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TheUnseenPoet Oct 2017
I am actually a huge fan of Banksy and thoroughly enjoyed Dismaland but the A level kids I teach at a school just down the road from Weston couldn't get in because they've got Art P2. We wrote letters and sent emails but had no reply. They were very disillusioned by it all so their art teacher decided to take them to Dismaland and show some of their work on the grass outside. Security were not impressed and called the police. We made a film about it and I read this poem at the gates. This is the first part.
So this is where this tale will start,
Of What is Banksy? Who is art?
You're the joke now, don't you see?
This ****** ticket lottery,
For crazy cats who play the rules
Not you poor buggers stuck in schools
Can’t press refresh at the stroke of ten
Cos that's exactly the time when
the bell rings for art to begin
The irony is lost on him.
No tickets in your grubby hand
Cos schools cant afford the broadband.
Don't look at me with dismal faces
You lot sure are going places
Yep, you're all sat on a train
Going to weston in the rain
Who do you lot think you are?
No movie queens nor a rock star
You don't fly in from LA
You don't even have a card to pay
No Damien's, No Brad. No Suze.
Pack up your dreams kids,
Born to lose.
Like a load of buckets to the factory gate
Where we'll have to stand and stand and wait
He is not Wonka, he's not your friend,
This Charlie gets nothing in the end.
So looks like we might not get in,
Stare them down kids, take ours to him.
Banksy Inc. has made these choices,
But they can't silence all our voices.
Helllooooooo Banksy?
Are you there?
Going to show these kids you care?
Open up those hallowed portals
For this lot of mere mortals?
They've brought stuff they want to show
It's really very good you know
Because they made it from the heart
Not for a calendar of street art
You know? Like how you used to be?
Before they showed you on TV.
They protest about stuff for reals,
And soon be snapping at the heels
Of all the London folk in there
Sell for a million but pretend they care.
Come on Banksy they'll be good
Take their selfies like they should.
Come on Banksy, just be nice,
They'll snap up all your merchandise
And shuffle round the park like drones
Take out pocket money loans.
Listen kids, this isn't working,
Banksy's in his rolls and shirking,
We don't need to storm the walls
We can show them we've got *****
By standing here and giving free
What they've all spent five quid to see.
KB May 2014
We are born free people, yet there are always restrictions.
We choose if we want to break them, whether with facts or through fiction.
Whether on walls using diction,
Or any crawl through confliction.
And no amount of chains and barriers
Will restrain us, no contradiction.
We understand we’re not on ice,
That there’s always going to be friction.
As expressers, fighters, artists, world changers
It comes from an Italian word, meaning scratch.
Look at it again and a whole new world
Has hatched.
The term graffiti, referred to the inscriptions, figure drawings, and such, found on the walls of ancient graves or ruins, as in the Catacombs of Rome or at Pompeii. Use of the word has evolved to include any graphics applied to surfaces in a manner that constitutes vandalism.
75% of people think its vandalism.
Toronto spends one million a year on graffiti removal.
When artists get back in the game, they haven’t given their approval.
Why don’t you use that money to feed the thousands of poor in society?
Instead of worrying about the art that the citizens need to see.

