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Heart is not a safe,

it holds no treasure

to replace.

It is a sacred place

what lies within

remains forever sacred,

irreplaceable.
 1d
A W Bullen
In these unified states
amazing fade-ins

A made-in Britain, Baileys bottle
subtle winter rattle, shaking
daydream from the poles

Scolded by the errant claim
that Old St George, is cross-eyed
lame and taking to the sherry...

Old Merry England!
- maybe-

That cherished land
that took my hand
That loved me

and forgave me
We are a mongrel race of petulant pups- Island Monkeys"  is a name..but we will laugh at ourselves, and help the helpless, race, skin, colour or creed!
Im not a nationist  " Bullen" is a name that doesnt sit too well with Kings!
But these old shores have love a plenty!
**** what the wankers say ***
Knee deep in the weeds
To the sound of water

Leeched skin drains
In the River Cole

Excited barks
In the clay banks

Rodents tease
The old black dog

Long grass forts
And half mile trenches

The quest for sticklebacks,
Minnows and chubs

Neighbour wars
Over fresh cut turf

Jumper goals hide
The weakest squash

The unmatched
And unskilled teams

Played till the streetlights
Brought us home.

By Darren Wall
Old memories hit the hardest
 3d
irinia
a woman's passion is a fiction of the sun
a radiance that forms and lingers
it's time burning like a rag in a guttering flame
it flickers, it spits a storm, a moment's certainty
a lifetime's doubt
it is the whisper of the wind in barren trees
a crucible for gravity's fervor
a silence dreaming its imploded sounds
That bubble of a moon is
playing peek-a-boo behind
the wispy night sky.
Confirming to me
everyone's lunacy.
Words stick to the
roof of my mouth
like peanut butter.
It could have been
a better world,
I should have been a
better man.

January snowflakes
are like guilt falling from
the sky.
little frozen starfish...
cold and raw on
the soul, and tongue.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAdvMXLg6DA
Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I recently posted a poetry reading at the Three Bells Bookstore. My books are available on Amazon.   They are: Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, and Sleep Always Calls.
 4d
Karen
Dweller of the trees
Shy shadow emerald green
Deadly yet unseen
Modern haiku nature
 5d
Nick Moore
It was always,
The Cure and The Smiths,
That gave bliss,
Rejecting
Wham and Duran Duran.

When you found that certain club,
It was so great,
Minds could relate,
Finding your best mate,
No fighting
Or
Hate.

On the dance floor, with ****** killer and the slippery people,
Better to Byrne out, than to fade away.

The nights were so long,
Walking home to a bird song,
Sleeping until 12.00
How did I,
get out of those clothes?



Song - Freak Scene Dinosaur Jr.
 7d
Nigdaw
until now
this did not exist
a thought
brought pen to paper
that I could not resist
until now
this did not exist
so, I have to find a reason
for this scribble
on a perfect ****** page
until now
this did not exist
perhaps it was always
SOMEWHERE
for this precise moment
to fill a gap between
my wife coming home
and the end of an afternoon
turning to evening
until now this did not exist
then it was gone
so much potential
never reached
 Sep 19
Terry O'Leary
With fascist fist, white CHAUVINist (whose christian name is Drek)
hailed pearly Knights in Kevlar tights who spurn the ebon fleck,
and joined the Kops enforcing stops which keep black pawns in check.

Floyd feared the Kops (most drenched in drops that racial rules distill),
so long confined, entrapped, entwined in whitewashed webs until
he drew the straw that lured the law: a twenty dollar bill

for cigs he bought (no ’twasn’t ***) while at the corner store
and when he left, they called it theft at which he turned and swore,
strode to his car (which wasn’t far), to meet the nevermore.

The Kops arrived and chaos thrived as justice was deployed:
patellas pressed, ’gainst neck and chest (which Chauvin so enjoyed) -
as Floyd lay cuffed, like candles snuffed his light of life waxed void.

A knee to neck? Yeah, what the heck, when forced to come to grips
with someone prone that fate has flown within a wind, who quips
“Please, I can’t breathe”… those words still seethe that labored past his lips.

With windpipe crushed, through time unrushed (eight minutes last so long),
Floyd’s face seemed bent with eyes intent, and Chauvin’s smile was strong;
with bated breath of pending death, a chill chased through the throng.

Well Drek knelt proud before the crowd (no need of secrecy)
for, being copped, Floyd’s breathing stopped, while knuckled neath the knee.
Yes, poor old Floyd had been destroyed – “Mamaaa...” his final plea.

Epitaph

A single soul... but on the whole, Floyd’s death’s a metaphor
of crush and shove, by those above, until we breathe no more,
with twisted faces, lacking graces, pressed upon the floor.

As with attacks against the blacks and others, be they poor
we’re never told the manifold of deaths within this war  -
we’ll bumble blind until we find just what we’re mourning for.

The ruling class perverts, alas, the press, like wanton *****,
to dupe, misguide and wholly hide that septic social sore
engulfing us in putrid pus that’s oozing from its core.

Without a clue as what to do, we’re thralled as heretofore,
but nonetheless with due finesse, there’s plenty to restore:
the common good and brotherhood, world peace for evermore.

We must embrace the human race, its oneness not ignore -
so for our part let’s make a start with each hand on an oar,
as mainsails swing to finally bring the freedom ship to shore.
 Sep 19
renseksderf
Look on my works, ye Mighty — and bring a broom;
the dust is winning,
and the curtain you thought was closing
was only the desert swallowing the stage.
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