Lets **** again
this fair land, ***** so many times before.
She cannot cry out in pain
as we steal her innocence.
Take it...take what she has to offer,
care not for the ravaged earth you leave behind
while you earn another dollar.
Yeah, she can recover
but not in your lifetime or mine.
But why should I be bothered?
After all she was put here to provide

Loghain is the lyrical artists voice
He has to be the artists choice
His words are read throughout the world
Though they do make the fresh milk curdle
He only has *** with the lights turned off
And never will he his pyjamas doff
Never to his socks remove
As his lover is subjected to poetic abuse
The time then comes in his ecstasy
When Loghain shouts with vervant glee
Enough woman enough of this
It was fine for the thirty seconds that it was stiff
I now must pen about this act
My worldwide following expects more crap

Loghain, I am confused
You have proclaimed yourself to be
The worlds greatest living artist
With both pen and brush!
Nay, nay in your own words
The greatest artist who has ever lived
Who then am I to disagree
For I am but a simple mediocre man
With humility in my soul
And therefore must bow before your wisdom
And yet
Hours spent scouring the internet
Studying the great artists and poets
And I can find no reference to your name
Among the artistic greats
Of this modern world
Perhaps you are the artistic angel of god
And he in his infinite wisdom has decided
Not to release your great artistic prowess
Upon we the subservient illiterate masses
As a sub par human I bow
Yes I bow before the greatness that is you
You who deserve the accolades poured upon you
Loghain oh superior being
Long may you rain

I didn't write this work, it was written by my dear friend Carole Hurley who has been having a problem posting

I sit on the top deck of a red London bus and view the world passing by, so much more interesting than a drive in a car.
Where are they all coming from, the people I see? Where are they going to, what do they do with their lives? These people I view.
That little old couple,  side by side holding hands. They look so content as they walk down the Strand.
The young men and women hurrying by, perhaps going to work, maybe going to buy a sandwich to eat in the park.
Tourists in their thousands viewing our London sites. I wonder where do they all go to at night.
I gaze eagerly down as we pass famous stores, their names proudly emblazoned over the doors.
I love the hustle and bustle of our London town, a wonderful mix of the old and the new, I try to absorb all the breathtaking views.
Theres Tower Bridge in her livery of gold and of blue,  her ramps held aloft as a ship passes through.
Whitehall where the soldier high on his horse so proud and so still, while tourists take photographs later to view.
Big Ben chimes as the Houses of Parliament we pass. Westminster Abbey so stately and tall, for hundreds of years overlooking it all, the laughter the sadness,  the tears and the fears.
I look at new buildings all made out of glass.  I look at it free courtesy of my free bus pass.

Look don't keep coming to me about increasing crime
Lack of social welfare
Problems about immigration and lack
of housing

I have enough problems of my own.
What kind of car will I buy next year?
Where are the best universities for my kids?
(I had to get my PA to research that)
What holiday will 20,000 dollars buy me?
How many new outfits can my wife get for
5,000 dollars for the holiday?

For ***** sake with the problems I have and you expect me to sort out yours, get a life, I'm only a politician

Well this 2014 is finally drawing to a close
Looking back what do I see
Ebola
******
The massacre of innocent children
Countries where the bullet and bomb rule
In the name of religion
And yet amid the madness
The carnage
I still see beauty
Beauty in unspoiled landscapes
Beauty in a simple wild flower
I also see love
The old couple on my street
Married for over 50 years
Young mothers with young children
The old couple are content
They have lived and loved through times
Both good and bad
But the young mums and dads
With the young kids
What does 2015 hold for them?
Peace and happiness
Perhaps,
There is still beauty here but in another form
That my friends is the beauty in your written words
Words that bind ethnicity and religion
Into one family
That is our family, hellopoetry

I wish you all a safe and peaceful 2015


Joe

I cast my mind back to my formative years
the simple life of a child, no real dangers or fears

No play stations or TV we made our own fun
Our playgrounds the fields and the forests under the sun

