For those famed in their titles proud and keen
in high esteem the public eyes behold,
whilst I, of lowly birth pass by unseen,
yet my gems are most treasured more than gold.
I see unrest and pain in wealth and riches,
a complex web of lies, deceit and rain,
yet none would have a need to do the dishes,
or beg for cash when nothing’s left to claim.
Or take up arms to fight protect and save
and die on foreign lands, so’s we are free;
or know the sadness of a soldiers grave,
to sacrifice oneself as guarantee.
So I am lucky not to go to war,
and live in peace with no wolf at my door.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
I tire of fight, when my love desserts thee,
all that I held so dear has disappeared,
your word of rage was never meant to hurt me,
despite no explanation volunteered.
When faith is lost, a voice cannot be heard,
and doubt will creep into a lover’s heart,
until past joys are ****** into the dirt,
burned down to blackened ashes from the start.
And all that’s left is sorrow and regret,
misunderstanding feeds a shallow mind,
and opening the door too much a threat,
for honesty is now the purest kind.
When love can be rejected when it’s true,
then there’s no hope in giving love to you.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
Not from the cards do I my fortune pluck,
and yet my luck seems adequately sweet,
I seek a higher ground to reconstruct,
my self esteem is much less than complete.
Now should I turn to drink, and drown my sorrow,
roulette would keep me up until the dawn.
Would tranquillising bring a new tomorrow,
or should my fate decide which path I’m drawn.
For lately love has turned into decay,
and broken every vow it undertakes;
the only solace left is my bouquet,
red roses and selection of cream cakes.
When playing cards a win is always mine,
but love can be so fickle ev’ry time.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:22 AM UTC
A beautiful mind locked in doorless corridors
where repetition stabilises and calms.
A determined path of adventure into unknown waters,
then drowning when reality chokes optimism.
A blameless existence, where selective thoughts control,
and anxiety sabotages and destroys all things beautiful.
Joys pale into distant dreams . . . to the outside world normality prevails,
behind the curtain, a nervous tension builds and grips the spirit ******* out its life.
Sleep is usurped and any pleasure of tranquility is alluded.
An exhausted mind and body writhing in pain and falling into a bottomless pit.
No one can help, No loving can change the hopelessness,
A behaviour that is repeated over and over in a cycle of torment.
Tranquillisers relieve the symptoms, but the episodes continue,
The ups and downs, the highs and lows, and the suffering is hard to observe.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
A curse on glass, as it reflects true time,
and when we look we see life in decay,
a path ensures our ultimate decline,
the ticking clock that never will delay.
And so we try to cheat the image shared,
conceal our age, adorn our fake façade,
behind the mask the clock is still prepared,
to **** our time with its cold disregard.
No mirror can reflect the inner soul,
where timeless words are written on a page,
unique is ev’ry footprint on our stroll,
like great philosophers, we never age.
The clocks preserve the moment we embark,
reflections mean that we have left our mark.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
There' s an Olympic runner called Mo,
Who had lots of get up and go,
He went for the gold,
And low and behold,
He won four medals in a row!
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Red roses bring joy to our eyes,
Orange juice to quench our thirst,
Yellow sunshine fills our skies,
Green countryside in summer burst,
Blue is the feeling of our broods,
Indigo ink flows into writing,
Violet tastes are sweet and smooth,
and rainbows are exciting.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
The Pals battalion,
Young soldiers of nineteen,
The total death toll reached a million,
On the Somme in nineteen-sixteen.
The men in splendid spirits,
There was optimism in the ranks,
With co-op bombs and bayonets,
Gathered on the sunny banks.
The first bombs fell on Picardy,
Now they stood in lines to push,
They will annihilate the enemy,
No need to charge or rush.
But the German men were ready,
Their intelligence was good,
They knew about the enemy,
Their intention understood.
Our men walked into open fire,
So many lives they stole.
Shot and maimed before the wire
On their gentle morning stroll.
Bodies crushed in defeat,
In a field of flying lead,
Soldiers dropped to their feet,
Leaving many dead.
The slaughter would not stop,
In this futile ****** game,
All deserters would to be shot,
The only gain was being maimed.
Battle planning was inferior,
Senseless death was inhumane,
In the carnage and hysteria,
On the pretty red poppy plane.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
A fairyland of undergrowth, with a damp musky air,
St Lawrence has a faithful oath, to cultivate and share.
A thrive of all alive, in lush green leaves of old,
The trees in mists sublime, inside a micro climate wold.
A secret world of organisms, multiplying million fold,
Where delicate microcosms, dare to be so bold.
This natural habitat, from seedlings very small,
Quenched by a water vat, chalk streams a waterfall.
Waterlogged muddy bramble slips away at will,
Fertilised to nourish, it's hard to keep it still.
Thatched cottages blend, among the evergreens,
Flowers wildly transcend, into unexpected scenes.
A house made of glass or stone, brick or thatched,
An array of different homes, wholly mismatched.
An under cliff protected, from wind and heavy rain,
Where settlers have constructed dwellings on delicate terrain.
Red rocky backdrops, contrasting in the light,
Emerald carpet covered tops, against a cliff of white.
A multitude of Cretaceous hidden footprint tracks,
Of pre-historic fossils providing us with facts.
Alum bay provides the candour, steep hill cove, the English day,
Black gang chine, the entertainment, screams above a silent bay.
The noise of nature's habits, where a gentle hush is heard,
Of scurrying little rabbits, or a cheerful songful bird
Home to Dickens and to Darwin, Carl Marx to name a few,
Alfred Lord Tennyson inspired by the picturesquely view.
The Osbournes, Alan Titchmarch, are living here today,
To escape from commerciality, and keep all fame at bay.
Well-trodden shutes take a stranger to the sea,
Along a Pirate's secret route to claim his offshore ******
Time has not dissolved these perfect pretty scenes,
Well used in the past and still there to be seen.
A quiet friendly cloak, behind a rich and wealthy hive,
This isle of natural opulence, where many past events survived,
Ancient stone church steeples, where priests left their gold,
Built for religious peoples, as a refuge from the cold.
Take a step back in time, to unspoilt and unruly soil,
Where the elderly recline, in this haven for the Royal.
The Victorian architecture, preserved in perfect light,
An outlook of conjecture, is called the Isle of Wight.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
Life is serious,
When freedom is at stake,
No time for frivolous comment,
Progress striving for a break.
He campaigned for the poor,
The persecuted blacks,
The fight against the white man,
Segregation were the facts.
Change was resisted,
Some died for the cause,
He was one to be respected,
And reluctant to use force.
Stubborn history of those,
Who would not budge,
Commanded by their forefathers,
To continue with the drudge.
But this man stood his ground,
Fought for freedom rights,
His ideas with a sound
Fairness in his sights.
Equality for all men
Regardless of their colour,
His heart was open,
For us to love one another.
Like a pretty bird
Colourful and bright,
Rage and jealousy,
Extinguished his bright light.
The Baptist Minister,
Changes he did bring,
Civil rights activist,
Was Martin Luther King.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC