You are on page 1of 21

Ann Quinn


Copyright Ann Quinn (2015)

The right of Ann Quinn to be identified as author of this work has
been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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 prior permission of the
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
ISBN 978 1 78455 344 9 (paperback)
ISBN 978 1 78455 346 3 (hardback)
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain


War Weary (WW1)

Metal rims on cobble stones,

Churning and turning with that infernal sound,
Horses hooves try to buffet the sound,
Resonating softly as they canter along,
I am weary of this carnage
This infernal sound, the journey great and never-ending,
Yet soon I shall be home to lush green meadows and soft armchairs,
To rest weary bones, in warmth and velvet,
I am not the man I was,
War weary,
Mind lost in the hollow nightmare of war.
Yet supposedly I am the lucky one,
As war sows seeds of such depravity,
That in the recess of the mind,
I shall never ever be at rest or peace,
Until the day my body leaves my soul,
To Heaven bound, and then... I shall be truly free.

After the rain they stand taller still,
Heads raised high to meet the rays of the drying sunshine,
Festooned in deep purple, burgundy and violet,
They contrast strongly against the new green grass.
All the more beautiful in bunches they thrive,
A sign that Easter is on its way,
On this day pretty irises are on display.

Summer Holidays
I ran barefooted unsure,
As fast as I could down to the river bank,
We laughed and exploded with joy,
Freedom from school,
Summer holidays at last,
The river stones shone tantalising in the bed,
Silver, gold and brown,
Crystal clear and icy cold,
The heat of the midday sun,
Enticed one then all,
Like lemmings to jump and splash and swim,
The summer holidays had definitely begun.

Love knows
Love knows no boundaries,
Like a river it overflows with the fullness of its newness,
Swelling, ebbing high on the fullness of love,
Love flows unconditional like a mothers love for her newborn,
Joyous, amazed, filled with the simplicity of unconditional
Love shows us adversity standing strong against injustice,
Generosity replacing poverty,
Kindness instead of the inhospitable mouth of meanness,
Love grows where its given light,
Light of kindness,
Light of joy,
Light of happiness,
Fed by the selflessness of the soul,
Ego forgotten, put to bed like a sullen child, no remorse only
We speak of love always,
But words are hollow without the depth of feelings,
Feelings that are honest and true to who you are,
Love oneself unconditionally flaws and all,
Sit with it, accept it,
Be comfortable with it,
Truly feel gratitude for who you are,
Acceptance brings to me anew countenance of Amour.


A Bolt Out Of the Blue

A bolt out of the blue,
I saw you,
Struck by your handsomeness, unaware,
Dark black curly hair,
Tumbling around your head in a haphazard way,
Dark brown eyes,
Kindness personified,
Ruby red cheeks of a man used to the weather and all her
You stood affably chatting in that farmers way,
Of cows, lambs and will the weather hold for harvests,
To bring home to barns starved of substance,
I loved you then like no other,
Drawn to you in an inexplicable way,
However being just seventeen years old and you so much
How could I hope to hold your hand and keep your heart even


Red Tips of Vines

New red, wax tips of vines gesture through the newly toiled
Rouge and waxy they glisten in the setting sun,
Soil dark earthy newly folded to embrace them,
Gently planted in rows,
They grow quickly with the rain and sun,
Like individual sun-dials,
They shadow the setting sun,
Perhaps to be harvested come next September,
Or not, Im not sure,
I shall keep a close eye on them,
As the days weeks, months, unfold,
To see if they bare grapes red or white,
A mystery yet to unfold.


Rain falls heavily against the glass,
Reverberating in a tune of liquidness,
It flows in rivulets pure,
Washing the grime and heat from a hot dry summer,
The garden heaves a sigh of relief,
Thirst quenched from the aridness of the air and soil,
Refreshing it, revitalises and gives life again,
To plants wilting in the sun,
So quickly, re-growth begins, instantly,
Changing brown to green,
Like an artist whose change of colour palate,
Suddenly changes the scene,
Air cooler and damper holds on to the moisture for a little
As the rain ceases.


When I grow old,
I shall be an embarrassment to my children,
Shall be up to date with all the latest music,
Singing it at the top of my voice,
I shall say what I like when I like,
No biting of tongue on my behalf,
I shall joke and dance, like I am seven years old,
Enjoying company for companys sake,
I shall ask probing questions to boyfriends and girlfriends,
Keeping them on their proverbial toes,
I shall eat ready meals, take away and rarely cook,
Will trade in the family car for a sporty two seater,
And do an advance driving course,
I shall be everything society decides I should not be,
Just to buck the trend for older women,
Why not?
A rebel in disguise I shall shock and surprise,
That's the aim, when the nest is empty,
My WOMANITY shall begin!


Joy is a nice cup of tea for me,
Swirling warm liquid of enjoyment,
Milk no sugar please,
Must be genetic this addiction to tea, a grandmothers legacy,
A joke among family members,
Mrs Doyle from Father Ted wouldn't have to ask twice,
Its the Irish-ness in me, this love of tea,
I'm proud of my roots strong in the lands of Wicklow and
The Emerald Isle so many shades of green,
Light, dark, mossy, lush, green, and fertile, where great bards,
bands, world renowned,
Wrote about their tales of home,
My roots remain in Ireland, wet and well-nourished in the
deep dark soil,
Uprooted to France where the soil is dry,
I nourish my Irish-ness with comforting cups of tea.