I often think back to those halcyon days
When we had unwritten rules about the way that we played

Eleven years old and wasps in a cloud
fourty eight stings later and boy did I howl

Now aged fourteen and a change for the best
Two years of training as a professional chef

At sixteen years old and a big change had begun
because I decided to make the army my home

Two brothers before me had taken up arms
and if needed would fight to keep our country from harm

Nineteen and still innocent in a strange foreign land
a place of death and destruction,  sharp rocks,  burning sand

I still have the dreams about what I did, things I saw
I guess such things happen when teenagers go to war

Twenty two and another change in my life
because I'm no longer single,  I now have a wife

On valentines day in 74
the midwife delivered a son to my door

A miracle of nature this beautiful boy
the first time I held him my heart filled with joy

And so long years passed, the good and the bad
at fourty from the army I parted, neither happy nor sad

I had travelled to lands I would never have seen
if I hadn't chosen to wear khaki and green

So at forty I made another life change
and decided to enter the security game

Several years later I decided to teach
to pass on the knowledge that others did seek

Well now approaching my sixty seventh year
its time to embark on another career

It's time to relax and grow gracefully old
a time to take up my pen so my story gets told

Forget your childhood dreams for they are lost
Evaporating into the thin air of history
There is no fairystory ending
But death, destruction, ******
And there the fairystory must end
Reality, yes reality
Blood stains on the streets
Because the barons of the drugs decide
Supremacy must meet
It's become so easy to point the gun
Without thought to extinguish life
But they in turn must answer
And they in their turn must die

What is the best description of you?
I've lost the words to describe
What is the best way to thank you?
I've lost the right words to use

What is the best description of me?
You say you've lost the words to describe
What is the best way to thank me?
You say you've lost the right words to use

What is the best description of me?
You will re find the words to describe
What is the best way to thank me?
Well just use the words in your heart

Rina and Joe

Love is not love when it leads to shattered dreams.
Love is not love when doubts are in between.
Love is not love when doubts assault your mind.
Love is not love when your thoughts and doubts entwine
Then what is love???

What madness is taking over this world?
Why the mothers, why the children?
When I was a soldier I made a choice
I knew the risks.
I blame them all.
Taliban, Israelies, Americans even my own countrymen
Yes, all the warmongers who make money from the sale of arms
All the radicals who don't believe in democracy
All those who steal the lands and destroy the homes
of those less educated or less wealthy
I hope those responsible can sleep soundly at night
Those who fire the randomly aimed rocket and shell
can wash the blood stains from their hands.
They don't have to listen to the weeping mothers
They can close theirs eyes and ears to the anguish
of families ripped apart
They are never close enougn to smell the cloying stench
of drying blood and rotting bodies

Were it in my power to do so I would take them there
And rub their noses in it
,

Just been out in my garden for a cigarette
Stood there facing east
Two stately oaks stand over there
Sillouted against a rain filled lead grey sky
Behind me the westering sun sets
Throwing its last dying rays
To fall against those stately trees
Green they stand there
Ever changing minute by minute
Lime green to olive,  to almost black
So many differing shades of green
How can any human stand there
And not see the beauty in those trees?
They started life as such small insignificant things
More than eighty years ago
But look now upon the statuesque beauty standing there
Eighty years standing against all that nature threw
Those mighty ever changing royal oaks

Do you believe in magic or the world of make believe
Of dragons who spout gold dust instead of fire when they sneeze
Of little men in soft green hats with long grey beards and such
Well you should believe in all those things because by magic you are touched
That tinkling noise in dead of night that has no earthly cause
That is the magic in the air and that magic is all yours
Believe in witches, black cats, cauldrons on fires bright
Believe in Knights of olden times in armour gleaming white
Think about the moon dust making diamonds in the sky
Think about the magic surrounding you and I

Gazing down from my hotel balcony, a beautiful breath taking view, acres of landscaped gardens, flowers, trees of every colour and hue