I never got A’s in elementary school art.
Getting marked on art still sounds like you need to be smart.
But graffiti doesn’t have to mean anything,
Not every letter is a symbol.
There are complications too but it can also be simple.
Almost every kind that I saw on the streets
Took a soft place in my heart, eventually turned concrete.
Let me reel back to grade 10 when I actually took art courses
In the media arts classroom I was taught people as my sources
Banksy, JR, Sofles, Katsu, Kidult, Shepard Fairey.
After my first graffiti assignment I understood clearly
What would happen if you brought a spray paint can near me.
The reason for graffiti is a simple one,
Not always about rebelling, or having fun.
Every artist craves to paint in his or her own way.
And all of us have messages that need to be portrayed.
Like, I was here, I’m alive, let me leave my mark.
This city is mine too, and I want to give it my spark
I belong, I have a voice, and I crave to make a change
These walls are too voiceless when it comes to the speaking range
My love for social justice brings in political ties
Through graffiti one can tell what country thrives with lies
It gives any surface a story, makes it come alive.
Change the system if you strive, until justice is revived.
To try to help the oppressed,
The shapes and lines were mine,
But they’re the ones on the line,
And to sit and do nothing would be an even bigger crime.
I even changed my initials to KKB
The B is for Banksy, its everywhere you see me.
My email has a Banksy, my Twitter did too.
Graffiti is my life, though you already knew.
Humanity is lost within the walls that we made
Graffiti brought it back to me,
And like the ocean did I wade.
Inside the political aspect that structures our brains
And the society that gives us money to drain
All the false information and the things we don’t need
Gives me hope to find these messages written on the streets
Sometimes freedom of speech isn’t so free at all.
But if Facebook deletes posts, documentaries have biased calls,
There’s another way of speaking, even if we fall,
I love how it’s not typical; no tag is the same.
Its breathing life on the walls, not stuck in a frame.
It stands out.
Stands outside of a museum where you always have to pay.
To see something that may or may not catch your attention right away.
That makes your head sway,
Give you some kind of reaction, moves you to action.
Not something you have to think hard about,
There’s little analysis needed, a splash merrily seeded.
Its urgent, its in the moment, for realization.
Once the message has been received, it’s an artist’s confirmation.
I integrated graffiti as a part of my every day life, including school
Drew it in math projects, French presentations, writer’s craft essays, it was my arts night welcome sign tool.
I will carry this with me through university
And it’ll take me further in the arts industry.
When you walk by graffiti in the street, do you ever take the time to notice it? Like, really notice it? Do you ever think about the person behind the spray paint can? Writers are not only being underappreciated for their talents, but they’re being harassed, looked down on, all for no reason. Do you know any of their stories? Do you know what thoughts and feelings sprayed out of the can when the paint hit the wall? Do you ever think about the history behind the art? To breakdown the styles of graffiti, here’s a simple introduction. There are tags, the simplest forms of graffiti. A signature. There are stencils. There are stickers, also known as slaps. Wildstyles are also used, and they’re more intricate, more colourful, and harder to read. It’s a particular style of writing developed in New York City. A piece is one that takes time an effort, and requires more than three colours. A blockbuster is used to cover the most space in the least amount of time. And a heaven is a piece that’s put in a hard to reach area, like the tops of tall buildings or on freeway signs. There’s the style bubble, old school, brush, abstract, bombings, whole car, ignorant, landscape, realistic, billboard, cartoon and sharp as well.
A sense of tranquility seeps into my veins every time my marker hits the paper, full of energy, full of hope. Starting graffiti was a way to combine my passion for speaking out against oppression and my love for the arts. Even though my work is not displayed on the streets, it has the same style, and it may not have the same effect but it counts as an escape for me. It doesn’t make me a graffiti artist, and some would even argue that doing canvas work kills the purpose of graffiti but I always want my work to make an impact on people no matter which way I do it. It’s something I love to do, and anyone can take that any way they desire. There are stereotypes that I’ve had to battle, but in the end, I know my true intentions. I don’t need to make a name for myself. I don’t need to create a reputation for myself either. True, this is not real graffiti, but that’s as far as I choose to take my fascination. I do it because of the escape it provides for me, the sense of freedom, and the sense of power in my markers.
These are the little movements of writers, all of us trying to get at revolution. Art is not supposed to be limited in frames. That’s why to me, the streets are some of the biggest forms of freedom – do as much as you like, however you like, all free. The poor and rich all have to see it. No one can avoid the message. It is not only artistic expression; it’s a protest. A scream of anger and emotion aimed towards public spaces. Graffiti artists did not start the war, they just respond to defend our vision of what graffiti and society should be: free. A battle against commercialism and a way of saying ‘no’ to materialism and society’s over consumption.  To the government, you are not the only ones who own these cities. What about the rest of us that do not exist until we leave a mark of our own? This is a game of action and reaction, if you will.
Taking care of our society is our obligation. That means changing anything harmful to us with every mean possible. Graffiti seems to offend a majority of society but if we took the time to appreciate and understand, a lot of good can be done if we turned the negatives into positives. So if we aimed for change and acted on it, especially with art, we’d be much less stressed. More often, we’d just remember, to stay blessed.
an assignment for a writers class. i made a video, but this is the word version (:
Jackie Mead Aug 2017
A man of mystery
A man of talent
A man who makes you think,
A man who makes you wonder what's right, what's wrong, when you thought you knew all along.
Is Banksy man or myth?

