Emma’s Poetry Ponders

04/06/2026

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/18iuKDm98o/?mibextid=wwXIfr

🌊 Hand-Painted Driftwood Poetry Art 🌊

Driftwood, cradle of the ocean’s grace.
Carved by moonlight, time, and deep embrace.
— E. Walton, 2025

✨ Unique, Handmade, & One-of-a-Kind ✨

This beautiful piece features my own original poetry, carefully hand-lettered and painted onto naturally weathered driftwood, shaped and smoothed by the sea itself. Every knot, grain, and imperfection tells a story of the ocean, making this a truly individual work of art you won’t find anywhere else.

Styled to fit perfectly in boho, hippy, or coastal-inspired homes, it brings a sense of calm, nature, and poetic beauty to any wall or shelf. A heartfelt, handmade creation that blends words, art, and the magic of the shore.

💷 £15 plus P&P

21/04/2026

The Old Boat on Queenborough Shore

Buster our Jack Russell led the way,
As we set off walking one bright day.
Along Queenborough shore so wide and true,
The gulls cried out, while the soft breeze blew.

Then from the tide came squeak, squeak, squeeek!
“Please, won’t somebody give a helping hand to me?”
An old boat bobbed upon the sea foam,
Chained in place, wishing for a new home.

It’s eyes full of tears floating alone
It looked sad and lonely totally forlorn.
Our hearts they broke as we drew near
To see his face was fill of sad fear.

“My wood is stiff, my paint nearly gone,
I’ve hurt and creaked here for far too long.
A drop of oil, the loving stroke of a kind hand,
Could help me once again proudly stand.”

It dipped and rose with every wave,
So tired and old, but strong and brave.
I stroked its side and softly said,
“We’ll cheer you up, don’t droop your head!”

So oil was brushed on his chain and ring,
Our polish made his timbers sing.
Its planks grew smooth, its colour again bright,
It sparkled in the sunshine light.

The squeaking stopped, the groans were gone,
It danced and bobbed the whole day long.
Buster barked and wagged at me,
As spray drops twinkled from the sea.

The old boat laughed, “I feel brand new!
Thank you, friend Emma, and Buster you too!”
It swayed so proud upon in the estuary,
And called “why not come play with me!”.

So if you care for whats around,
Act with kindness, offer a helping hand
Look after treasures, old, big or small,
The world will bring happiness to us all.

Emma Walton
© 21st April 2026

21/04/2026

Only the Ordinary You and Me

In lands where ancient stories live so deep,
Where cries of children pierce the sleep.
The poor, the sick, with their hollow eyes,
Are looking up for hope in darkened skies.

A handful seated up high in msn made power,
Bring them fear that grows hour by hour.
With foul words and wars they play their childish games,
While real people in streets below are burned by their flames.

The people trapped in Iran’s once velvet night,
And Lebanon’s exhausting never ending fight,
Are caught between the cruel and the grim,
By tyrants strong and chances paper slim.

They’re told to rise, they must take a stand,
To free their homes and reclaim their land.
But how, with fragile skin and tired bone alone,
With sticks and stones, no shield, guns or throne?

What can the weak and weary really do,
When bombs fall hard and bullets continue through?
What can they change, what can they be,
The everyday ordinary, the you and me?

The mighty armies, vast, locked, loaded and trained,
With endless fire and computer intelligence, have scarcely gained.
If all their strength and clever mapping cannot prevail,
How can the everyday starving do anything but fail?

They look to Gaza, once alive now scarred and torn,
Where homes once welcoming now dust where grief is born.
Where all hope was robbed, now where terror stays,
And endless black dank night consumes the days.

But still they pray through the ash and the pain,
Through bloodied shattered glass and poisoned rain.
Israelis and Lebanese people are all the same,
With Palestinians they call their God’s sweet name.

Iranians whisper through streaming hot tears,
For peace the only way to silence all these fears.
Because prayers may rise in different words and ways,
All hearts still crave those gentler, kinder days.

But still the question hangs for them all to see:
Who can stop the tyrant’s cruelty?
Who can end the rule of hate from rulers above,
So these ordinary lives once again know love?

Until that day, through grief and flame,
The poor still suffer just the same.
And all the world must hear the plea,
Stop this hell for the ordinary you and me.

Emma Walton
© 21st April 2026

13/04/2026

I wrote this one in September last year and the events this week with Trump publishing himself in a picture as what many think is Jesus Christ, just further enforces my thoughts. He has already tried to portray himself as the Pope last year, now he says Pope Leo is only Pope because of him. Frighteningly egotistical, outrageous, disturbing, a very dangerous, in my view unGodly person. Surely this is now a step too far?