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Rediscovering Tollgate House: Memories of a Bristol Landmark

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Bristol

Rediscovering Tollgate House: Memories of a Bristol Landmark

Dean
April 24, 2024

Memories of Tollgate House in Bristol

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About Dean

British/Swedish poet/author. Pagan and lifetime supporter of both Chelsea FC and Linköpings FC. Feel free to use my poetry, as long as you link my name. All Poetry ©Deanthebard.com 2024

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Top Posts

Did Hitler escape to Argentina to become Father Crespi? September 30, 2009 (11,056)
Poem – The Phoenix who survived May 10, 2010 (10,378)
What became of Rebecca De Ruvo? July 14, 2011 (6,402)
Why I had to let you go – Poem June 1, 2012 (2,596)
Witch Hunt (Poem based on Millers The Crucible) October 2, 2013 (2,505)

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deanthebard

Writer, poet, Pagan. Books on Amazon. ⚽ Chelsea FC, Linköping FC, Yate Town. Founder & Owner @asinglemalt Books on Amazon.

The curse of 85 - Client request to write a poem a

The curse of 85 - Client request to write a poem about being born in 1985 and facing being 40

A Year That Had a Meaning
In a realm without a past,
Entwined through generations,
A future tied to what won’t last.

An ember of the old world,
A beacon for the new—
Each soul I met born in this year
Has faded into blue.

Was it just the system,
Or the echo of a dream?
A fragile generation,
Torn apart at the seam.

Too young to know The Cold War,
A missed home-tech creation,
Yet standing at the forefront
Of the net’s new generation.

Next year, they’ll turn forty
The keepers of the key,
Replaced by a cancelled culture,
Left to ask: what will we see?

As we pass the flame of life
To those born in '85,
Don’t question who is right or wrong
Just strive to be alive.

#poem #1985 #life #age

Everything is possible

Everything is possible

The Last Tear of War - A poem about an 18 year old

The Last Tear of War - A poem about an 18 year old soldier passing away on 11 November 1918

The mud, it clings against its crimson stain,
Across the field where the poppies reign.
Barely just a teenager, a life so new and young,
Now another casualty—look what war has brung.

The air grows still, the guns now cease,
A softened wind, a whispered peace.
He slumps amongst the fallen red,
His last breaths leave his weary head.

No more the screams, nor the cries of pain,
Mere silence on the poppy plain.
His fading eyes, they scan the scene,
The poppies dance, his tranquil dream.

A smile escapes his coldened lips,
With life's last breath, his spirit slips.
The war is done, peace is here,
His duty's end, drowned in a tear.

He sleeps among the fallen brave,
Where he lies in a nameless grave.
And in the breeze, the poppies sway,
An eternal tribute to this day.

#war #poem #Remembrance

Lest We Forget #remembrance #remembrancesunday

Lest We Forget #remembrance #remembrancesunday

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Recent Comments

karen on Life’s only guarantee Jun 10, 08:13
Dean on Did Hitler escape to Argentina to become Father Crespi? Dec 26, 19:42
Walter White on Did Hitler escape to Argentina to become Father Crespi? Dec 5, 07:52
Sheila Weaver on Contact Me Oct 13, 20:30
Dean on Poem – The Phoenix who survived May 3, 07:19

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