We know so little of this man who can paint with brush or spray can.
He remains hidden, unseen, unknown, a mystery.

Signing his Tag on bridges and walls,
Mocking figures of justice, highlighting the worthy cause.

His paintings are worth thousands of pounds, not all remain in tact, some get recovered and that's a fact.
Councils who do not like the message displayed, white them out in a matter of days.

None the less his fame has grown, his pictures displayed and shown in museums around the world.

Yet no one can put their hand on their heart and say I've known this man from the start.

That's why Banksy remains an enigma.
A man of mystery
A man of talent
A man who makes you think,
A man who makes you wonder what's right, what's wrong, when you thought you knew all along.
Is Banksy man or myth?

Anyone know?
I love street art and when on holiday in Amsterdam was very lucky to stumble across a Banksy and Dali exhibition, two very intriguing artists. Banksy is as good on canvas as he is on walls.
there is a man called banksy he paints upon a wall
sprays on any building either big or small
a painter of renown a famous man is he
painting pictures every where for all the world to see
a superstar of art an icon we all know
everyone knows banksy no matter where you go
Francie Lynch Jan 2019
I gave, you took,
My heart,
My soul and time.
You left, I stayed,
Withdrawn and supine.
I was a still life,
In the shades and lights of day.
I wrinkled and went dry,
Through skin down to my core;
Was fading and wasting away,
Like a Banksy on a rainy day.
If you don't know about Banksy, check it out.
a m a n d a Oct 2013
Banksy,
vandalize me!
Write on me
when no one sees.
Color me truth
and let me be.
Reveal to me,
Banksy,
please!
Chloe Sayre Sep 2012
If I stole your art, could you blame me?

The melodic curves
or rhythmic edges,
organic pastels,
or heart-throbbing neon,

awake as the eyes that envisioned them.

My muses all run to you with eager,
little fingers,
pinching and plucking at your sketches,

protruding tongues, and rolling sneaky, spiteful eyes in my direction,
******* on your creations with humming bird vigilance.
Overwhelmed Oct 2010
hey man,
nice work

hope your comfy
where ever you
are
whatever you’re
doing

I’m doing nice
feeling
good
even though I feel pretty
bad

but anyways,

love seeing pictures of your stuff

“one nation under CCTV”

haha,
that’s
clever
Michael John Oct 2018
ii


is ´ nt banksy a riot
shredding his art
after a million
i would buy him

a pint..
make´ s me proud
to be from england
lol..
Anthony Pierre Aug 2020
"You know how I art ... intimately"
On broken city walls with crotches
these times I stencil is a parody
"its free, its me... with all my blotches"

Why **** my trapped rat in Hague?
You brought back, black this plague
from the West Sea sand to Bristol
made clearer with a ball of crystal

Provocative lives alive in deaf canned colour
yet reality's dead among sidewalk's clutter
if your heart really wants a Banksy's piece
My B +'s homogenized on a Petri dish for release

Who's guessing where my art's headed?
with blotches not a single piece shredded
the real art's kept displayed in the mind
that's why Banksy's blotches are one of a kind
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
(Life is living art)

AGAINST THE BRICKS

****** leans
Against the bricks
Gotham gothic walls
Left thumb hooked on a pocket of his
Faded denim jeans
Right hand caressing a carnation
Steady

Ready to go
Mr. ****** in a James Dean glow

Mean
Black leather jacket
Shiny slick like
Ghetto pothole puddles
Wet lacking rain

Only street lamp
Spot light
Backstreet dangerous
****** leans with
A flower for Ms. Green

Come hither squeeze

He waits
There in the sallow
Glow
Another shadow
Against the bricks

Graffiti Canons spray paint art

Masterpieces
Within living scenes
Cool as concrete rain
Patient as an evening breeze
Passing moments
A Smiley face
Honest pain sculptures
Poetry is exploding
Street Glean

