Mock Do The Oranges.

You laid me down
a bed of thistles for my head to rest.
We spoke in whispers when we spoke at all –
whilst in my mind you teased me loud
a fool – oh yes a fool – indeed.

Mock do the oranges, as they
envelop the night with their pungent scent.
Whilst white adorns the lilies,
bridal gowns fit for one and all –
Yet caught between your breezes
the aspen tree and I do tremble
as the harvester skilfully propels, all the summer
blooms away –
Death as if my own hands
scythed away their life.
What price, the burden, of one golden ring
oh how I asked:
Then not liking the answer that lay about my feet?

So shall I rise a sapling untainted
sterile at the hands of man
For redolent are the flowers – when agreed
about a women’s virtues
As bees around a honey pot –
sweet is the surety ~ as only a great oaks love can be.
Though ever indecisive  be the heart ~ when there are rose buds
waiting to be gathered in profusion!


Poppy April 2014 ~xx~




I like you – you said
over the smouldering ends of a non perfect day.
I’d marry you if you wore your doc martins
and I was the marrying kind.
However, I’m not, so we won’t
we’ll just rub along.
Be a love
pass me that last, chocolate éclair.

I think you are pretty – you said
removing your horned rimmed glasses.
Well – you might be, if not for
your hair – and your gormless blank stare.
Plus, I never do compliments –
they’re just so incredibly dumb!

I think you suit me – you said
stretching your languid limbs.
I’ve always thought
it such a sin – that you are dreadfully thin,
though nothing a good meal couldn’t solve.

I think you love me – you said
rising slowly from your eminent pose.

Yes, I expect I might – in the dead
of the night – with my faculties’
void of all sense.
However, I know we’re not meant – so
don’t take offense; just take your éclair
and go shove…


Poppy 22nd April 2014 ~xx~

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Dancing is just a conversation
between two people
so dance with me – and tell me how you feel.

I would like to take you for a pizza
hire a taxi to take us to the moon
share my tea and buttered toast
then never to rise – until the
Swallows head towards their winter home

Always, always to wear the sweetest blossom
pungent in my hair –
to be there by your side seasonless in my desire

All this and more – I swear to you I would
if only you would dance with me
and tell me that you love me…


Poppy 21st April 2014 ~xx~


Vertebral Translucency

Count me down
snap me open
show me life exists
outside these inconsequential walls.
Squeeze me oranges – physical in their consciousness
slay me armies who slaver when they taste defeat
stand the sentinel – sucking underfoot of duties need.

Bring me roses tinged
with vertebral translucency –


Poppy April 17th 2014 ~xx~



The Saturday night encounters and the same
worn out disposition.
Between the two we live and die
pinning our bitterness to the tails of passing laymen.

I wanted – what was it – that I wanted
I appear not to recall:
Outside the mechanism to be happy
to come and go
as if, I had imagined myself in the clarity of light
like the tiptoeing of the child who sneaks its way at night.

My surety back then came dressed with conviction
given eagerly within the density of life.
You had me once in the clasp of your hands
nestled like the dormouse sleeping its winter retreat
shedding my shadow, towards the downward slope of reason.

Now falls midsummer, when all fools are slaughtered
the time when shapes disguise their mutilated belief.
Leaving nothing
outside the words of caution – they that came,  all a  little  too late.


Poppy April 13th 2014 ~xx~


Pray for me – Remember me.

I wrote this short story after finding an old postcard – sent from the front during WW1.

The brave unnamed soldier asked about his Wife, and getting her ‘teeth fixed’, when he next came home on leave, ‘I hope the pain is not unbearable’ he wrote…!

Such care and thought – faced with he saw day after day.
It is also a fact that many soldiers did befriend the misplaced dogs that roamed the battle front – during WW1.

Hard to comprehend that less than 20 years later we went and did it all over again, and are still sending men and women, to their deaths to avenge the wrong of others…

This morning our billet took another hit.
Compared to what it has been, the gunfire seems to have abated some what; though far too many innocent men and animals are still being killed. For what real purpose I will never comprehend – I was going to add, until my ‘dying’ day, fear that may not be so far away.