My eyes travel over an azure blue bay. To a thousand coloured sunshades assaulting my mind

An ants nest of seething half naked humanity, burnt red and covered in oil. Surrounded by discarded bottles and cans and wrappers of ice cream stained foil

For a week they're going to lie there, bodies burned raw by the sun. Their idea of enjoyment, their idea of holiday fun

I have walked the length of those bright golden sands, smelt the stench of the stale cooking oil. It gives me no pleasure to linger here while I have the real Malta to enjoy

Beyond the human pollution the sand dwellers love a burnt barren ridge gainst the sky. And yet from this red brown earth an existence bis clawed by the strength of a strong Maltese hand

My gaze travels left to the beautiful church and the cream coloured town just beyond. The old and the new joined hand in hand where concrete marries natural stone

How many of the sand dwellers have enjoyed what this beautiful land can provide? Have they truly experienced this island,  seen life on the other side?

In a few days they'll be up there flying back to the place they call home, but from what they experienced of Malta they might just have well been to the moon

March smart to the beat of the drums boys
March toward the sound of the guns
There's a battle yet to be fought boys
Before we can return to our homes
The dead now lie in rows boys
Cut down by the shot and the shell
But the enemy will turn and run boys
When they hear the rebel yell
Find the courage in your hearts boys
Although this day is lost
You fought and died so bravely boys
Was it really worth the cost?
So few of us are left boys
Sorely hurt, ravaged by pain
So many of us died boys
For what? For us there was no gain
Mothers, wives and sweethearts boys
In so many homes do grieve
They said we would be in for three months boys
Now so many will from here never leave

Rest In Peace boys

Why do you write you masters of the ink?
Is it for we lesser beings to study the phrases that you pen?
Beautiful words of natures splendour
Or the dark words of a tormented soul
Or like me they can be words telling of many things
A birdsong in the dead of night
Or a tale of Elven folk.
No matter of what you write
The ink flows from an imaginative mind
Words handed down through the ages
To still be read when we are gone

I've been away for much to long but now I've returned
Yes it really is ME
So many great writer are no longer here their whereabouts unknown
But I have come back, yes it is ME
Once more I must take up the pen and write the jumbled words inside my head
Write simply simple poetry because it's simply ME

Woke up this morning to a real blizzard
Well about seventeen flakes an hour
Anyway I dressed Mollie in her little red waterproof
And walked her down along the river
Why in hell does twenty two pounds of fighting fury
Need to wear a waterproof coat?
Well because she's over eight years old
A really good age for a Patterdale Terrier
And just occasionally she has to be reminded about
Just how old she is
Why in hell do I bother?
Fifteen pounds spent on a waterproof coat
Temperature just about zero
And she decides to go for her morning swim
Obviously female, a male dog wouldn't be that stupid
Anyway got her home and towelled her down
And gave her a bowl of cornflakes and warm milk
And then
That smelly wet dog climbed all over me

Man I hate that dog

The came down from their misty mountain hold
Short of stature but oh so bold
Helms of beaten iron on their heads
Belts of gold on girded waist
Sword Axe and hammer, the tools of war
Oaken shields also worn
They came to beard the dragon in his lair
Bring rescue to a maiden fair
Held in fear against her will
In that rancid caven deep in the hill
Each warrior knew of the danger faced
But would not retreat as coward disgraced
When the searing flame of hell released
Would burn the hair and singe the face
For these were warriors of a race so old
They the dwarves from the misty mountain holds

Times long past
As is my youth
Were they truly better times
Than now?
In a lot of respects yes
Cleaner air, fresher food
A slower pace of life
True those days also had downsides
No convenience stores
Or late night shopping

Now in these modern days
A world of high-speed technology
Internet used for child ****
Used to dehumanise and radicalize
A time when text talk is the norm
When youth can rarely spell
Rarely write letters with ink and pen

And yet even with my old world views
I have embraced the modern ways
For they have opened a new universe
And so with poets of the world
I can now converse
And share with them a love of words

