you’d agree,
Travelling the length of the country,
Sat-Nav gadgets are not for me,
Would rather a road atlas, upon my knee.
With route laid out easy to see,
No fear of a lane sending me up a tree.

Cheerfully we set off smiling, happy and free,
Nomadic life, yeah! That would suit me.
Passing wide open pastures green,
Pretty thatched cottages tantalise me.
Rolling hillsides an idillic scene.
It surely would be, living the dream.

Cities and towns wheezing by,
Villages are gentler on the eye.
Charming hamlets tucked away,
Quaint places for folk to stay.
Visits to the seaside on sunny days,
Sandcastles, rock pools, endless play.

National Trust sites on our list,
Agatha Christie’s not to be missed.
English Heritage now there’s a thing,
Of Ancient Castles, legends, Kings.
Forests and moorland so much to see,
Road trips are truly a must for me.

Breda Ware

“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

Dear poets,

do you like spring as much as we do? Write about it, express it, share it – we can’t wait!

Marie, Jarek, Adam

when I put on my shoes

I have to go to the city trough

I heard tap tap on sidewalk

someone called to me – funny sillywalk!

My different shoes

have a smalltalk

one of my

one of Stáňa

they are not paire

but it doesn´t care.

We start with breakfast a new day

in deligtfull office – MaryWay

my feet will be most freshest

and my shoes can fly away.

Dear Poets,

we think that our March topic “Breakfast” should be rewarded with a real breakfast so one of you will have an opportunity to spend a morning with English conversation and something nice and traditional to eat.

Write a poem about breakfast and post it in March! 🙂

Dear Poets,

we hope you had a lovely Christmas time! It would be nice to celebrate the start of the year by writing a poem about the symbol of this beautiful year season – SNOW.

We are looking forward to reading your poems!

M. + J. +A.

Ole McFly that funny old guy,
What a funny old guy is Ole McFly.
Now resides on the old church green,
In a brightly lit caravan, which gleams.
Locals mutter, ‘he’s dirty, unclean’.
Menacing, mean, a sight to be seen.

Ole McFly that funny old guy,
What a funny old guy is Ole McFly.
Came upon him once again,
In the cold and sheeting rain.
Enquire of his health; ‘nice to see you again’.
‘Where have you been, my dear old friend’?

Ole McFly that funny old guy,
What a funny old guy is Ole McFly.
‘Shall I walk with you for a while’?
Declare I saw a hint of a smile.
Not a word, like he hadn’t heard.
Left me thinking, how absurd.

Ole McFly that funny old guy,
What a funny old guy is Ole McFly.
All at once starts whistling like a bird,
Not a whimper, not a word.
So once again we silently walk,
No need for either of us to talk.

Breda Ware