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Quote of the Day: Bad Poetry

"There is a huge amount of bad poetry in the world. Although new bad poems are being written by the hundreds every day (many of them in university creative writing classes), most bad poetry is simply weak and ineffectual and lacking in interest and (fortunately) is soon forgotten." Seamus Conney
(I'll keep that in mind. Jerryk.)

HYENA MANDELA

'Dobroye Utro'
slavic cheekbones
I view and sense
through a dreamgate
not cleared
a trickle of moist red hair
a hot slash of sunlight
Gone is the snowdrops
and harassing winds
an exhausting walk
no cabs
weather cancellation

Return

Hello Friends
It has been a while
I am not sure I have
Much to offer

Not sure if you
Remember who i am
A lot has happened
Since I left
I am not the same

But are we really ever the same
We evolve with time and changes
Good or bad
We live, we learn, sometimes we learn again

Thoughts of A Friend

Time,
it's catching up with us,
peeling away
our youth,
riddling our skins
with lines of age.

Don't wait
until our voice has turned
into a mere whisper
to declare our affections
for family and friends
to seek for forgiveness
and to offer one
for the wrongs we've done
and the misdeeds
done unto us.

Before we enter
the embrace of the earth,
let us live
without the sting
of regret.

COLD STORAGE

A bitter cold mid-winter night
wind howling in the eaves;
tired eyes blur this old man's sight.
Of distant youth he grieves.

The heater helps beat back the chill
yet he shivers all the same
as memories remind him, still
of freezing mornings seeking game.

Mornings so cold the frost would jack
and rise up with a squeaky sigh
in air that had gone nearly slack.
No cloud marred the cobalt sky.

Repair

Your heart, I can smell a little mourning,
a dart, hit you with little warning and marked,
tender scars you're no actor, your heart,
beats a little but there's no action.

You're sharp. You're a little bit more than angry,
your cart, has been upset oh see all them apples.
Easy lying in when your feel departs,
nothing to defend you from these black arts.
Nothing seems to help you seek a restart,
nothing tips the scale, what a cruel sweetheart.

my Pal

She was told to sit.
Sit?
Running was her thing,
screaming,
top of her lungs
till she nearly passed out,
most enjoyable things
she ever did.

Young she was then.
Patience is truly a virtue,
results are satisfying
most times.

Repetition makes for great training.
Sit!
One word order
(or coaching)
ceases confusion.
Pushing her rump down
helped give her the idea.
She finally sat down,
ordered to.

The Resolution Is Unmarked By Shards

sounds
puzzles, faces & spaces
We hear the news on the radio
long lines are being formed in the street

vision
twilight
capture a smile
We draw into the silence

Handwriting is on the wall
the soul vexation of the terminally ill
like a cold clap in the dark
you lit the spark to what I need to know

news, views & blues
We each have been given a talent
use this for your benefit
to stand in line

Here comes the night.

These nights are lit by the fires of coals,
so said a tragic lover of macabre translations

But here, the night is a quiet shoal,
that ebb tides good and slow
through my window

Let loose the music, on the wing,
let it fly in here, not mournful nor
melancholy

No, it is slowly rising up,
through the sick street vapours
into the cooled evening air

The shared Azure blue met and mingled
in eyes, transmuted in silence sung

Angel

This strangely downcast smile,
on marble angel’s lips,
which stands here all the while,
in shadows that eclipse,
beneath a rippled cross,
a dark and baleful sky;
still mourning some great loss,
or does she wonder why
we humans as a rule,
don’t treasure every breath
and live life to the full,
or come to terms with death?

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