She walked with me in the high wood
And down cold wet forest pathsl
Slept with me in my sleeping bag
Was my constant companion through  the good times and the bad
Yes she could be a grumpy cow with lots  of teeth on show
But just three short hours ago it was her time to go
And so my Mollie Dog left me
For the place where good dogs go
R.I.P my Mollie Dog

The Pothole Man**

That's what we used to call him
Although I'm sure he had a proper job title
Brown weather beaten face and tar stained hands
Always a greasy old flat cap on his head
Always a shabby old army great coat
To us kids he was very old
In reality probably in his fifties
Anyway
His job was to repair the potholes in about
Ten miles of country roads
He always carried his tools in a wheel barrow
Rake, shovel and a heavy flat bottomed piece of metal
On the end of a stout pole
Every couple of miles there were a few sacks of tarmac
Beside the road
He was meticulous in cleaning out the potholes
Every loose stone, dust removed
Then he'd fill his bucket with tarmac and heat it over
A wood fire
Overfill the hole by a couple of inches and rake it level
It had to be just right, maybe add a bit more
Perhaps shovel some out
Then the heavy metal plate would rise and fall
With a slow steady thump
Beating the tarmac flush with the road surface
He always finished by pouring tar found the edges
Of the new patch
Round holes, square holes, rectangular holes
Holes of all shapes and sizes
To us he was just the pothole man
Now looking back he really took pride in what he did

I read your poem of a few days ago
And yes I was amazed at your command of language
BUT
Is that really what we want for this site
Honestly I don't think so
I don't detract from your ability in any way
But being a simple person I probably understood
About one word in three
I view this site as a venue where writers of all abilities
Can post their work and be judged fairly by their peers
You are a great supported of Carvo
And he has the right to express his views
Despite the fact that WE the MAJORITY find them offensive
In short allow us the MAJORITY to decide on what we like
Allow us to hit the like button
Allow us to be us and do not mock
The ability of us, the average writer
Do not measure us against your own ability

To all members of Hellopoetry
(Not just my followers and friends)
Well that's another year behind us,
Another year of both good and bad
Another year of both happy and sad
A year in which I've seen friendships blossom
A year in which I've seen verbal abuse
But also love in equal measure
Verbal abuse! Yes and I've dealt out my share
Also a year in which I chose to set my challenges
Which in their turn gave us six dailies
You wrote the poems and so the credits go to you
This has been a year when I have seen young writers blossom
A year when grumpy old men like me are coming to the end
And so what does the future hold for this great site
In the coming year?
A new year when we can encompass the world
Arms linked with poetry both good and perhaps not so good
A new year when humility and not over inflated egos
Are paramount
Unfortunately I don't believe that will ever happen
You know when I used to teach several years ago
I never had failures in my classes
I had students who weren't quite as good as some others
They weren't derided because of it but were encouraged
To try in another way
Criticism yes but constructive criticism
And that in an ideal world is how this site should be
The strong helping and encouraging the less strong
Can we all work towards that goal
The majority here already do so

I wish you all a very happy Christmas and my heartfelt wishes for the coming new year


Joe

You know apart from writing poetry I design gardens for other
people just as an unpaid sideline
But come and take a look in my garden.
Rough laid brick edging round the lawn and I do mean rough
you wont see a dead straight line there
Flowers, hot oranges intermingled with reds and gold
No
Plants carefully chosen for form and texture
No
Rather a jumble of wild and cultivated plants doing their
own thing
White campion, red campion intermingle with white and yellow daisies
Scarlet poppies vie for space with rosebay willow herb
Sage and thymes in profusion
Great clumps of lemon balm mixed in with chives and lavenders
Foxgloves and hollyhocks in places they shouldnt be
Wild mallows and geraniums growing where they choose
And running wild my favourites of the flower world
nasturtiums
That then is my garden, my retreat, my oasis of calm

Firstly apologies to anybody this offends*

Your God(s) more people have died in the names of your
Various Gods and religions than for any other reason
Now surely the great and mighty being Gods various
Have the power to prevent this
My religious friends tell me that this is the various Gods
Testing our resolve to be good

( At this point I usually have a silent laugh)

After all at what point do the Gods decide?