Art full in appreciating
brick walls

In his ****** lean
Worth is in / our noticing

This

Life's living work of Art.
Gabriel Bonney Oct 2018
I think it would be neat to be like Banksy
To leave my mark on the world, still unknown
You won't know when I come or when I've gone
And no, don't ask me to write for your honor
You can't erase truth so don't prove me wrong
It's not prossible to bend reality and twist meaning
Just listen to my voice in what you're reading
My message known, but I don't want the glory
I'd give my real name, because I don't want a mask
But I don't want to hear any of the praise
God gave me gifts, so if anything, glorify Him
And I don't care for any of the ridicule
I'll tell you right now, my words won't be lenient
I don't want my name to be heard
I want my voice to be listened to
I've heard about him before, but in art class today we were talking about him and so i did some research later and his work really fascinates me. But i hate how people are selling his work and changing things around to give it a different meaning, kinda made me mad
Mosaic Jun 2015
I'll be on the front lines
Fighting fireflies on a Golf Course
With a butterfly net

Collecting ghosts in mason jar
to plant back on the cemetery
The crows are making nests
in the skull of your family

They accidentally put
the wrong name on yours
And in Latin!
It's ok though, because you're
(were) Are?  a nihilist

The river Nile is the
best stream of consciousness
Known to man and of
Course that's where you drowned
your metaphorical thoughts
While you hung yourself above
a treadmill trying to pretend
you wanted to be a better
man

But you only ran away

The Stonehenge is the front gate
to your home
          It's made from
      billboards and
Pictures of static
When you're dead you
                        Live in White Noise

You're turning my lights
on and off
               as I'm trying to sleep
haunting me in
my over easy eggs
making the yolk run
in words "Miss me?"

And of course I do
But you are as good a my imaginary friend

When I'm walking in the
park with all the scarecrows
you make the dandelions
float, no amount of
wishes is bringing you back

I know boards of wood are
easier to you than the termites
eating the tumor in my brain
          from the insanity you're causing me

So instead I paper mache my
room with love letters from you
that got lost in the mail
because you stole them for me
A banksy bankrupt in original thought

I'm building a tiny forest
             of matches
If I can't sleep I'm joining you

So you pack your bags, hobo
style but with
Picnic baskets and dead leaves
Seancing yourself
With the crystal ***** of my eyes

I lost you in some newspaper ad
about a Home for sale
Does it come with a family?
How is that legal?
But I lost you because I bought the wrong copy and couldn't find that one blurry word that was you saying
Good morning

I lost you at sea
  And in my dreams
      And to your own hands
   And to my own memory

I'm dancing with wolves
Called Alzheimer's
because I'll die
with a disease of age
Instead of house burning, building leaping
Front Page

Then we'll go live in abandoned
amusement parks with creaky
Ferris wheels turning
Like you in your grave
And me with the Cycle of Life
There's always a love story with death
Bernardo Soares Aug 2013
Are you relieved to be normal?? It's something only you see.

Wasting away with a false impression we're all as strange as can be

I take some consolation as light reflects differently before passing my eyes and disguising inside mistaken identity

Spooked by our shadows safer with backs against trees

Wandering hopeful in vast space kicking round autumn leaves

Vanish like Houdini chained in a box at the bottom of the sea.

Just like smoke through every vent caught by any breeze



I think a part of everyone resides somewhere else

The 21 grams we lose in death

We've all wondered what it was in the corner of our eye

Maybe you looking back at you now you've died

Say there was no answer just questions?

Would we stop looking for them in the bottom of glasses?

Something seems strange but I'm not sure

It's not a disease there is no cure

It's not a house of cards or castles made of sand

But a poisonous web spun by delinquent human hand

Sunny days and weekend stays in places far from home

Meet the locals to say goodbye before you've even said hello

Leaves in trees so eager for a breeze to fall

This is no life at all.



Its one or two things that remind me it's a game

The tedium like nails at scabs and the blood it'll bring


A slice of lemon is all I need to add a little colour.

Perhaps a banksy on my garden wall.

Having a door held for me.

Strawberries for breakfast.

Punctuality.  

Four feet at the foot of my bed.

Not waking contemplating regret.

Sun on my face

Sand in my shoes

A different kind of saltwater kisses.

Grandstand welcomes from close friends.

Tearful goodbyes everytime.

The magic must happen when I blink or during the blackouts when I drink.
sam dawkins Oct 2013
Banksy once said that
you die twice: when
your heart
stops
and when
somebody says your name
for the last time.

