Lest we Forget - and -

 Lest We Forget

Remembrance Day 

on the 

eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month

The bright red poppy is regarded as a resilient flower, which managed to

 flourish despite fields being destroyed by war 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

Laurence Binyon

This is a poem that my Grandfather 

William Barwick 

wrote in 1916 about 

how they managed at home, with their 5 sons at war.

Thankfully all came home.

A Mother's Love

Their boys - some in khaki and some in blue,

Through Hells fiery furnace have fought, and come through

And Mothers at home, have fought battles as well

And torments of anguish, as no man can tell.

Watching the postman, hearing his knock

Startled and frightened, trembling in shock,

Searching the papers, in anguish of mind,

Hoping and fearing, that his name she will find.

No news for months, perhaps, Oh! the suspense

The suffering of Mothers, is pain that's intense.

Then, better than no news, a wire, she recieves

To say son is wounded, it even relieves

The tension of feelings, to awful to bare,

Even to know he's alive, is good news to her

 And a short whispered prayer, ascends up above

To God for his goodness and mercy and love.

Please do not copy this without mentioning

William Barwick and where you copied it from, 

it is copyrighted. 

Grandfather's house

Hi Everyone aren't we lucky to have a hobby that keeps us indoors in these confusing and worrying times.

My project today is for

This suited me down to the ground as I have recently copied down a LOT of my Grandfather's writings, with over 200 poems and 3 "books" of his life, it has taken a lot of hours over the last 18 months and I have a lot still to do. I have been doing talks to groups about them and they have been very well received. I have 3 "talks" all with great emotion in them. One of his son as POW on the Burma Railway with the Japanese, the second of him going to work down the coal mines at 10 years old and the 3rd building of his house. He starts on why he moved to the village and the tragedy that made him move. 

So I decided to use part of his story as my DT project with this digital Scrapbook page. Digital? so I can send it to other members of the family who don't know the story.

I hope you enjoy the story if you can read it? Don't forget you can enlarge it by holding down the ctrl key and using pushing the mouse wheel forward, do it in reverse to put it back as it was, you may see a popup box asking you to "reset" just click that if you want to reset it as it was.

template for page - P Wolf

a blog hop  freebie at PixelScrapper

elements are also by different designers in the blog hop.

https://tuesdaytaggers.blogspot.com/2020/03/home-sweet-homewhere-would-you-like-to.html

https://watercoolerchallenges.blogspot.com/2020/03/wwc263-tristans-challenge-anything-goes.html

Update on poems

Hi Everyone. A second post from me today just to keep you updated about my Grampa's poems. With a few piccies. You can skip this if it doesn't interest you!

I had a museum curator come to see them a few days ago, he said he wondered how Grampa had slipped through the net and not been acknowledged for his poems, there are very few poems written about the coal mines by actual miners, which he was. The Curator also said his museum couldn't do them justice and as there are so many, he is going to search someone out, someone who will be able to do them justice, as they will need cataloguing and be rewritten. He said to continue writing them up as I'm doing.

Just to know that someone outside of the family appreciates Grampa's writings was an enormous lift to me. I thought you may like to see a little of what I have.

The blue folder is his writing of his life, that I have typed up. The old case is full of note books and paper with his writings on.

the poem in the left book is the poem I did on a scrapbook page HERE

The pink book are the only poems he had published. 

 Some poems are dated 1916 and 1917 about the tragedy of the soldiers and their treatment when they returned home.

first verse of one of the poems, there are 6 in total.

Our Broken Heroes

Only a broken soldier, now thrown aside as "scrap"

After fighting for King and country, and now, who cares a rap.

What will become of our heroes? Shall we leave them to die in despair?

It's a shame the way their treated, after doing their bit out there.

I haven't gone on as it's such a sad story. I don't want to leave you with sadness. However he does have a funny side to him too. This was written during the Second World War. There was a campaign for people to "dig for Victory" as there was a food shortage.

I’m in the Spring #39

The birds, yes, they whistle and sing,

The lambs they gambol and jig,

And I go to the garden and sweat, oh! Beg pardon,

For it’s my lot, on my plot, to dig.

The dock leaves are showing up fine,

Their roots are so deep and so tough,

I follow them down and tear up the ground

In an hour I have had quite enough.

I sit down to rest by the hedge,

That blackbird is singing a treat,

While I’m cleaning the weed, for sowing the seed

And digging up worms he can eat.

But I mustn’t give in, now I’ve started,

I must oh! My back – have a go,

Or my neighbours, will think I am lazy

Of my pain in my back, they don’t know.

Twas old Adam that started this nonsense

And alone is to blame,

As he made his garden in Eden,

We are expected to do the same.

So, it’s dig – yes dig, for victory,

Never mind the sweat on your brow.

Dig deep - if you would grow onions,

I had to – and that’s how I know.

My Grampa

Hi Everyone, I have been so bad with blogging, but I have an excuse -

I am writing up and trying to decipher my Grandfathers poetry, over 200 and all handwritten before 1909 up to 1956. I have been invited, quite by chance, to speak about him and his poetry to a couple of local groups. I'm thrilled about it, as his writings deserve to be heard.

An ordinary working man, he was born in July 1870 and died on Jan 1st 1957. He left school at 10 years of age and went down the mines, he also worked in quarries, when laid off from the mines. He wrote poetry, did water colouring, had beautiful handwriting and was quite clever with such short schooling. He wrote about the times he was in, the suffering of the people and the beauty around him.

I've done a scrapbook page of one of his poems. I hope you like it, it was written in December 1916 during the First World War. The picture is of him and my Grandmother.

just a little explanation of a couple of words, in case you don't understand -
9 pence is the old money £sd, pounds, shillings and pence
to reckon out the taters - distribute potatoes 
bacco - tobacco

Anyhow after all that here is the poem