Magic

A galdor is sung or chanted,

A galdor is never spoken.

The Galdre is true to his craft,

His bond shall never be broken.

 

A hex on thee he incanted,

Wearing his spider pouch charm.

The wizard says abracadabra,

The magicion waves his right arm.

 

A magicion says alakazam,

Is his magic hocus pocus? 

Hay presto sayeth the conjuer,

With a flourish he shifts your focus.

 

The grimoire says sim sala bim,

Open sesame, Pandora’s box.

Some sorcery, or enchantment,

Keep your eye on the paradox.

 

A lucky charm worn on the wrist,

Could it be just a delusion.

An amulet worn as a broach,

Touch wood to break the illusion.

 

Notes

This poem is just a bit of fun. A galdor (from galen -to sing) is the Anglo-Saxon word for a spell which was sung or chanted, often used as part of a healing. A Galdre is the Anglo-Saxon word for a wizard. A small pouch with a spider in it was considered a lucky charm.

 

Three years a slave for Imperial Japan

 A poem about my late fathers experience as a Japanese POW

Captured on fifteenth, February forty two,

The fall of Singapore, the empire cries.

To surrender means, no longer human,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Jim Rea three times corporal, and twice busted,

Building the railway of death for those guys.

Without regard for human life or limb,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Horrific maltreatment, railway of death,

If missing two days, then your hut chief dies.

Disobey the Nippon, can lead to death,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Go beyond the fence, without permission,

Then harsh punishment, or death for those guys.

Malaria, sickness and starvation,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Dysentery, cholera, beriberi,

‘I and most have no boots, just a loin cloth.’

Excrement and maggots, surround latrines,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Many men walk in camp, like walking dead,

Some men attempt to, end their woeful demise.

I can not keep the rice down, four men died,

For every seven sleepers one man dies.

 

‘I fold Nippon uniforms drying on grass’,

Carefully make a, neat pile and arise.

Heart in hand stealthily, carry out of camp,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Trade in village for, what food I can get,

Back to camp with cart, piled high with supplies.

Harsh questions by camp guard, is this my end?

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

‘I have provisions, for two hundred men,’

Guard lets me through, I escape execution.

Share food round the hut, A rare day of plenty,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Ulcer on leg, due for amputation,

Maggots infect wound, no need to incise.

Long open leg wound, is carried to grave,

For every seven sleepers, one man dies.

 

Rescued second September forty five,

Skin and bones survive, found by our allies.

‘Pies chase me in dreams, I wake up screaming,’

Each four meters of track, one more man dies.

 

Never speak of those, harsh brutal war crimes,

Wounds never heal, memories still reside.

Decimated by disease, or untreated wounds,

One hundred and two, thousand slaves there died.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea 30^th July 2023

Mid-Summers Eve in Town

 

 At the time of Henry VIII

 

As sun goeth down, on feast of Saint John,

Over proud street doors, oak branches appear.

Merry stout benches, are carried to street,

From branch decked doors, come gallons of beer.

 

Giggling young girls, with flowery garlands,

Frolicking men with, their large leafy crown.

Exuberant groups, of jovial folk,

In summery best, parade round the town.

 

As deep darkness falls, long touches are lit,

Rowdy crowds carry, fierce fiery staves high.

Flaming fagots start, to flicker in street,

The boisterous antics, amid the loud cry.

 

Dashing and dancing, to beat of tabor,

Bon fires spark and blaze, their flickering light.

Round pretty foreheads, of maids garlands twine,

As heavenly stars, begin to shine bright.

 

People crowd benches, and bowers in street,

Lucky flowers strewn, on twilight bench.

Green apple peals thrown, on the ground to read,

Some future husband's, letter to sense.

 

Let's all make merry, wassail this short night,

We raise and clash tankards, with cheerful high head.

Till dawn and sleep rob us, of festivity,

Creeping to oak branch, decked Mid-Summer bed.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea Winterfelleth 2022

The Jolly Meadow

 

The Jolly Meadow

Rambling through, the whispering weeds,

Crackling cowslip, scattering seeds.

Bumbling bees, beneath poplar trees,

Grumbling foxglove, sway in the breeze.

 

Ringing hare bells, making their sound,

Silth celandine, carpet the ground.

Pealing poppies, and talking trefoil,

Yabing yarrow, rise from the soil.

 

Bubbling buttercups, shouting shoots,

Dandelions with, their long tap roots.

Singing sorrel and Humming hemlock,

Tripping trefoil, and lady’s smock.

 

Yellow turrets of, tinkling toad flax,

With whistling vetch, in sun relax.

Swishing sweet peas, babbling blue bells,

Phonic primroses casting their spells.

 

Mumbling meadow sweet, waft the air,

Composing campanula, trumpets blare.