Now my God, nature, well there are no atrocities
You see nature takes only the sick, weak, or dying
And thus the balance is maintained
The strong take only the sick and dying
They don't indiscriminately **** because
The gemsbok doesn't agree with the creed of the lion
The Lion doesn't visit the destruction of genocide
Upon the Impala in the pursuit of total dominance
No the Lion kills only what is needed to ensure
The survival of the species

Thus is the way of nature from the largest to the smallest predator

Humanity in its wisdom says
I have a bigger gun and a more destructive bomb
I'm guided by my God
(In the army I had God, religion and right
Stuffed down my throat)
So God said drop that ICBM and **** who it kills
For it is the weapon of righteousness
For ISIS and their God the weapon is fear
The need of all the so called Gods
Is **** the weak, follow my calling or die
Because I don't need non believers

Well my God is nature
My temple the fields, forests and wide open spaces
And yet some of you will still say I'm wrong

This is for all those young people who read here but perhaps might feel nervous about putting pen to paper*

Imagine what it would be like to launch a very small boat into a very rough sea. You will be nervous, you might well founder and start to sink.

But remember this, what you can't see are all the big safe boats surrounding you, ready to come to your aid and to point out your safest course.

One such boat is Wolf Spirit

I'm an avid reader of books,  many different books
Tolstoys War And Peace took me seven days to read
Lord Of The Rings Trylogy just 3 days
One of those books I've read just once
The other I could almost quote
word
for
word
I read some truly great works of poetry here
Some simple with a message loud and clear
easily understood
Some long but with a rhythmic flow
the sort of poem where you cant let go
Then there is the long drawn out dirge
full of metaphors and unusual words that I don't even understand
I might read it once,  try to understand then file it under done
I just write the simple stuff,  that's what I do best
But, no matter how or what you write its all good.

                           After all, poetry is not a test ~
                      it is an expression of our humanity.

Well my recipe is simple
Take the words offtimes read
Ofttimes read but never heard
Sprinkle then with words of love
Bake until light on bottom
Brown above
But the recipe has a bitter taste
For the words of love
Hide a bitter hate
Words are all we have to use
But words are often
Misunderstood, abused

My south country that we call the Sussex Weald
A place of gentle landscapes of softly rolling hills.
My south country where I grew up and played as a child
Where I learned of nature as I studied life in the wild.
They stand in magestic glory between the land and the rolling sea
Those magestic hills we call the downs
we of the Sussex Weald
Yes, I'm a man of the Sussex Weald, of generations long gone bye
I'm a man of the South Country
And as a south country man I'll die

I live for the love of the south country,my gently rolling downs



A glimpse of the sea through the pine trees, The sweet songs of the birds all arround



My heart belongs in the south country where I grew up as a child



Where I wandered the field and the forests and studied the things in the wild



My life is here in the south country, here I can sit and take note



I can then share my thoughts with my friends here and show them the words that I wrote



You can bury me here in the south country with a tree standing over my grave



I need no long drawn out service just a place that nature has made

For many long years I have wandered
For many long years I have roamed
Now a voice in my head is calling
Calling me back to my south country home

I have wandered your tropical forests
Experienced the hot desert sun
Climbed your mountains snow capped peaks
In your lakes and blue seas I have swum

Now a voice in my head is calling me back
Back to where I was born
Once more to walk in the pine woods
Beneath the warm summer sun

Many years ago I did leave her
As a youth so fearless and bold
Now I hear my south country calling me back
To the place where I can grow gracefully old

I'll never forget the friends that I made
As I wandered your far distant shores
And if ever you visit my south country
You'll find a welcome sign over my door.