Frankly it's a miracle I can write. Born dyslexic I had to be a dunce at school, and I was. Persistence, and a little voice within told me I could learn just as well at the school of hard knocks, and I did.
What you'll read in my writing is a gaggle of experiences, love, lust, hurt and pain. My loathing of war, especially the miserable bastards who promote and profit by it.
Also a life-long support for the not so fortunate with whom I relate. If you find a spelling mistake or two, that's the way flip flops. more »
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jerry hughes Poems
'I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree' A single leaf makes its own history. Attached to the bough from which it
A Message To My Father
My beloved father, the last time we met in company with your confidant and friend Abu, we spoke of many things. Most importantly the history I'd lost in the
HONE TUWHARE'S: RAIN
Rain I can hear you making small holes
AN AUSSIE SUMMER
The sun rises early. 'Bloody daylight saving.' Birds fly. Grasses grow. The Victa's primed and
He saw her, and knew he had to meet her, this elfin girl with bobbed hair and an oval face. Eyes as big as saucers, and lips,
After the First Death*
Amidst the rubble and confusion a child's hand clutching a toy.
A FOUND FRAGMENT
'the Somme 1916' I'm scribbling in incessent rain and mud has turned to slush.
2008 a new year. But is it new? That feeble minded imbecile George W. Bush is still here.
I wish I'd have done the things I should have, when I should have. Looking back, we're told we shouldn't - I could have done better - been kinder -
He said calmly, professionally without bamboozle; You won't know a thing
AFTERMATH OF A STROKE
The sense of loss can't be explained. It's as though half of you says 'let's do
There is a similarity about them. Eric, and my father. Quiet men, who went about their lives doing well for others.
BEING SEVENTY TWO
Des, what time is it? Seventy two. Not your age you silly bugger; What's the right time?
ANYONE, EVERYONE'S SON
He was anyone, everyone's son. A splendid, strapping lad with a smile to make an angel blush; So innocent, shy and wide.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
'I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree'
A single leaf makes its own history.
Attached to the bough from which it
sprung it is a perfect entity.
As part of the whole a resting-place for birds,
and a refuge for life-forms that we cannot see.
It welcomes the seasons, and greets each day
with an open face.
Throughout it's life it made no enemy, yet,
men come with chainsaws to fell the parent tree.