Poems by Laura Sanders

Pure and white, spotless and clean,
drops of snow amongst the verdant green.
Delicate heads hang sorrowful, as if to say,
sorry- we've appeared, on a cold February day!

Inside the tiny flower, is a green surprise,
patterned so beautiful, it brings joy to the eyes.
Simplistic delight, that nothing could match.
On a cold Spring day, I discovered a small patch.

Fairy flowers and the first to bloom,
but then they are gone, seeming to fade too soon!

A single red Poppy is all I wear to commemorate the dead.
A single red Poppy is all I wear, it's clothed in scarlet red.
Curled up at both ends, torn by Remembrance day,
but without it how would I show, I cared about the sacrifice, they made.

Swathes of Poppies today, are found in Flander's lands,
where bodies once bled in the mud - it's hard to understand!
Why men must brutally fight one another, in order to win a war?
Countless lives lost to a cause, just to settle a score.

But just what were those men really  fighting for?
For freedom and peace to reign, across our lands once more.
So that simple, red Poppy is important, for us to wear.
We can all show our support for soldiers today- show we all do care!

A mother is someone who cares,
Someone who will readily share.
Who tries to bandage up cut knees,
Who likes to give and to please.

A mother is someone who smiles a lot.
A mother is someone who gives all she's got.
She loves to make others smile,
Tries to go that extra mile...

A mother like this is a rare gemstone.
With a mother like this, you'll never feel alone,
For a mother can be your best friend,
Caring, sharing, pleasing to the very end.

Such horror faced by the allied troops,
Such bravery in the face of the foe.
Witnessing young lives, mown down by gunfire,
Such terror, thank God, we will never know....

For the liberation of Europe was won
but at a price to men, from all sides.
American ,French ,Canadian ,English .
Red bloodied land, crimson red tides.

I am humbled when I think of the sacrifices
Men made, the sixth June 1944 is now history.
Heroes fighting for their country,
To free us from the Nazi tyranny.

In Normandy the graveyards are bursting
White headstones , display lives cut down by war
Today we must always be grateful,
We must remember them, for evermore.

"Let this never happen again !" the survivors say
Tears and sadness wells, in their faded eyes.
As they think of their fallen comrades
Who died on the beaches,  in the sea and skies.

A young child asked her mother, "mother, what does the face of God look like?
I know I may never see him, is he fierce or is he kind?"
The mother said, "God dear, is like the coloured rainbow smiling in the sky,
He is the formation of snow white swans, flying gently by...
He is like the stars in heaven, his love infinite and bright,
always like the sun in the morning, calms us after a rainy night.
His voice  is like the tallest trees, whispering in the  cooling breeze.
He is like the Spring time thaw, after the cold icy Winter freeze.
He is like the flowers in the border, in the summertime.
He is like the  rivers dancing, alive with fish, leaping in  line...
He is like the summer meadows, lush and fresh and green.
God is everywhere darling, but his face is never seen...
'cause God is the best of EVERYTHING, here on earth
and he came to save us all, by his miraculous birth!"

Why is a garden snail so slow?
Has he no place to go?
With his house upon his back-
he doesn't even need, to pack!

If it gets too hot, he just sleeps,
inside his shell he retreats.
He feels safe inside,
where he isn't heated and dried!

If it rains, he soundly sleeps,
until he's ready to peep.
He comes out, he loves the damp,
sliding along, up and down ramps.

Leaving his glittery, silvery trail,
how happy are wet slimy snails!
Then he sticks to an old, hard rock,
do not disturb him and do not knock!

'Cause snail has found his safe abode,
with his shell home, which is his load.
Snail is slow, cause he needs to find,
his perfect pitch, for peace of mind!

A young fit man, when he went off to war,
but as soon as I saw him, close that door,
I knew he would never be the same,
'cause war it ruins, wounds and maims.

When I saw him again, his hands trembled, shook.
His face looked haunted, with anguished look.
Now and then, he cried out, in mental pain,
I knew he'd come back, never being the same.

In the depths of the night, he cried out a name,
woke up sweating, said it's happening again!
A cigarette, would calm his broken thoughts,
alone he sat, feeling out of sorts.

I knew that he had P.T.S.D,
so I took him for a stay, in the Welsh country.
To a place where birds sang and fresh rivers flow,
a place of solitude, only peace would know.

In the woods, he sat with other friends,
chatted, slept in tents, til the evenings end.
They learnt bush craft, and how to survive,
making campfires and fishing to stay alive...

Slowly he got better with his fragmented health,
began to improve, 'til he had mental wealth.
Now, he is an instructor, teaching others bushcraft
and I'm glad I took him, to find that longed for, life raft.

With pride, I fumble hopelessly, trying to pin medals on my chest.
No one knows what I went through, as war, I really detest!
The grime  and desperation, I witnessed with these blind, tired, old eyes,
men really suffering, many falling and bleeding , many wounded, died...

We retold stories to each other, tried to keep up our morale.
Me and my soldier friends, Tommo, Bernie and Johnny, my pal.
But all anyone can see now, is an old worn out geezer, hobbling along,
trying to display his medals, just trying to belong...

In my head, I hear the shouts and cries , the piercing cries of my name.
The anger, wells inside me- who really back then, was to blame?
So, I'll just pin these medals on , and walk in  solemn gait,
remembering in stunned silence, all my long since passed away, mates...

Spring seems to burst forth with avid jubilation,
Animals and birds emerge from their Winter hibernation.
The Blackbird sings its sweet melody,
and the Bumble bee hums around- happy to be free!

Honey bees buzz, from flower to flower,
as the days grow longer, hour by hour.
But glorious,  is the Spring time sun,
enabling us, to have more outdoors fun!

Spring- time  flowers colour the land-
Yellow Celandines, Buttercups, Daffodils grand.
Clear weather ahead, no ice or mist,
Winter has retreated, no longer missed...

Clutches of speckled eggs spotted, in nests,
and Easter is the celebration, Christians like best.
Spring heralds in , the new born lambs
and baby creatures frollick and try hard  to stand.

Blossom adorns  trees and shrubs reveal their hues,
Spring's  entrance, is to  Summer, where the heat will burn through!

I would be enthralled at the stories the ocean could tell,
about explorers and adventurers that traversed its swell,
of the lives lost in shipwrecks and of pirate tales of old,
and legends passed down through generations, told.

The ocean is mysterious, enchanting us all,
and contains many strange creatures both large and small,
a vast body of water, we challenge with our might,
sail our boats across, battle it by day and by night.

It changes character, furious brooding one minute,
next it is calm and serene, then we can overcome and win it!
But when I see its rolling, crashing waves,
I am glad I am on terra firma, as it's stability I crave!