A Story of guilt.
Not for him, for us.
Strokes and flicks
Glides of guilded golds
Hushed in the Blues,
Innocence in the Greens;
Boldly infused oils
Spilling out on a canvas;
A legacy built on
Sorrow. Toil. Turmoil.
Who with dark indents on a page shaded in
Shadows showed
Work. Work, work,
Constant work.
A Starry Night’s muse.
All the while cowards saying they always
Always loved,
Always loving
ANu 14m
I might be Poe reincarnate....
Who knows we share similar traits:

Impossible to muzzle
For us poems are puzzles

To be solved by
the reader's resolve

I could go on for days
telling you how we're the same

but only time will tell if the history books will, like his, remember my name.
Steve 1h
Close your eyes and count to seven
Look out  for angels which art in heaven
Say your prayers and say them well
Keep clear of the devil who lurks in hell
Simple rules for us to learn
While planets turn and comets burn
Moons abound, new stars are found
And the Arabs are expelled from the promised land.
Thank you God for making it clear
So they can normalise their sins
Without shedding a tear
Close your eyes and count to ten
While the terrors of the past
Revolve again.
This is happening in front of our eyes. May God forgive us.
Words that flame, words that shame.
Words! Words! Words!
Words we shouldn't use.
Words politicians choose.

Words that blame, always the same.
Belligerent words, ignorant words.
Words of beauty and of song.
Words the Saxons spoke,
or some Anglian bloke.
Welsh words, Celtic words.
Words from round the world.

Words recently known to few.
Words that Wordsworth knew.
All in Oxford's Dictionary,
even meanings lost in history.
The Oxford Dictionary
The history told is full of lies
for it's molded, muddled,
told by the victors.
As much as I love history, I know that it has its untruths.
Lyn xxx
I know not from whence my inspirations cometh
I believe I was chosen from the time of my birth.
Alone and undisturbed, I have strange visitation
Embellished with beautiful stories delivered via imagination
Even the mental drought known as writer's block
Goes away the very moment the spirits knock.
Thanks to my late Queen mother who told me stories
And tales of our ancestor's conquest of adversities.
I am the last of the great Grios from my tribe.
The spirits will always be my source of inspiration and guide.
I come alive at night when the entire world sleep,
That's when the best ideas and loose words creep.
These words I process as part of my solemn obligation.
As custodian of Ancient history and its dissemination.
Call me a poet because of spoken word and great poetry
In actuality, I'm the last Grio sent to write our ancient oral history.

Grios are traditional historians and custodians of the ancient history of the African peoples spanning the great Sonhay and Malian Empires.These histories were merely and mostly passed down orally by these Grios.who used songs and drums to teach as they performed....called that spoken word!
Note: All Grios comes only from a tribe of grios.
I never knew until now,
Dear Dad, though
I listened to the stories you told,
Of War that re-ignited after the one supposed,
To end all wars, or so it was proclaimed.

You went abroad, your Varsity
Stalled, dreams put aside,
Long before I was born,
Before you met my mother or I was named.

Instead, you wanted to fly,
High above the Bay of Bengal
And the Andaman Sea,
Above the carnage, or so you said.
And that must have seemed a way to save
That sanity
You needed to take you through,
To come back and marry a beloved girl.

I watch the newsreels now,
They are old, with time and victory ingrained.

I can see you flying that high,
Himalayan peaks shining in your eyes,
Cold death above and horror below.
You told me stories, I recall,
Too young for me to imagine.
Now too old for me to hear them all.

You never piloted again
Except in your nightmares.
On a road between moon and sun
In your own history you flew
The infamous, undying path
Of The Burma Run.
My father, an Army Air Force Captain, put off college and piloted cargo planes over "The Hump", on the Burma Run from India to China. He wasn't prone to tell stories, yet sometimes he would talk about his flights, the wonder and danger of them, being fired at, watching his friends' planes crash into mountains and land in a war zone. He was proud of his service, yet damaged by it, as is so often the case.
This is a song of humanity
It sing for us
Through history
As it gathers dust

For all the misery
It awaits for death
And all the victory
It takes a breath

Through the love
And the hate
It flies like a dove
Not knowing it's own fate

It doesn't learn
So it repeat
It gives nothing in return
And always finds away to cheat

But don't lose faith
Of that curse
It is no wraith
But always ends with a hearse
M 5d
Footprints muffled,
a pile of rusted keys,
under a broken stone.
.... yeah
A poet's muse can amuse
like a child in adult's shoes
when leaving no clues
as to where they perused
with nothing to lose
after your heart bruised
from their short fuse
and many unpaid dues
to become yesterday's news
not enough honest views
just soaking in booze
then a new path to choose
strewn with colourful hues
and the nuts, bolts and screws
to muse about the blues
standing in life's queues
for a round the world cruise
but never ever would I excuse
your evasion from love's glues
Never fall in love with someone you shouldn't have fallen in love with
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