Celebrating two great writers' groups... and introducing a third. Now read on.
Sirens of Armistice Sunday
No idea, no desire. Such deaths shot out funeral attire; such deaths scooped away the soul; no tear fails to reach the hole dug by the numerous figures. Flipping the truth of futile war was the job of those posters punching faces featuring memories of embraces.
Off the face of Earth they fell, trench foot flaring up around them who no longer got to enjoy, having to instead endure the loss of living as soon as survival mode was shot at the lot,
The. Whole. Damn. Lot.
It was expected for their beings to become machines. A person cannot be a machine. Martin,
Making you turn back was not what I did; I allowed the way you acted on your patriotic values of Britain. Bertie,
I wish you were in disguise behind me this Armistice Sunday, taking me away from the mundane, taking me on road trips underage, skiving parts of school’s decade and a while, making me smile.
Two minutes’ silence, trembling sirens of staring as I snigger, attempting to hold back from sniffling as I reminisce both of you, who hover somewhere in some ten million.
Bashed. Me. Down.
No idea, no desire to experience to know.
War, forbid your futility. God, drench the trenches of my warless veins with amnesia, if you exist. Bring back the non-mechanic beings I miss.
Two minutes of silence, or not, I ache. Armistice Sunday, can you become my break from this longing of the far past which dominates my current existence? Transform those trenches of my veins to water slides that zoom in on each moment of individuality and liberty. Free my phrases of flirtatious flair, the desire I wish to share so I can escape the images of blood being drawn, which shot out funeral attire. Is it possible for Martin and Bertie to be peering from Heaven, admiring my hopes for today to rid me of sighs, unless sighs of satisfaction?
Armistice Sunday, blow my breath away for as long
As detox sirens.
The above writers have either been previous members of the Minutemen or Vibe groups, or are current honorary members of the Firebird Writers' Group. Note that all work in all draft versions is copyrighted.
Terry Griffiths: Poet and Prose Writer
Hello, reader, and welcome to my writing. My name’s Terry Griffiths, I am in my second year of studying English Literature, French and Psychology at Thorpe St Andrew Sixth Form, and intend to continue writing, particularly poetry, wherever life takes me. My writing motivation was heightened when the opportunity arose to take A-level in Creative Writing in HHS, thanks to Mr Armstrong, Ellie and Armando. The collection on this site features some of my poetry and prose I created during this time, along with more recent creations.
So far, as well as being published in the school newsletter and Vibe, my short story called ‘Last Moments of Life’ was published in the 2017 UK edition of Welcome to Wonderland, and, after entering The Armistice 100 Prize, I had my poem ‘Sirens of Armistice Sunday‘ shortlisted. Last year, I started reading at The Birdcage as part of an event called Poetry Collective. I have also participated in the Young Ambassador programme for Writers’ Centre Norwich, in which I promoted their writing competition and completed the Bronze Arts Award.