Poetry Blogs (petrarchan sonnet)

A Poppy In Winter

November mists come down in shrouds of grey

and folk remember, with their poppies red,

the loss of sixteen million war dead

and how the guns fell silent on this day.

So who are you to deem to have a say

on whether I should honour those who bled

by crimson colours? – or perhaps, instead,

in remembrance there is another way.

For I would guess that mo...

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Painkiller

This world is brutal in its bitter way,

destroying beauty, tarnishing the good,

Hurting the carers, harming those who would

do better with their lives each passing day -

those who, despite all that the doctors say,

take back some control – if only they could

get up from where they drown beneath the flood

of good intentions. So today I pray:

when you’re hu...

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