I want to be a kick-*** poet
I want to write things people read
And then say “******* !”
I want to upset the apple-cart
And kick them as they roll away.

I want to write words that will make
The reader throw the book across the room-
Then send him to the garden shed
To find a pitchfork and a torch
And sturdy cloth to make a banner.

I want to be a kick-*** poet
And move the shutters off the hearts
Of those who have it locked away,
And open them to love again
In ways they never knew before.

I want to clarify it all
In phrases understandable
So everyone who reads the lines,
That know the way to touch their heart
Will find some magic hidden in my words

I want to be a kick-*** Poet
Who’s thoughts astound and move the world.
To be the one they  listen to
When all else gets lost in the noise
And I can maybe lead them home.
   ljm

What’s happening in the world today.
Wars everywhere.
People shooting people because of different faith,
greed for one little piece of land.
Missiles thrown at innocent women, children and men.

Once
A child grew up on conflict ground.
Saw all family and friends dying.
Born was the devil in him.
Only rage in a traumatized mind.
A planted seed without love.
Devil he will become.
Don’t you see.
Killing each other to have peace leads to nothing but loss.
Loss of love and loved ones.
Revenge leading to nothing but pain and end of everything
nothing has been gained.
Keep feeding hate with hate.
Wars will know no end.

Don’t throw bombs at innocent ones.
Children are just children wherever they’re from
No matter on which side of the borders they are.
Don’t you see you only create hate with what you do.
There is no faith that says go hurt
**** a child or a helpless man.

You can’t stop the hate with hate.
You can stop hate with nothing but love.
Please for once learn from the past.
You don’t have a winner in war.
You think that you might have won.
But there is that child somewhere
with rage in the heart.
And everything starts all over again.


Shell ✨🐚

THIS ROOM KEEPS TELLING ME LIES

ok...ok...I admit
sometimes I forget
& go & call you

and the telephone
remembers
that. . .

or there's everything in place
the room just as you left it
as if you had just stepped out of it

for a minute or so
soon...soon you will be
coming back . . .but: you're not

or your clothes
hide in the wardrobe
wondering where you've gone

but they feel so all alone
empty trousers
over empty shoes

making a scary scarecrow
version of you
and I turn away

in disbelief
that there's no you
. . .no more

I watch the sunlight
crawl across the carpet
dust motes dancing

in an empty flat
look upon your favourite hat
touch it and then...not touch it

sit at your piano
and hit middle C
the last thing you ever taught me

I hate this room
for pretending you
you're still here

I know...I know
it's lying
I brush away a tear

didn't even know
that
I'd been crying

Time melts away like
a Dali painting,
and my mind flies north;
a Canadian goose against the
loose gray sky,
freer than any man's ever been.
Yesterday, I was a
melancholic little one, feeling all of
Seasons in the Sun, on the radio.
5 years old, in the
backseat of my mom's black Plymouth.

Mom's gone.
Dad is too.
I'm getting old, but I will
never stop searching for that
gold in the heart.
I'm finally the simple prairie man that I
always longed to be.
I smell the autumnal night, and it's
nothing but cattails and bass from here until
that big orange fire paints the
west end of the lake.