Unknown Soldier
Unknown among many,
You were some mothers son,
Some fathers son,
Brother and lover,
Remains into nothingness,
You return to clay,
But that doesn't mean unloved,
You shall always be known as the Unknown Soldier,
A man who had a name and once lived, but now rest unknown
Anonymous a hero after all.


Shooting Star
She fell from Heaven a burning mass,
Lighting up the sky in an arc of brilliance,
No sound...
Just in blazing glory,
I wished upon her as she died,
And faded in to oblivion.


Spring Time
Blossomed filled cherry trees,
With blooms delicate and heavy with the scented perfume,
The breeze showers them like confetti, on the lane before me,
Like a bride on her wedding day,
The yellow gorse waves its scented stems of gorgeousness,
It catches my nose and my attention,
I stop and inhale its exquisite aroma,
Lungs full perfumed,
Further on the lilies deep royal purple with golden stamens,
Glisten velvety in the Sun,
Straight and proud they beckon me on,
Through the copse of trees, of musty, woody, dankness,
Where growth is dark and lush,
The coldness surrounds me,
I turn for home a solitary figure,
Just the dogs and I,
Alone in this colourful, scented, countryside.


Foaming white bubbles run up the shore,
Lapping into a frothy frenzy,
White effervescent, clear and blue,
They fizz in the hot days sun,
They recoil back as quickly as they formed,
Nature dictates the action once again,
Racing more quickly they wash and foam,
Leaving virgin sand smooth and moist,
And cold under foot,
I press the imprint of my existence,
Into the damp cool sand,
A perfect footprint,
For me to admire,
Then bubbles flowing, coldness flowing,
Washed it away as if it never happened,
Some like to leave an imprint so deep and great,
That once gone their legacy remains on,
Footprints for freedom, equal rights, fairness and justice,
Footprints so great because of selflessness, remain throughout
So maybe others might add their prints too,
In the sands of humanitys kindness to man.


Sweetness is the sound of laughter unchecked and true,
Joy is the gurgling baby contentment felt,
Peacefulness is the sound of singing,
Melodious and joyful from the heart,
Love is the sound of a baby murmuring,
Looking for its mothers milk,
Sounds are truer, than words,
They dont beguile, mislead or abuse,
Sounds are pure and unambiguous,
True to the essence of their intention,
True to the moment,
True to the experience,
We should pay more attention,
To the sounds that fills our ears and lives,
So we can hear sweetness, peacefulness and love,
And know it from within our hearts!


Precious Cargo (WW2)

Softly the rain trickles down my face,
Disguising tears of sadness and despair,
Platform full, all women waving,
Fixed smiles, forced bravery,
As excited children jammed pack,
Leave a war torn London for fresh air and fields,
I mouth I love you, see you soon,
As doors slam,
Whistles blow,
The train leaves with my precious cargo,
I return home bereft,
Made worse by the deafening silence,
I make a cup of tea,
Numbness sets in with my new reality,
I long to see them soon.


Yellow Dandelions
Yellow swathes of dandelions run horizontally through the
Masses and masses of golden petals compacted pressed within
tight ridges, made more beautiful by the fresh green grass,
The yellow gorse lets its presence be felt,
Perfume thick and sweet fill the breeze,
The sweetness of Nature fills the air,
Vines bare twig like curl and grip,
The constant support of metal wires,
Rows upon rows in lines before my eyes,
Running it seems between them and Infinity.


They nod shyly as we meander down the mountain side,
Sheer drops of steely greyness of hard impenetrable rock,
Falls and rises as we leave,
Yet among the harshness of sheer rock face,
Little clusters of yellow cowslips wave and nod in the cold icy
Fragile, angelic, yellow blossoms, too frail for such an
Yet thrive and grow graciously in all this harshness,
To me they symbolise theres strength in their fragility
A paradox in existence.


The Fire
The fire sings as fresh beech logs hiss and fizzle in its embers,
Embers growing hot and violent,
Encourage the wood to sing a little louder,
Flames leap red, orange tinged with violet,
As the heat rises,
The logs quickly succumb, becoming ashes white and grey,
It stills my mind as I gaze at its dance and patterns,
Heat lulling me into silence,
Open fires of long ago warmed the body and the soul.


A Scholarly Soldier
I kept a diary during those weary days,
Always scholarly; more a man of the pen than the sword,
Who said the pen is mightier than the sword?
In such depravity as war,
Kill or be killed, the milk of human kindness curdles,
As blood runs cold as death and mans inhumanity to man,
Knows no boundaries,
Just enemy lines,
Numbing of the mind,
So we can live to fight another day,
Seconds, minutes, hours, our existence wanes,
I kept a diary to remind me,
I am who I am,
I have fears, feelings, nightmares,
A scholar turned soldier,
In the war to end all wars!


Related Interests