The stream (all workshops)
Time has age me since paper was put to pen
Walking through life in more rain filled question
Why does it sing out with the poetry that I cannot omit
Time has age me since paper was put to pen
beautiful poetry on love
but whilst you are on mother earth
find a real LOVE...
all the best poet dear
many will like you to endear
and love them as youth warrants you
and then alone heavens will welcome you
for the service you rendered on mother earth
where you had been sent
to Y chromosomes present
and lend the selfish gene
a loving hand
wherein man can continue
as long as one can
lend him yours too
as then only a whole being
they all will consider you
Little Miss Muffet,
sat on her tuffet,
quite comfy, so they say,
She looked at the spider,
that sat down beside her,
and swatted the blighter away.
He whizzed past her face
at such a quick pace,
much to her great surprise.
His mouth was agape,
contorting its shape,
while blinking his multiple eyes.
The wind blew her hair,
so pretty and fair,
that he became obsessed .
He grimaced a smile,
that looked somewhat vile
and his legs curled under his chest.
Whenever l am quiet
l gain ways to comprehend,
l listen more intently
and hear the message others send.
Mental clutter seems to dissipate
my very instincts are more clear.
l understand my friends, and family
so my heart holds them more dear.
l focus so much better
when distractions fade away,
my expectations follow suit
so emotions can't betray.
At my best l am a listener
an observer l become,
providing me keen insights
that alludes not all, but some.
Dark dark night
Staring at those
Dark dark eyes
A silhouette of not an angel that hides
Floating,
in the air...
hush...now hush...
watch it disappear !
Don't wake me up
I'll catch fear
These eyes only wanna see you
in my head
When I turn the lights on,
You disappear....
Why do you disappear?
Some eat the biscuits, wear the finest silk
and travel 'way towards the furthest star.
They'd sleep on roses, wash with whitening milk.
They hardly bother; living lone and far.
Some feed on fodder, wear but heavy chains
and travel there, where mirth could never land.
They'd sleep on thorns to loose eternal pains
where utmost misery gives the hell a hand.
Fight the Power of the Pound
Where are those kind heroes
whose stories never die,
who gave up wealth or freedom
to fight for you and I.
I’m talking about Mandella,
Luther King, or Nigel Benn,
will I live long enough to ever
see their likes again?
Though my heart is strong and I
may strike for a few years yet, the
feelings I get from today’s people
put social fighters under threat.
My mind is astir
I wish things could be as they once were.
My heart is drowning in sorrows,
sad for those empty tomorrows.
From high up I fell.
I hit the ground, it didn't end well.
After bouncing off jagged rocks,
with nothing absorbing the shocks.
Numb.. for awhile,
my stomach churned with sickish bile.
I tried to move, but I was stuck;
felt as if I'd been hit by a truck.
drizzle trix
melts through the tangle of toes
the valleys of dark
tickle trough sins
like a thin belt sated with
thin gold stubs
tightened
and leash pulled
the soul plume
exquisite
and falling
grasping air
pulled into
need
the swollen lust
crash
gasping
full large hazel
eyes
and the black
peirced depths
behind the flicker
lashs
It saved them all, you know;
those caught within last
slow throe of extinction
inevitable in the face
of so-called human progress;
For in that final place of wilderness
men were busy building homes
and businesses
stripping woodlands, plowing meadows,
paving marshes,
crowding out solitude and beauty
they sought with so much diligence,
killing off the very thing they wanted
with the squirming thick
of swelling human masses.
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