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Isha Kumar Oct 2014
I walk away from
the world of my dreams.
It is just an illusion,
It would seem.

But, what is my dream?
I know not now.
I think it vanished.
I know not how.

How was the world
the one I had dreamt?
The one I built from
the memories I kept.

Was there no sorrow,
No hate nor strife?
The world I wanted,
Was it filled with life?

Was it a world
where wishes came true?
The smallest, the simplest,
and the impossible too?

Where the littlest joy
with everyone, was shared.
Where in the difficult times,
They fought and they dared.

Was it a world
where there was no hate?
A place where we
wove our own fate?

How was my Kingdom
of dreams that I lost?
What was it worth?
What was its cost?
Joe Woodhead Oct 2014
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” I hear the EDL scream,
as if somehow the county, relates to their regime?
Trying to push on others their far right views,
and tainting Yorkshire with their taboos
cos Yorkshire to me, is whatever the **** I want it to be,

I do love a bit of local pride...
maybe to revel in the comfort it provides,
and even though stereotypes say we're tight,
as well as stubborn, argumentative (they're prolly right),
But I'd rather that, than be uptight,
like a stereotypical southerner might

I recently read a quote from Stuart Maconie,
“England has a bottom half,
but there isn't a south, in the same way there's a north”
The North in the south means desolation,
A cultural wasteland with deserted stations,
a place built on violent, aggressive foundations,
With mid summer Arctic temperature fluctuations,
Nothing that comes close to a nation....

But that's not what I see,
To be from the north means good fish and chips,
with tomato sauce and vinegar, it's glory on the lips,
I see people willing to lend a hand,
A honest chat about the weather as you stand at a bus stop
that you never planned,
It doesn't matter whether it's a cob, bun, bap, barm or roll,
Or that the north was ****** over by the outsourcing of coal,
Or your opinion that we're all just sat on the dole, drinking tea out of a ***** bowl.
We should still all have a similar goal,
To have a good time,
and not hurt a soul

Sometimes I do like to revel in the divide,
but I'll always welcome people from the other side,
Acceptance is not sin,
and if you let it,
it generally ends up with a win : win

What's Yorkshire to you? I haven't got a clue... but come sit down so we can have a chat and a brew! And hopefully we'll both learn something we never knew.
Poem about the North South divide in the United Kingdom.
Amitav Radiance Aug 2014
I have been born to this affluent world
Rich with diversity and nature’s delight
So many wonders mesmerize me
Benevolence is the essence of this abode
The microcosm reflecting the magnanimity
Immediately I was accepted as a tenant
Being fed from the abundance of cultivation
Fertile soils yielding bountiful harvest
Feeding me to make me stronger
I walk upon this earth with pride and joy
To see mankind and animal kingdom thrive
The camaraderie between and nature and us
It still does not say, “You owe me”
We are indebted to this planet for the largesse
Yet, not rich enough to pay back the debt
I am just a tenant, wonder if I can repay
Only way I can do that is by nurturing love within
And not to destroy this space at will
Only I can love the earth with my heart
And help, in my way to nurture its purity
Many more to come after me can be a tenant here
Let this be a reminder, we are not here to plunder
Freeda Lobo Jul 2014
When the world is broken
And all that lies of it
Has been taken

When all your needs
And all that you've loved
No one heeds

'Cause all you earn
You'll find in them
When around you turn

Your family, your paradise
None other, never shall be
Your kingdom in heavenly disguise.
Ghost Relics**

Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.
Turn your head to the right for the skyline to come into view. Rise and decay. Rise and decay.
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