Here is a poem I wrote... Poetry and The Garden The daughter watched her mother garden as she grew, But she never thought it important as what she wanted to do. Playing and talking to friends was her game. A social light, beauty queenshe could not be tamed. She was a great thinker, as she learned in school. She mastered poetry and played by its rule. Feelings and thoughts rushed through her head, But when she talked to her mother the conversation went dead. Her mother was of the silent type. Born and raised in England, it was her birthright. Feelings stayed closed inside the mind. Her mother wished her daughter would be of the same kind. Her mother tried to teach her to tend to the rose. To touch, to feel and smell with her nose. The beauty of the garden was her motherÂs paper. The emotion poured out of her hands like an anchor. Once covered with dirt, her mother smiled. She could carry out her day being calm and mild. Words about feelings never came easy. Her mother found dirt and pants to be pleasing. The daughter could never understand her mother. As her pen flowed with one thought or another. And the mother could never understand her daughter. But soon, she learned she should not bother. The daughter would do as she wanted. Through her teens she wrote in notebook, hearted. She had dreams of going off to different places. And when college time came, she left England with no traces. She wrote home as she studied in the west. Told her mother of classes and her marks on every test. She joined a poetry group to share thoughts she held dear. Something she never got from her mother for years. The daughter soon met the twin of her heart, A man who was open and honest and loved art. Together they painted and wrote about life. They talked through their happiness and their strife. Finally the daughter had found one of her own. Soon with her man, a family was sown. A daughter was the center for all of their care. They taught her to feel her feelings and share. As the child grew she became more inwards. Her lips stayed sealed as she watched the birds. If it was not the birds then it was the flowers she sought. One day the child found a shovel and pot. The childÂs world became the flowers and the earth. She felt like this had been her calling since birth. Every petal, leaf and bug seemed like gold. She knew she would garden until her days became old. Well the childÂs mother was worried and worn. ÂSheÂs turning out like your mother, her head forewarned. ÂTalk to me child, what goes on in your world? On her heels, the child twirled. ÂOh mother please, I donÂt want to talk. ÂBut child, your feelings should not be blocked. You should talk to me about boys and friends. You donÂt want to be lonely in the end. The childÂs eyes rolled as she went out in the yard. The childÂs mother thought she would have to play one more card. A trip back to England seemed the right thing to do. A talk with her own mother would hopefully brew. With a hug and a kiss the old mother greeted. Happy to see her daughter back home and pleaded. ÂSit down dear daughter and have some tea. The mother walked into the kitchen with glee. The daughter looked around her old home. Seeing cut roses on the table, she felt curiously warm. Things were the same and nothing had changed. This house still felt stuffy and she still felt caged. As she watched her mother put on the kettle, Her fingertips slowly traced the edge of a rose petal. She sucked in some air and bit her lip, She emptied her lungs to state the reason for her trip. ÂMother my daughter wonÂt listen to me. She spends all her time tending flowers and trees. IÂm scared for her life and her schoolwork as well. She spends all day with the plants and has nothing to tell. She wonÂt talk to me about feelings and such. I donÂt want her using the tending of plants as a crutch. I wish to know that she is fine. I want her to find a boy she thinks is divine. Instead of planting I want to hear her giggle. With friends and schoolmates, not staring at a thistle. She is missing school dances and things you see. Oh, mother what to do, she wonÂt listen to me. The mother slowly smiled and closed her eyes. ÂDaughter I want you to come with me outside. ÂOh mother please, I have no time for your garden. My daughter is in trouble, her heart seems to harden! ÂCome now dear, donÂt get upset. I want to teach you something if you let. Silently they walked into the yard. The mother carefully checked every plant card. ÂAh, here it is, this is what I wanted to show. Mint is my favorite plantÂsee how it grows? You canÂt tell from the outside that much is going on, But this plant is busy from dawn to dawn. ItÂs constantly growing and spreading its roots. Just when you think itÂs done, up pops new shoots. As this plant does, so does your child. Inside she is feeling, alive and wild. Sometimes you are not meant to see this. The best you can do is hug and kiss. Let her go her own way as I did you. Then you will know her heart is true. As you came to be when it was your time. She will in turn have her chance to shine. She will love you for letting her be. Just as IÂm sure of your love for me. The daughterÂs tears fell down her cheek. She for once, did not need to speak. She learned there was more to feeling then words. And for the first time she felt a quietness that was all hers. She got down to the earth and on her knees With a smile meant for her mother, started pulling the weeds. The mother got down on her knees as well. She felt overjoyed and her heart swelled. ÂI have never been good at speaking, But that never meant I was unfeeling. I have loved you forever and will love you still. As long as you live your life as you will. ItÂs a lesson I had to learn when you were young. I would worry about you until my hands were well wrung. In the end I found our differences great, But I cannot interfere with fate. You are as you are and I expect no less. So go back to your daughter and offer her the best. Your love for her is stronger then speech. The greatest thing she can learn is the love you will teach.Â

