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A mellow breeze in a wishful sun
   fills waterfall flowers with honeybees
   where ageing grass, still young at heart,
   sways to music this autumn dreams.
      Sweet as honey and missed in seasons,
      the summer waves goodbye in peace.
         And what for fruitful hands today?
         Clammy, they’d be, away with spades.

A shallow river in the twilight sun
   brings hope to budding flowers of may
   where swathes of land, still rife with hope,
   sing in raindrops this autumn plays.
      Sour as lemon, yet yearned with reason;
      last winters madness is still yet to atone.
         And what for hopeful minds today?
         Busy, they’d be, in morrows ways.

Those swollen blue hands in the evening sun
   sees waterfall flowers with trees afar
   where times attritions, still young in regret,
   take no measure of our autumns jar!
Michael Hole Aug 23
Your blue blood veins,
red, white, blue stains,
mind closed just like your borders.

Despite the wars,
the foreign and poor,
are given their marching orders.

you just don't see,
is what makes the world so great.

'The futures white, see',
'In good old Blighty',
you bleat as you close the gates.
lenore Jul 9
it's raining again.
medusa's let down her hair:
strands of raindrops
poison on armour.
Cox Jul 7
In a cold Summers breeze,
With blinding lights and Autumn leaves,
Along with children's dreams- you live that yellow English life.

She was a lover of the communist region,
We spoke of wars, death and treason.

What were we on about?

Living life with people in times and places,
Forgetting all universe spaces.

"Because everyone was dying... And you were the cure of it".
AsianTapWater May 28
A hero is never sad.
A hero shouldn’t be sad.
So why?

Why do I feel like this?

A hero doesn’t cry.
A hero mustn’t cry.
So what is this?
What are these tears
Running down my face?

A hero must be happy.
A hero shouldn’t not be happy.
And yet
I don’t remember
What that feels like.

What is this?
Why can’t I feel?

His face
Staring across the battlefield.
The sad smile.
The emerald eyes
That spoke a million unknown words.

I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.

I aim.
And pull the trigger.
A poem about APH!America. Time period is during the revolutionary war. Might make a fanfic based on this at some point.

I think I've been reading way too many depressed/suicidal America fanfics.
Chris May 26
Behind the bangs bends all

Once and forever never so small

From heart to heart

Winked one ever so smart

From honest houses drawn along the line

Bugs and beetles drawn from the hand of mind

Exploring sickly scenes and shuffling about

People turning within, and people turning out

A place for vice-ridden, hounds, and winos

Oh, this place is on my mind all the time
William Troup May 13
Dream ...
   green! meadows
   plea ... england grows
      in morrows youth ... sow!
         Morn, in eve, forgetting
      in glee! regaling
   fleas, pledges thrown;
   please ... english
I'd love you if I could
But my shoes are filled with blood
How can I love you like that?
We would dance through our hometown fields
Until the sun set on the ***** reservoir
You were my shield
As the sky collapsed, raining dying stars

She said she didn't have time for my drowning
It didn't match her dress
She was so pretty
Waving from the surface
As I fell into the deep

Now she's a few years older
I miss holding her
But I'm still that kid with no home
And she has her life all planned out
Who's gonna run away to Paris with me?

Washing dishes in the kitchen
Listening to the radio
The only English channel
The only songs I know
I miss those green fields I used to dance in
I miss being alive.
William Troup Apr 19
England mourns for her fading eyes,
   a gateway to fields the soul did dream!
England cries for her dulling might,
   a hardened picture is all but a scream!
England hopes for her futures born,
   a nurtured fallacy begets their start!
England tries for her August dream ...
   a fighter still clings from years apart!

   A solemn drum of thrills,
      an immortal heart so still!
   A modest staunch to the end,
      a waning soul aglow to bend
      a future afar ... dust from the rain
      may linger still,
         but not in her grain!

England bores our comrades faith,
   an innermost thought that comes to be!
England frees our wondrous remains,
   an echo may sing ... but the birds are free!
Cosmo Adair Mar 10
no stars will shine on parliament square with dreamy-light,
but clouds form a heavy mist,
drifting thru limestone cracks, uncertain and dark -
Monet’s fog looming o’er liberty in ecstatic chesty laughing fit spectating democracy’s final breath,
raffling a tenner in his greedy hand as he drowns in final whisky glass,
chokes on canc’rous fumes of tobacco-pipe, ‘red-faced ‘n’ laffin ‘bout nuthin’.

False prophets of politics ****** the women with Rasputin cause -
the forceful hand grooms the sweet bronze thigh of unknowing England with piggish grimace -
cries for divorce screeched by harpies of inheritance exclaiming expertise in Europe and stock-market and second coming of most holy Jesus Christ -

‘if Jesus wer ‘round he’d vote Brexit
tru ******’ Brit he’
‘Oh yasssssss, daddy voted brexit, mummy voted brexit, get rid of those ***** Europeans’
‘Waheyyyyyy, that’s it son! What a proud father I am’ -
‘Return of soveraynetee is a joy’us thhhhing’
‘here, here’.

Hear street-trumpets muffling voices under hush midnight streets
and sweet Thames flowing chartered down
tide crashing washing big masonry walls under spooky twilight piercing thru big smoke,
thousand constant lights of windows transcended over the fiery banks
serenading a river path -
thumping of smashing shoulders knocking people to ***** street path -
crowd marching o’er westminster bridge with hateful cause and patriotic guise -
hear the dragging of the mind’s manacles, the roar to break the chains.

O dreamless city under curfewed sky! where art thine stars? Where dost the flower bloom in Spring?
O dreamless city, thine streets brim with despair -
ghost faces under umbrella shell in designer suiting move entranced on the underground,
thru life and death, beginning and end,
transcending monument station
into the thundery January day.

On the damp grey pavement I was sewn
On the damp grey pavement I grew, rising thru cement cracks dusted with cobweb and cigarette butts.

Walking street after street thru the mass of smoke that rolls along the grey pavement,
and cars of ****** rich zooming past, awaking the dying cigarette sat old n gloomy in my hand,
commencing thousand proxy revolutions in the blinking of an angsty eye,
setting fire to torches that will burn in uncertain nothingness of dreamy night.

How engines roar in street’s machinery!
How sirens shout in tandem as blood drips from a knife!
How subway screeches a battle-cry from the dark abyss of the tunnel, deus ex nihil the war-mongering machine.

My cheek is caressed by city fumes
rubbed by the black sooty fog spat out exhaust pipes
and the prophets see visions appearing in the coal black fog
and the philanthropists see another pa oppurtunity
and beneath the liberal kindness of the city only money prevails (that disease remaining constant thru eternity, like Time itself).

does anything ever change?
nothing can ever change.
Still in progress; want feedback!
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