Poetry from the Heart

By Dim Flaxenwick

This little book entitled Poetry from the Heart, is exacxtly what the title would suggest. From the heart the author writes, whether it be something sad, happy, dangerous, beautiful. Any experience in life can be put into beautiful words,.
From the heart, therefore does not mean love, and hearts and flowers, but rather the authors feelings about war, crime, marriage, children,just about as diverse as you can think of.
Something for everyone is covered in this book of varied poetry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466912175

Dim Flaxenwick

The Book is entitled Poetry from the Heart, because it is exactly that... My own thoughts an d feelings. Some written when l was just 14 years old. some in my later teens, and the majority over the past2 or 3 years. l am now 61, a mother of 2 , grandmother of 6 and greatgrandmother of 2 l´d like the great grandchildren to know me through my poetry when l am not around. From 1990 until 2010 My husband and l lived on the beautiful island of Tenerife, just 100 miles from th coast of N.West Africa. A very cosmopolitan island, though Spanish a long way from Spain. Best 20 years of my life. Sadly circumstances brought us back to Britain where we grew up. We now live in the North of england in an area called The Lake District . It is called that for obvioius reasons. My husband is retired now and our daughter anfd 3 of our grandchildre live nearby.

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© Copyright 2012 Dim Flaxenwick.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Created in the United States of America.

ISBN:

978-1-4669-1217-5 (e)

Trafford rev. 01/21/2012

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after all l didn´t know you

By Dim Flaxenwick

am l so naive?l didn´t know you

To think that through it all.

l didn´t know you.!

How could l mistake the kindness?

How could l know it wasn´t real?

l didn´t know you.

l thought we had a solid bond

It was real to me…

How could l know your smile was fake?

Am l so naive?….for sure

l didn´t know you.

No wonder now, l keep a fence,

A wall around myself

A barrier twixt me and others

afraid of closeness,like before

before we met and I knew the score

Why would l want to make new friends?

New place— new people…– they could be you……..

And l didn´t know you. However much I thought I did´

I didn´t know you

How sad for me. How sad for you!!!

You cannot be a friend. You are not real.

l have ONE FRIEND. l cherish her.

But you? l didn´t know you,

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Anybodys´ Son Will Do .

By Dim Flaxenwick

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German soldier. Somebodys´son

Do Our Great Leaders Care?

Anybodýs´son will do.,

Anybodys´brother,

Anybodý´s ´husband,

Choirboy or local thug,

No matter! Anybodys´son will do.

Put them in a uniform and send them far away,

Away from family and friends, to teach them the New Way.

The way of war for these young lads

Never mind their mothers.

Anyones´son will do, yours, mine and others.

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American soldiers. Somebodys ´sons

Broken arms and legs will come, Missing hands and feet,

Beautiful eyes no longer can see, Ears don´t cause the tapping of feet.

Music that was so loved before, no longer is heard, when you´re back from the war.

Anyones´son will do.

Both sides are right and nobody is wrong,

So anyones´son will do.

Take off the uniform, what do you have?

The war is over, you should be happy not sad,

Not as easy as that, so sorry mum,

Not easy when your friends´shot wit a gun and all you can do..

Is turn and run. All you can do is run with your gun .

Hoping that you´ll be the one to shoot first…….When really…

You don´t want to shoot at all, at a young lad like yourself,

Just somebody´son…….

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Tell me please, How old does this ´´Soldier´´ look?

Aunty Kate should be here today

Oh! How she loved St. Patrick’s Day.

Shamrock so fresh would arrive in the post

Over the Irish sea to our house.

Aunty we’re Welsh, or British at least.?

She’d throw up her hands, as if we’d blasphemed.!

It’s Ireland we’re from.! (though British we seemed.)

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For Aunty Kate there was no contest.

A bunch of fresh shamrock was pinned to our chest..

Then proudly she’d sing some