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Cecil Miller
Louisiana    I do not consider myself a prolific artist. For leizure, I pay a dear cost. Everytime. Please, do not resale my work or use it ...
13/F/Baxter MN    poetry tells the world about me not the humans
Cecilie Andersen
Denmark   

Poems

Harriet Cleve May 2019
Cecil the skinhead put his false teeth in.
A new red shirt, cotton lined, showed off his physique.
The boots he wore were a beautiful wine colour.
Blue jeans took the shape of his ancient legs.
Today was his eightieth birthday and he had no cake to celebrate.

Never mind, his council flat still had the feel of a batchelor pad.
There on the wall, next to his samurai sword, hung his chain.
Many a head was cracked open with that weapon.
Swinging it over his head a few times brought it all back to him.
The streetlights in London, broken noses, disgorged eyes, screams from pansies caught off guard by a kick up the ****.

Cecil chuckled to himself and prepared to swallow back a
can of cider and light a cigar for the occasion.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door. Instinctively, Cecil reached for his chain and let the door open slightly just off the chain guard.

Chaos broke out as a boot kicked in the door with the ferocity of a Gestapo officer looking for a head to kick in.

There he stood, **** the Mod, that mad Irish ******* who Cecil had left for dead five decades ago. All his height was gone with time but his knuckles still had a raw edge. With all the force of a decrepit nanogenarian he proceeded to take Cecil on.

Bad mistake. Cecil was always ready for combat. Always had been ever since his dad knocked the crap out of him for practise.

Ironically, the Who was playing on Cecil's old transistor radio.
'You better you bet' became the soundtrack to the next fifteen minutes of mayhem. The Mod was a sly ******* and his hair was slicked with grease; which he used to smear Cecil's eyes.

The chain needs no eyes and it cut a deadly swathe through Micks brylcreem. Once again Cecil put his Doc Martens to good use and **** crumpled beneath a well placed boot to the proverbials.

Cecil did the decent thing and called an ambulance. Said **** was his mate; they had been celebrating his birthday when a gang burst in and gave them a going over. A nice cover story.

That night Cecil hit the town, got drunk, and reflected on his day.

He was eighty, still alive, and still had it in spades.

Then he passed out and never regained consciousness.

No one missed him but I often think of him still.
Arianna Darshani Sep 2015
Has not enough been said
About Cecil, the Lion?

This has brought me to tears.

For those who don't know
Cecil lived in a Wild Life park
In Zimbabwe.
There was no hunting allowed

So, some sick *******
Who is a big game hunter
Dragged a antelope carcass
So that Cecil would
Come out of the park.

He, then, shot Cecil
With an arrow
And Cecil was tortured
Over forty hours.

Cecil was tracked down,
He was shot with a gun,
He was decapitated,
He was skinned.

How is it that
What is so magnificent
As a Lion
Is seen as nothing
But a head and skin
To decorate your living room?

I've been to Kenya
And Tanzania.
They are glorious creatures
In the wild.
Why not just take a photo?
Or just enjoy their magnificence
And then leave
With your enhanced soul?

They say psychopaths
Practice on animals first

This sick pathology
Has to end, not only for
Animals but humans well.
This man had a felony conviction
For baiting black bears.
He belongs in prison
Although many think
He should be decapitated
As well.
People are angry.

And Cecil's Cubs?
I used to watch a show
Called:
"Big Cat Diaries"
And their fate is sealed
As well.

Lions practice infanticide
And when a new male
Comes to Cecil's pride
He will **** all of Cecil's offspring
To make their mothers
Go into estrus
So they can breed.

One cub has been killed
And not much hope for
The other eight.

Our neighbors bait
Black bears, **** them,
Skin them, stuff them
And put them in their house.

They seem to just enjoy
Killing things for no reason
They find great joy
In killing things.

They seem like
Nice enough people
But when you have
So little respect for Life
Can't it haunt
Your human ties?

I honestly feel
Like someone
Has shot my dog.

And it makes me weep,
Though the story
Is now old.

This man should
Go to prison,
And in Zimbabwe.
Send the world
A huge message
That we are not Neanderthals
We don't have to
To **** things
Out of sheer joy.

We should not reduce
Living things to
Heads and hides.