Roaring ragwort ,and hushed heartsease,

Grumpy grass pollen, makes you sneeze.

 

Singing nettles, hikery dicory dock,

Slowly wafting, white scented stock.

Rattled red clover, beneath the feet,

Cackling corn cockle, in fields of wheat.

 

Bountiful blue bells, and Monks Hood,

Murmuring mushrooms, hide in the wood.

Curious corn flowers, look amazed,

Cleaver clover, with daises dazed.

 

Copyright Andrew Rea March 2022

Will-o'-the-wisp

 

Over marshy ground, and dark boggy plain,

There dances a light, a flickering flame.

A will-o'-the-wisp, so eerie and bright,

Guiding lost souls through, the darkest of night.

 

With its ghostly glow, colours blue and green,

It travels about, its sly spectral scene.

A tempting allure, for those who may stray,

Leading from the path, to the land of fay.

 

But do beware for, this flickering light,

Is not what it seems, in the dead of night.

It's a trickster's game, a malicious sprite,

A devious dance, that leads one at night.

 

Yet, still it dances, that will-o'-the-wisp,

A haunting sylth sight, that's hard to resist.

A mystery that, captivates the mind,

An enigma of, nature for mankind.

 

So let it dance forth, that flickering flame,

A reminder of, nature's ancient game.

Symbol of mystery, and wonder untold,

The will-o'-the-wisp, a spectre of old.

A warm sunny day - what is it and how to cope

Good day, I am from the ministry of weather. Now I know that many of you out there will have been somewhat perplexed by the warm sunny spell that we recently experienced.

So this is a public information message to reassure you.

Part one - how to recognise a warm sunny day
A sunny day is a period of more than one hour when the big yellow thingy in the sky is not hidden by grey fluffy things. Warm is when you are able to remove a garment without immediately freezing.

Part two - background to the situation
Sometimes on rare occasions in the UK, mostly during the Summer time, we see the big yellow thingy against a blue background.

Part three - what to do
First off, do not panic! This is not the first time it has happened. Check this out on Wiki.
After a while, we start to lose touch with what a warm sunny day actually means.
Sometimes, the sun is so large and all-encompassing that we struggle to put it into words. Just sit down with a long cool drink and let it slowly sink in.

Part four - seeking help
The most effective way to do this is to phone a friend. Meet together and offer each other support or perhaps consider using a park bench for support.

Part five - make the most of it
It’s worth taking stock of what this latest crisis actually means for you and what you can do to help you cope. Find a nice spot beneath a leafy tree and sit on the grass. This is the unique time to actually enjoy having ice in your drink, yes I know this will come as a shock! But ice in drinks is not always a punishment inflicted on patrons by the hospitality industry.

Then whip out a cucumber sandwich from your lunch box and eat it. For the best results cut the crusts off and cut the sandwich diagonally into quarters.

Finally enjoy the moment because that may be all you get for a while. Never fear, the grey things will soon return and cover the blue bit and the sunny bit will disappear for a vey long time.

A Poem for the Ukraine 

 

Ye powerful hags, of the Northern hills,

Rid our friends of, their terrible ills.

I doth here invoke, and call upon ye,

Ye hags rough ride out, return and help me.

 

Oh thou cavalcade, of women riding,

Dreadful shield-maidens, the battle deciding.

Defend our Ukraine, from Putin attack,

Help us overthrow, and send them back.

 

Tha mihtigan wif, return to us now,

Dreadful Wælcyrige, protect them somehow.

With ragged garments, and thine linden shield,

Like devils ride out, on this battle field.

 

Oh ye Haegtesse, with helmets on head,

Fill our enemies, with thine battle dread.

Ride ye loudly through, fair country again,

Through heathen sky come, cast out the profane.

 

May din of thine spears, force army to flea,

Thunor's magic spear, from ash the world tree.

Females from beyond, return to help me,

May all sacred country be Putin free!

Introduction (this poem was first published on my Facebook page on 1st March 2022)

During WWII there existed a squadron of Ukrainian female fighter pilots known as нічні відьми (night witches). They flew at night reaching the enemy at dawn with the sun behind them. They were much feared and were very successful in their raids.

This poem employs the somewhat unusual construct of invoking an Anglo-Saxon mythical group akin to the night witches to come to our aid and help defeat the invading armies in Ukraine.

The Haegtesse were wild, armed supernatural women riding out in a group and causing harm havoc and mayhem! But were also known to help warriors on the battlefield and hinder others. These Supernatural cavalcades rode loudly over the landscape. They were also referred to as ‘ða (tha) mihtigan wif’ (the mighty women) and were seen as a cavalcade of riding women shooting its victims.

In some documents the word Haegtesse was used as a scan for Wælcyrige, sometimes the term ‘shield-maidens’ was employed. From the word Haegtesse we also derive the word hag used in Saxon times to describe a witch.