I feel immortal.
Deyer Dec 2013
we can question the nature of art,
what it means to be beautiful.
I see hopscotch in chalk on sidewalks,
                                          children laughing and playing while a political picture,
à-la-Banksy
stares blankly down at them from a brick wall.
I see that,

and around the corner is a
spraypainted
                          tag
that illuminates the area as existing through poverty
but it doesn't stop
              kids from playing. Even if the city pays a man to take down the
             tag
because adults are afraid.
While we decide what is worth keeping,
can we please remove that
                      hideous hopscotch?
Please, it's poorly drawn, and it leads to
young people
gathering.
And that's scary,

                                                                                                                    right?
Butch Decatoria Nov 2020
A ****** leans
Against the bricks,
Gotham gothic walls
Left thumb hooked on a pocket of his
Faded denim jeans
Right hand caressing a carnation
Steady

Ready to go
Mr. ****** in a James Dean glow

Mean
Black leather jacket
Shiny slick like
Ghetto pothole puddles
Wet lacking rain

Only street lamp
a Spot light on
Backstreet dangerous
While gigalo leans
A flower for Ms. Green

Come hither squeeze

He awaits
There in the sallow
Glow
Another shadow
Against the bricks
Graffiti biography
Cannon spray paint art
Masterpieces
Within all our living scenes

He’s Cool as concrete rain
Patient as evening tea,
Passing moments
A Smiley face
Honest sculptures of Race
Poetry is exploding
Street Gleam in 3D
Looking sharp

Art full / appreciating
brick walls
The breathless wolf
In his low ****** lean
Worth noticing ?

Life's but a dream
/ a living work of Art.

(For Banksy, I heart…)
Revised and retitled.
Ransom to pay for every day
demands to be met

one day I'll get a free ticket
one day I'll tell the day to
stick it where the Sun don't shine
one day it'll be all mine

in the meantime
I am held hostage by
unfriendly weather and
whether I like it or nay
there's a ransom to pay.

It's early and the wind is whistling
clear in the dawn
a fawn in the garden
(must have lost its way)
another ransom?
not for me to say

one day
there'll be graffiti to
meet me on the towpath
a Banksy I could chisel off the wall
but not today
today's just a ransom that
I must forfeit.
TheUnseenPoet Nov 2020
There is a torrent of cascading sapphire,
Bursting and burbling across rock.
Fringed with ivory froth.
And pooling into a depth of aquamarine and mint.

Poor poets would be rather flush,
if we could dab words with a brush.
There had never been a call
For a sonnet on your wall.
Rand May 2020
Hold the pen and draw
Tell the pen to show
The mountain edge
A Flame on a bridge
A rainbow colored snow

Hold the pen and see
A Garden full of trees
A golden river
A talking flower
A child racing a fleet

Hold the pen and breathe
Tell the thoughts to scream
An eye with a vision
A mouth sings a rhythm
A step towards the dream

Put the pen and fly
In each way to try
Draw justice
Outline passion
Fill the air, don't be shy
Www.albadawiah.com
Sophie Hartl Mar 2017
;
A sad man sits in front of me in the library
He seems generic;
A used sketchbook, modern glasses, and a Banksy sticker on his MacBook.

His arms are filled with marks
black ink solemnly attempts to cover up what is underneath
But they are beautiful
An abstraction of two people kissing, entwined like the style of the art
Further up is his star sign;
Aries

Honest, courageous, passionate
Impatient, impulsive, intrusive
I don’t know if this is him;
All I know is his art, encompassing his every stroke
and carve

His left arm has a different mark
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
What happened to you?
sad sad sad i don't know what else to say
Jester Oct 2018
The world's most expensive paper shredder.
When we try to market art we must beware of the artists who swim in the dark waters.

We got Banksy'd again- and it was beautiful.

A room of shocked faces and silent groans, fear and disgust filled the room as the well-to-do- watched value turn to art and art into a story.

It's no longer a thing that is, but a thing that was- and was should be the way art is.

Art is a free thing- and yet the artist must sell their art to survive and thrive, yet how can we justify selling the thing we claim to be free, is it only in pretentious tongues?

The value of art is not what it sells for, but more of what it means to the crowd before it.

