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Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
His skin weaved in the golden sand,
Shone under the sun of his motherland.
Hair a tangled meshwork of thread,
Reminiscent of the nets his father spread.

He had no toys but crystals and shells,
that he collected onshore in lonely spells.
His food, the raw salty fish,
Swiftly with skill that he gut and dished.

He goes and lays down in wet sand,
the spirit of which he loves to no end.
He sings to the mermaids and in mud he rolls,
and the sea laughs with him in breaking shoals.

He is made of blood but ocean too,
he knows no music but woosh woosh woosh.
He wishes to marry a girl of the sea,
who'll dwell with him in his fantasy.

He turns his head and closes his ears,
while people run away from the ocean in fear.
Destruction and death loom ahead,
The blue ocean rises violently filling the town with dread.

Like a heavenly curse it fells on the town,
crushes and sweeps like the tragedy bound.
With his holy hand it avenges it's kin,
and his water that was treated as nothing but bin.

It tears every home away from it's root,
just like how the humans did its fish loot.
And squeezes the life out of the fishermen,
that feast on the dead of his homeland.

It starves and suffocates many men,
who made him breathless with oil spills time and again.
Like a storm it rages and plunders.
In minutes, wrecks havoc on the land and rips it asunder.

It gradually descends back to it's nest,
Satisfied with the curse it did impress.
The next day a body lay on the shore.
Like a coffin did it mud wore.

As people looked on it, they could not help but chant;
*The Child of the Ocean lies strangled in its waters,
We feed things love and they destroy us and slaughter.
Ryan Holden May 2017
As we struggle for air
Waves crash black bones,
Trees subjugate,
Flocks congregate,
Lost, like dog without bone,
We wither away endlessly
Without a say,
but remain warm
For arms of open joy,
As we fear we might lose
A place we once built,
But remain blind
Of her flawless beauty.
The Trumpoet Apr 2017
In West Virginia they dig tunnels or a great big hole,
to extricate from Mother Earth the substance known as coal.
For centuries the coal was burned and smoke would fill the air,
but coal became outmoded and demand's no longer there.

So many miners were laid off as mines did stall or close,
and in Coal Country incomes dropped and unemployment rose.
But Donald Trump made promises to fix the miners' strife,
by saying he'd bring Old King Coal a-roaring back to life.

So Trump reduced the regulations that bring jail or fines
for harm to the environment from power plants or mines.
But all this is irrelevant - Trump has no magic spell
to make the world want coal again. To whom will these mines sell?

Trump may as well have promised to bring back the horse and cart;
for tinkers, whalers, schooner sailors, a rich and brand new start.
For Trump will promise anything and sell his very soul.
Next Christmas his reward should be... a big old lump of coal.
You can also see this and my other Trump poems at: www.trumpoet.com
Link to video of this poem: https://youtu.be/sc6KbIMrajo
Written: April 1, 2017
Brad French Mar 2017
Rain falls quietly on my windowpane
Drowsiness overtake my own sedation
Truthfully I'm lost dropping down in vain

Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime

Yet finding peace in time
Is dropping down softly
For you and me to enjoy in summer time

Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime

Whatever happens during the storm
I'll be there, and I mean no harm
Listen to Zeus's masterful charms

Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime

Oh rain falls quietly on my windowpane...
Scribing  my pains away into the night
Charmed by the God of Rain

Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime

Don't worry loved one
Your not the only one
Oh, listen to the rain, its begun
Well here's a new form I rarely use. Lyrics are quite new to me.
dear humanity
for real can't you see
all you've done is insanity
aren't you proud
all this nature paved
so car can go around
all this power you craved
all this fame you sought
all of this is a lot
its a lot you done for your god
but he's just green paper isn't that odd ?
The Trumpoet Feb 2017
Trump's targeted the EPA,
an agency that's in the way
of rich polluters everywhere
who foul the water, land and air.

Employees there may no more tweet.
With journalists, they may not meet.
No external communication.
No Facebook use across the nation.

For issues such as climate change
don't fit the script that Trump's arranged.
Oil wells and pipelines he has planned,
to snake across the hinterland.

He wants to dig and burn the coal.
He doesn't care. He has no soul.
He showers his troupe of alt-right *******
with platitudes and promised riches.

Oh what a sad and tragic day
when Trump destroyed the EPA.
You can also see this and my other Trump poems at: www.trumpoet.com
Link to video of this poem: https://youtu.be/aqbL2mWZH8s
Written January 26, 2017
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