The stream (all workshops)
Harrowingly
holding up
a glistening
golden glazed
glass of yesteryears
above a
withering wishful
world of
blackened blood worn tears.
Looking down
the leisurely
limping line
whilst wondering
what I would
leave behind. Footsteps
seeping
into the solemn
ground worned
with age never to
be found .
Poets are damned to live and die
beneath this sacrilegious sky.
They pen their petty piece of rhyme
They’re slaves, so they must steal the time
to pour themselves upon the page.
(They couldn't work without a wage!)
They hate to focus on themselves.
Their lives lie shattered on sad shelves.
They seek some kindly eye to see
(a heart in love with poetry!)
A kindred kind with selfsame soul
who’ll criticise, and yet console.
it was a beautiful flame
and it had to burn
the paper with our names
it had to wash away
each side of the coin shall always remain
I had a vision of a lonely Man
Who on his shoulders weight was laid
With every sadness that sorrow can
That in his eyes was Spirit made
To capture time and tame the rage.
His pouting mouth formed early age
But in his blood he sought the fight
And always knew a sense of right.
I read his words and heard the shout,
“Not yet will I turn about!”
I looked long for him, his never die
And found him in the wind’s dark sigh.
The creator of mortals, but only of men it is said...
Instigator through portals, of many flames blue to red.
Punished by Zeus, his liver a feast for the birds,
Left alone and not heard, but actions are louder than words.
The epitome of honour, eternal pain to help men
Out of the fire came knowledge, progress, and then ..
Pandora opened a jar, out flew much evil and sin
From then women were shamed, the men would win.
Tattooing Biscuit coloured
Backs with haphazardly soul
sunken prints, feet bars getting
kissed by rolling rushing turquoise
waves with white foamy caps.
Its froth briny toungue pushing
out jellyfish and crab cones
Weightless driftwood surfing
aimlessly, sheets of golden
light rebounded off the sluggish
warm highway sea.
THE BULLY
Being a bully is a state of mind
Not always physical you’ll find
Nor even aggressive behaviour
I wonder, who needs a saviour
And who’s the real victim here
Bullies are bullied it may appear
Yet is this all psychological fluff
Those affected have had enough
Not long before one might snap
And react with more than a slap
To pursue a permanent solution
Finally ending all the persecution
When I'm in a depressive phase
the whole world gets duller
like everything is muted and grey
music no longer sends chills up my spine
I can't concentrate on anything
long enough to satisfy my senses
I can't read or watch TV
or even write...
I just lie in bed
existing
waiting
for the voices to quiet enough
that I can sleep
Logs crossed to meet
their fiery destiny.
twigs added
to aid the match.
Failing, the logs
are bathed in fluid
to make their future
come in the form of light
and the scent of smoke.
People ring the bonfire
with marshmallows
on metallic sticks to be wed
with chocolate and
graham crackers.
For the cloak of spontaneity,
Is often born of impropriety,
Lest...
A heart withers to form a wisecrack in character.
True to the core.
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