In for a penny in a for a pound, destroy the value and create something more, bring art back to its roots so that we may admire it for what it is.

"The urge to destroy is also the urge to create"- Banksy- Picasso- Bakunin. "
Splashes of color, abstract, chaotic and bright,
Vivid expressions of thoughts in the night.
The words in my mind, they dance and they sway,
But like fleeting graffiti, they soon fade away.

The cans of my thoughts, they rattle and hiss,
A cacophony of dreams, sometimes hit or miss.
A fresh coat appears as I overthink,
A canvas of chaos, my thoughts interlink.

I'd see a shrink, but in a blink, I'm unsure,
On the brink of my mind, the thoughts obscure.
Lost in this sequence, I yearn for a guide,
For guidance and purpose to stem the tide.

Ambition, it flickers, like a candle's soft glow,
But in seeking the light, in its warmth, I'll grow.
To paint my own story, with colors bold and bright,
I'll find the path forward, through the canvas of night.
croob Dec 2018
you
you're yappy
as a drooling
sack of dogs
and as happy
as a vietnam
bombing.
you're ******
as downtown
new orleans
pretentious
as banksy
unlikeable
as amy schumer
worn and round
as a linkin
park CD
and yet
you're lovely as
a dumb *****
could be.
Jackie Mead Aug 2018
Another year over, a new one has begun,
I reflect on the great things that I’ve done,
The places I’ve been, the people I’ve met,
The many ways I travelled by car, train and jet.

I’ve been to some great places, Zante, Memphis, New Orleans & France,
All these places have their own unique rhythm and dance,
In Zante it’s Greek music and dancing, jumping and clapping all part of the fun,
In France the rhythm is vibrant and fun, all taking part under a gorgeous warm sun,
In Memphis, of course, it’s rock and roll, rhythm and blues and a lot of soul,
Beale St is the place to go,
In New Orleans, it’s rhythm and blues and jazz,
On each street corner marching bands,
Bourbon St the place for all genres of music from Louis Armstrong to Jason Mraz.

I’ve climbed to the top of a Mountain to look at a Saxon Fort,
I’ve been underground to some Roman Remains,
I’ve travelled the English Channel from Dover Port.
I’ve become intolerant to the Gluten Grain.

I’ve visited Old Trafford, the Theatre of Dreams,
I’ve been to Cardiff to see the Speedway,
Visited a stately home for Scones and Cream,
I’ve visited The Mumbles, Swansea just for the day.

I’ve celebrated my middle son getting married,
I’ve snuggled the Grandkids for hours and hours,
Dozens of shopping trips complete and bags carried,
Worried over my Grandkids in the darkest of hours.

I’ve visited Graceland’s, home of The King,
I’ve travelled from Memphis to New Orleans by Amtrak train,
I’ve visited the bayou of New Orleans,
Seen Alligators sleeping, Herons, Lizards and Cat Fish on the end of a line,
Travelled the Mississippi on a paddle boat powered by steam.

I’ve visited museums in several locations,
The Van Gogh, The *** Museum and The Moco in Amsterdam, The Lowry and Imperial War Museum in Manchester,
Walked these cities in all types of Weather,
Viewed paintings and sculptures by Van Gogh, Dali, Lowry and Banksy, photographs of **** maids and their Lords,
At the Imperial War Museum, I learned a lot about wars,
On display the bravery of more than a few, Men, Women and Children too.

I’ve had family days out aplenty,
Fed ducks, swans and geese with stale bread,
Trips to the park on seesaws and swings,
Laughed so much, at Comedy Club, it’s hurt my head.

I’ve travelled on a barge up the Manchester Ship Canal
I’ve visited Rame Head, Cornwall, for Family occasions
I’ve watched Peabody Ducks march back to their nest, a carnival fit for Royal
Walked along the cliffs of Whitsand Bay, close to the Coastguard Station

I’ve published two children’s books based on stories told my children at bedtime
I’ve been to concerts, Phil Collins, Coldplay, Robbie Williams and The Rolling Stones
I’ve written many a poem, 190 plus including Limericks, consisting of 5 lines that rhyme
I’ve had a tooth implant, causing swelling and bruising to my cheekbones

I’ve discovered a love of Gin and Tonic,
I never used to like so that’s ironic
Rhubarb and Ginger my favourite flavour
Sit at the bar, sip it slow, it’s a joy to savour

I’ve had times I needed to cry
I’ve had times I needed a hug
I’ve had times I needed to smile
I’ve had times I needed to laugh
I’ve had times I needed no one
I’ve had times I needed to be surrounded

As I reflect at the year past,
I reflect that mostly it’s been a blast,
This year I want to experience new things,
And, my long-term plan is to return to running.

