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Six crisp golden stars
Mounted on proud scouser chests
Marks of true glory
©️ 2021 Joshua Reece Wylie. All rights reserved.

Inspired by Liverpool (my team) six times European champions
Sharon Talbot Mar 18
I am lately entranced by neo-noir,
The criminal mysteries of Europe
And the wilds of Canada and Britain.
There is rarely running, screaming
Or endless car chases through
London, Ottawa or Ystad,
Unlike the reckless pursuits
In Manhattan or L.A. streets.
These detectives don’t sashay
In long coats or wear black leather,
(Except for a couple).
They wake up hung over,
Like Wallander, or grieving
Like Perez from Fair Isle
And Matthias, self-exiled to Wales.

Bodies surface or are found
In gorgeous forests.
The detectives overcome depression
To quarrel with irrational superiors
(Who may themselves be guilty),
Yet they don’t yell like sergeants
In the gritty precincts of NYC.
They drive their Volvos through
Rolling fields of rye and rapeseed.
And even the mysterious quarries
Where bodies are found in Poland and Wales
Are beautiful—not like the junkyards
Of Barstow or east coast borderlands.
Some detectives are lucky, like Matthias,
In hiding in Hinterland.
He walks the shores of Aberstwyth
As Wallander does the fields of Malmo.
When suspects are caught, they aren’t beaten.
Their jails are neat and clean;
The prisoners get mattresses, pillows and TV!
The police question suspects casually,
As if they would rather be in bed.
The female cops are clever and quiet;
They rarely show their anger
When chided or ignored,
But carry on with dignity
And show the others
How work is really done.

At last, the assailant is charged,
Sun sets through the mist,
Sheep graze on manicured fields.
Village streets glow with low light
Reflected off rain-washed stone.
But despite the ambiance, people die
In weird ways: falling off of towers,
Shot while picnicking in costumes,
Lynched by a group of church goers
Floating past in a lake or river,
Or set on fire in a flowery field.
It’s as if the deaths are staged,
To match the serenity of the old world.
The slow machinations of justice
And drained eyes of the officers
Comfort me like a sedative
Always there, watching over their flock
As soothing as a soft, wool blanket
Hiding a frightened child.
When I am asleep, let
Matthias run along the cliff,
Let Wallander drink his wine
While Endeavour swoons to opera
And Cardinal stands in the birch grove,
All as semi-sedated sentinels
In the dusk or midnight sun.
I only ask that American blues
Take a page from these good constables
Across the sea or north of the border;
Imagine the settling peace
In the wide, new world,
If people of color were never smothered,
Or shot when carrying a phone
And people protesting were not gassed,
But spoken to with weary eyes
And a mind prompting peace officers
To listen, protect and serve.
There is something about the ****** mysteries of other countries than the U.S. In Canada, Great Britain and Sweden, for example, the police seem to hunt criminals in a relaxed, sometimes depressed way (Wallander!)  that fascinates me...even mesmerizes me!
Billie Pang Feb 19
I pull the curtains over tight so the
sticky light will not let in the morning.
I miss waking up in Europe with the
strange European light coming in pouring
in the narrow windows of Dutch Tower
houses or busy Berlin apartment
streets with kebabs cooking and kids crying
the stillness of frosty Dublin suburbs
in the winters and the bite of the air
on bare cheeks and knuckles and the eerie
sound of invisible birds and clock towers belling on Sundays resonating in the crystal air.

And I start thinking about all the things I never did which is sometimes worse than thinking about all the things I have done
TIZZOP Nov 2020
Me, me, me: I'm just up for dem purple notez like dat purple cow from dat commercial: a Milka spot, no tiramisu, me i got a really black leather jacket, originally stolen by my brate in da name of da hood: we robbed a rich family in my city 

dem apartment was closed, but my brate kicked dat door in wit his bosnian feet; 79 inches, balkan handz, workin wit a digga he be carryin dem lockerz; me tellin my brate: we got all dat yayo, so just do it

and now we be eatin cevape and börek, while dem cops are lookin for two of these yugo-haircutz; bluelightz all over da place, sirenz and carz, me carryin da bag no ****** around wit home depot

dear god, just help me dat time: i need me a benz wit dem mega-rimz
now come on and see it, and take it like quick: da yugo-cheater, i'll be rippin off dat cash
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
If one could sell feelings inside of glass bottles,
I would spend the excess fat in my bank account
buying the hit of humidity which encases us both
immediately after flying into a warmer climate.
This would be a highly reckless purchase, however,
as the very purpose of such suffocation pleasure
is only a by-product of our time spent together
cooling off in hotel sanctuaries, museum air-con
and the shade of a hilltop tree within a cemetery;
none of which could ever be contained
in the bottle.
Poem #15 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. A poem for someone special - and travel
Ryan Woodcock Jun 2020
For one day I wish, to be as free,
to bear no arms, to be, just me...

Her soldier at night, advancing with pride,
I enter the fight, advancing in stride.
My brother he joins, the code of the core
shoulder to shoulder, like never before.

My brother in arms, halting in fear,
his weapon upon, for he who is near.
Aiming to you, his trigger to press,
sacrifice I do, I spring in distress.

My heart is hit, my chest is a burst,
I gave my blood, I said to be first.
Your eyes now widen, my light becomes bright,
taking the bullet, is my final goodnight.

As I rest, towards the sky,
feeling your pride, feeling your cry.
I hear you near, I feel your tear,
I believe in you, please bear no fear.

My heart is open, my eyes upon,
to be the fallen, when all is done.
And as my spirit, rises to heaven,
bow for me, for hour eleven.

I saved you dear, to save a life,
to save your fear, to save your wife.
I live with thee, within the valour,
I deliver to you, our brotherly hour.

I wish for one day, to be as free,
to bear no arms, to be, just me.
To remember the fallen, to pray for thee,
to remember they gave, including me.

My brother in arms, I hear your plea,
my wife is of trust, to you and me.
I remember you now, I remember in may,
for my tomorrow, you gave your today.

Honour our protector, upon as thee,
bear arms our saviour, Her Majesty.
Look to one, and smile with pride,
look for the hope, and smile inside.
The day has come, to be just free,
the day has come, to be, just, me...
Mitch Prax May 2020
There's still
a part of me in London-
I left it in my dingy block
on Deptford High Street.
Another part of me still
remains in St James Park,
somewhere in the flowers
and another somewhere in
the markets of Camden Town.
I don't think it'll ever leave.
Mitch Prax Feb 2020
Oh London, you were
a dream and a nightmare all
wrapped up into one

7:37 AM
Black stone juts out over greying ice,
A mass of alpine greenery,
Half bare, half masked in white;
The motion of a turner painting,
Colours cast through Lowry's eyes.

Camouflaged upon a riverside
With no sign of Lutheran ambition,
As faith faltered, medieval to Christ,
A small church modestly mirages,
Casting simplicity into Nordic pride.

The excitement of the northern lights
Over the precipice of these continents,
American and Eurasian plates collide.
The Langjökull Glacier screams
Witnessing its own untimely demise.

The remoteness captured in the landscape
Starkly contrasts to us who bear witness to it
And in the mirroring of the landscape
A lonely civil dwelling knows nothing
Of war between nature and humankind.
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