I get the lesions from time to time. My mouth is so susecptable to any extra acid or whatever that it easily becomes irritated. In my recent surgery, surprise, they gave me antibiotics so two days later my mouth is covered in the thrushy stuff and I am getting little blisters etc etc. But it is important to make sure that when you get them they heal...especially if you are diabetic ... A brush biopsy is where the use a little brush and get the basal layer of cells ..The bottom layer...as often it is only the last layer that contains cancer cells. They do brush biopsies in the lungs too...They use the brush to "brush away" part of the tissue in order to get to an area that is the most likely to hold cancer cells.

Yes, Dido--I am familiar with that poem and have taught it many times in the past--but strangely enough, had forgotten it. Thank you for reminding me. Impressive imagery. It chokes me up--the old lie! Since we are on anti-war poems, here are a couple more that I used to teach along with Owen. The Jarrell poem--WWII-- leaves us gasping because it is pure horrifying image with no commentary. The shortest and maybe most realistic war poem I know--and a fitting postscript to Owen: "The old Lie: dulce et decorum est/ Pro patria more." The second one--WWI poem--, with its repetitions and wandering, circling thoughts that take us no where but leave us caught in an endlessly pointless repeating maze, also leaves us gasping with its final pointed question--what are "patterns" for? The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner By Randall Jarrell From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. Patterns By Amy Lowell I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths. My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. ...

Dido, it is really encouraging that a modern teenager can get something from watching the British Legion ceremony. My parents were married during WWII and my father, in the 8th Army, was sent to North Africa. He talked little about his experiences there, except to say when any of his comrades died and were buried, within minutes the local mountain Arabs would appear from 'no-where' dig up the bodies and pick the corpses clean of uniform; everything. His tank was blown up but he claimed his life was saved because it was an American model the 'Grant-Sherman' with an escape hatch. After time in a field hospital and a hospital ship back through the Bay of Biscay and more treatment in England he was posted to North Germany at the end of hostilities and was finally de-mobbed in 1946. I was born in early '45 so was too young to remember him not being at home although his army battle dress tunic hung in the hall gathering dust for years. Going back a generation, my paternal grandfather served with the Yeomanry in WWI but because of a 'dicky heart' never went abroad and spent much of the time on Salisbury Plain. The DH's grandfather was very badly wounded at Arras and my American grandfather, living in England with a young family worried endlessly that if the US joined the war he would be called-up to fight. By WWII he was back in the US where he worked on the hush-hush Manhattan Project. On the female front my Mother turned down by the WRENS (for having an alien Father(!) joined the WRACS, worked in Signals in the beautiful city of Oxford and received the message via her teleprinter that my father was being posted to the hospital there. Was this my starting point? The DH's Aunts, both 'feisty' girls provided 'comforts for the troops' and one married a Canadian Royal Engineer . . . who's son and family visited for the first time at Easter. A famous and much loved English poem from The Great War The Soldier If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Rupert Brooke (1887 - 1915)