So, please Lord bring forth another year,
I’ll use all my blood, sweat and tears,
To make good use of another year.
-----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------
On This Day In History – August 15th

1914 – The Panama Canal opens to traffic with the transit of the cargo ship SS Ancon.
1920 – Polish-Soviet War: Battle of Warsaw, so-called Miracle at the Vistula.
1939 – The Wizard of Oz premieres at Grauman's Chinese Theater in Los Angeles, California.
1941 – Corporal Josef Jakobs is executed by firing squad at the Tower of London at 07:12, making him the last person to be executed at the Tower for espionage.
1944 – World War II: Operation Dragoon: Allied forces land in southern France.
1947 – India gains Independence from British rule after near 190 years of Crown rule and joins the Commonwealth of Nations.
1965 – The Beatles play to nearly 60,000 fans at Shea Stadium in New York City, an event later regarded as the birth of stadium rock.
1998 – Northern Ireland: Omagh bombing takes place; 29 people (including a woman pregnant with twins) killed and some 220 others injured.
--------------------------------------------------------­------------------------
People I Share my Birthday with

Princess Anne
Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain
Jennifer Lawrence
Deborah Messing
Ben Afleck
Jack Russell
Carol Thatcher
Mark Thatcher
Hope you enjoy reading about the things I have done this last year, I enjoyed writing it, when you analyse everything you do in a year you realise how much there is to be grateful for.
Don't get me wrong I've had my share of bad things too, lost my father in law, run over by a motorcycle, and watched my grandson having a fit but for the purposes of this Poem i've focused on the positives.
For a bit of interest, I've added On This Day in History and People who share my birthday.
Thank you for reading.
ky Jun 2014
banksy once said
"i mean, they say you die twice.
once when you stop breathing
and a second, a little later on,
when somebody says your name for the last time."
you killed me when you broke my ******* heart.
and i know you haven't said my name in months.
so i guess i'm practically six feet under.
Olivia Kent Jun 2016
Paper towns, they blow away.
Fall apart, as rain falls down.
People write on walls , artistic graffiti.
They sign them Banksy.
Hurricanes cause chaos.
Difficult to clean.
If I had a bonfire my paper town would burn.
All the relics would be destroyed.
I'm glad my towns not paper.
(C) LIVVI
TheUnseenPoet Oct 2017
I wish I was a musician,
Wrote riffs for my guitar,
Earned loads of cash, looked like Slash,
And drove a fancy car.
I wish I was an artist,
Created worlds with paint,
Banksy as my bro, a huge afro,
At my feet London would faint.
I wish I was an actor,
For all the world's a stage,
I'd win awards, tread the West End boards,
And make 'portly' all the rage.
It's pants being a poet,
Scribbling odes year after year,
But I'm not flighty, I can write in my nightie,
And post it all on here.
Creep Feb 2015
I might be trapped in this cupboard,
But my mind and soul wanders on its own.
They don't need legs,
Or wings,
To go anywhere it pleases.

They flew away from me yesterday
To visit you and show you my love,
To take a tour through San Francisco
With its winding slopes,
Where the mountains meet the bay.
They swam over to London,
Go spotting for Banksy artworks,
Skipped down to Russia swigging
Down that ***** halfway there to
Wash away all attachements.

But I guess the ***** wasn't enough
Cause I'm still here.
Idk lol... wanted to write about san fran cause I recently visited and I love it so much... but it turned out to this ^^ heh, well I was daydreaming in class about cali...

Therapy
By all time low
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
Oh, The Bronx in the rain:
Slick city stones'         somber gloom

Oh late afternoon
so overcast with blues,
     Navy : leaves in tinsil sheen,
     Midnight : music and
Sapphires 

Where jazz becomes a dancing shadow
beneath light post misty
gold.

...

