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Sara Kellie Mar 2019
What colour my eyes,
you'll see right through.
Into my mind,
I'm showing you.

Angels of mine
have all absconded.
The ballots are in
and all are counted.

A landslide shows
only devils have voted.
So words of hurt
have been promoted.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Tommy Randell Jun 2017
Grenfell Tower burns
A warning the war goes on
While we sleep on watch
Date line London, UK - 14th June 2017
Jamie King Mar 2015
.          IF I WERE A POET

                             The
                     First stanza
                     would be a      
       magnatic attic captivating
            Elegant architects of
                     iridescence  
                        Vividly
       propelling pupils to edges
                 Of the schleras        
        Compelling pens to pages
                    of new eras
    

            IF I WERE A POET
                                
                         ­              The
                              Second
                 Stanza would
             Mirror Zues's
          spear slicing through
        tears drowning in clouds
         strucking fields of pens
                        Egniting the
                    capsules of
                 Variegated
               Lands


            IF I WERE A POET

                            The
                     Last stanza
             would sail summers
           tame winters bathe in  
         springs of autumn praise  
           deeds of the monarchs
           reigning over raining
           rainbows naturing the
         clouds planting wings on
       the ground giving free will
          to plants to seed the sky  
           with warmth and love
                of nature's heart.
Hello poets
I haven't written in a while hope I'm not rusty
Andrew M Bell Feb 2015
(For Marg and Laurice, snake charmers extraordinaire)
  
Like the Burmese priestess
kissing the cobra
I must never take my eyes off
that steely, staring, coal-black serpent eye
lest the fangs swaying in that unborn smile
strike
in the split-second
that contains my salvation or my undoing.
Lips always poised between heaven and hell,
I advance on the servant of knowledge
hooded with an assumed mastery,
that hood branded with Nature's tattoo:
Omega, the end
and that flickering tongue that reads my body
temperature could cut it cold.
Cold as the smooth-bumpy reptilian snout
upon which I lightly lay
the final kiss.
Copyright Andrew M. Bell. The poet wishes to acknowledge Valley Micropress in whose pages this poem first appeared.
Jayanta Nov 2014
Sometime
I am in confusion
because,
In my room
there is a portrait
on the wall
and the picture
Sometime smiles
give me applause,
sometimes smiles
and condemn me,
Sometime smile
and Question me !
When  share it to my
Fellows they tell me
‘You are lucky,
Somebody is there to caution you’!
One of them asked
‘Who is he?’
Really I don’t know!
But always alert me!
Everyone laughs and said
‘You are living with your scruples’!

— The End —