Yesterday, a large black dog wandered up to me, its eyes full of terror, yet so soft, gentle and trusting as he looked to me for protection.

There is little food enough, but I was reminded of my dog back home, so I gave him shelter (such as it was). I was more that willing to share my meagre rations for the warmth and affection he so eagerly bestowed upon me.
I named him Ypres, and he soon became my shadow.

There is merriment in the camp today; as the parcels from home have arrived.
You might ask how anyone could find humour in such a god forsaken place – but we do!
You have to – for tomorrow may never come.

The folks back home always do us proud with – warm dry socks, cigarettes, food, and the letters that we all live for.

Ypres sniffs out the biscuits in my parcel, and we sit in the warm April sun shine sharing one between us.

What I would not give, to be back home; tending my vegetable plot and for all of this, to be a far, far distant memory – maybe even a dream, but it isn’t a dream it’s a nightmare and real.

Captain Forrester rides out along our lines on his horse Sir Bertram; his lovely little Spaniel Mollie, as always following close behind.
Ypres runs over to say ‘hello’, but Mollie simply ignores him.
She probably thinks he is far too below her breeding; so he scuttles back tail between his legs.

If only man could sort out their differences so easily, without the need to massacre each other.
What right do we have – to call ourselves, the intelligent ones?

The regiment has been ‘stood down’ for today, ready for tonight’s big push.
Most of the men are writing letters home, and putting their possessions in order.
I have already secured the safety of Ypres, should I not be one of the lucky one’s to return.
I will not let him be abandoned again in his hours of need.

In the fading light, we finish cleaning our weapons; trying not to think of the task ahead. Ours in not to ask why – we are here to do as ordered, fight for King and Country.

Ypres and I share, what could be our last meal together, before I tie him to a post with the words ‘be good and wait for me’!

The Sergeant blows his whistle, and a flare goes up!
Please Lord I do not want to die – I am too young – life is for living.
Jesus make it end – soon…

Pray for me, remember me!
Where poppies now bow their heads
is where we lay, the countless dead
rows and rows of unmarked graves
are all that remains; of our nations brave.


Poppy Taylor ~xx~

Of Daisies and Politicians.

Destroy not the common daisy
on this pleasant afternoon
for when the lawn is barren
banality and greed shall parade itself to centre stage.

With their meddling white hatter, chatter
crusts all squared, cucumber sliced to thin as ice.
Nothing stops to break the explosive tones of the utter slush
spewed from their lawn mower mouths
as they strive to assassinate the weeds, from
their kingdoms privileged ranks.

Disregarded for our heritages guttural tones
yet not so shabby, when it comes to stealing our money.
They march us out to battle, to appease their daily wrongs
force feeding us, their two faced lies of hypocrisy
with their “Dear Householder” literature
shoved unwanted through our doors.

Benevolence for the daisy I say;
you Lords and Ladies all –
Think, that for everyone which lowers its head in pain of loss
countless more anticipate their births uprising
sitting patiently – just waiting for the call…


Poppy April 10th 2014 ~xx~

Who Will.

How shall I know September
from October
will it be when the roses stop their showing.

Today, as I watched the leaves tumbling
from the trees
what at first glance, seemed
like natures timing
suddenly began to take hold –
forcing sincerely, into a cold hard malign.

From muddy work boot brown
to ink pot reds –
collapsed spent exhausted, dead upon the
garden floor, the markings
of a seasons time
begins to mellow, towards their retiring end.

When my days fall, into deep recession
allowing life’s negatives to blur my edges
torn capillaries, ripped exhibited
upon my easel of mistrust –

Who will frame my words
when the writing is on the wall?
Who will build me, my boat –
when my rainfall fails to desist…?

Who if anyone – will?


Poppy March 2014 ~xx~