Outside the bricks are just bricks
but down there
lo lovers' tight embrace
in the fallow light showers
catching all eyes keen
to their PDA
(Public displays of affection)
as well as mine wide
Attention
Peliculas and tall stories
From a brown stone perch
while traffic whirls
           sleep now hurries
the city is slow as thunder rolls

loud
as blacktop oil slick roads
heavy as gutter water to
asphalt bones
This towns historic

Time stands still

In lovers hallmark corners shack
All wet in the gills,
fish kisses taught kids
how honey smacks
now that the audience is frozen
With anticipation,
binocular eyes
                          snapshot a Banksy / Monet
meadows of
raindrop brush strokes
chaos maelstrom
Wet dreams rivulet

All the while I am
Dry inside
Dying here!
At a pause / intently / intensely
watching
               neighbors in hooded moods.

This reminds me
how it must of felt / now
in this commotion
by mere emotions
so reminiscent

of the weeping and pain

wordless script
scene not heard
inside I'm still dry and
                            dwelling...
In need or is it wish
beginning to purr?

Still, in this stone dwelling
I am dry inside
         Trying to hide not
                         looking down
on those love birds,
A misty glow
               and oh suddenly
how I drown
when the two finally kiss...

drowning
        
                      without.




EMPATHY.
Rewritten from original version, which can be found in my writerscafe.org page by the same title.

Edit 11022016
Gaffer May 2016
Words on the wall.
Go with Paul.
So profound.
Like a crystal ball.
Okay, all coming back.
Should have read.
Julie, will you go with Paul.
But it didn’t.
Surely a message.
A deeper meaning.
Check the celestial phone.
A message awaits.
You ***** lying scummbag, drop dead.
Should I tell her there's only one M in scumbag.
Could this be another message.
I enlighten her.
The other M is for *******.
But is it.
Is there an even deeper meaning.
The celestial phone bleeps.
I peruse the heavenly text.
Actually there should be an extra B with the extra M, *******.
I see pain in her text.
I feel it myself.
There is a wanting.
Flowers and chocolates.
I feel comfort walking through the graveyard.
Knowing random people are helping me in the pursuit of love.
I throw a pebble up to her window.
Holding my mixed bunch of flowers.
Old Mrs Jones looks down, smiling.
If I was seventy, I’d do, I digress.
I bade her in, throwing the pebble up to my true love.
Who opened the window maybe a tad too early.
She screams my name.
Which was comforting in a strange way.
Old Mrs Jones looked out, recoiling in horror, knocking herself out in the process.
I realised I had forgotten the chocolates.
Darling, could you borrow me ten pounds.
Something in her one good eye told me no.
The paramedics told me to go.
The Police read me my rights.
Putting me up for the day, and the night.
Still, as the Councilman said as I was scrubbing the wall.
It’s not like you’re Banksy, is it Paul.
I felt a deeper meaning.
A thought had occurred
It would take a lot of paint.
But would be worth the pain.
I worked through the night.
Such a delight.
I threw a pebble up to her window.
Old Mrs Jones looked down at the naked mural of me, and dropped down dead.
Julie sort of squinted in dread.
But the gun in her hand.
Well, enough said.
The Police charged me with indecent exposure.
Though the court said that wasn’t quite true.
Still, the Councilman said.
I’m really impressed.
I mean, it's different.
Maybe you should have added a verse.
He stopped me scrubbing.
We bowed our heads.
As old Mrs Jones passed by in the hearse.
Penmann Jun 2019
A wall will never stop the spread of disease;
Even if you are called the civilized west,
Banksy won't and can't make the cries to cease.
Cries from forefront clashes, from throwing rocks...
Hand over one's heart,
We all profit off; selling outdated Glocks.

Mapping out the labyrinth tale with a frag
Minotaur's keep the fight alive in this hell
A mechanic social manipulation
With hearts of Palestine in confiscation
Teenage angst never did pay off well.

One thing to comfort the Jew,
They're going to die anyway,
And so will you.

A sky full of sulfur
Coming down on little kids.
These aren't stars,
These are toxic tears.
These aren't stars,
You carry on your flags,
What shines are shells, grenades and frags.

Misuse of weaponry, a national trait;
Once second world war victims,
Now a first world charade.

— The End —