"minister" poems
Kashmir is not just beautiful
It was also free of violence,
Not too far back in history,
That did occur just 7 to 8 centuries ago.
Then they poured out of Central Asia,
Hordes getting bigger with each wave,
Eliminate they did the original people.
In 1320, it was Zulju raiding Kashmir,
Then Rinchana, a Tibetan Büđđhïst refugee, he took over.
Rinchana had Shah Mir as his Minister,
Shah Mir persuaded Rinchana to Islam.
After Rinchana, his son was set to be the ruler,
However, Shah Mir killed this lawful successor.
In 1339, Shah Mir became the first Muslim ruler of Kashmiri lands,
Initially, they did not dare harm the original Hïnđū inhabitants.
Then it was just Muslim kings for few centuries and slowly the Hïnđū heaven slipped into Muslim hands.
Now we know what is the ground reality,
The demography became Islamized over centuries,
All arts and crafts stand dwarfed by violence,
What they aim is an Islamic State, an Islamic Earth.
Aug 10, 2019
Aug 10, 2019 at 7:14 AM UTC
You're the counselor.
When certain players can't accept defeat.
You're a minister.
Teaching them about humility.
You're the coach.
A title that takes on many roles.
You're a defense attorney.
When parents gets enraged.
Thinking their child's better.
Then they really is.
You're the coach.
It takes a dedicated soul to give of themselves.
When many parents loves to criticize.
And refuse to assist.
It takes a calm manner person to accept this job.
Because many parents are releasing to you their child.
To motivate them to be better.
Not just at the game.
But, as a person with kindness.
Long after the game.
When many will forever think winning is everything.
Until , they lose to see the sportsmanship.
Is how you handle things.
You're the coach.
In the mist of many fools wearing that title.
Because some treats their players like they entitled.
You're not afraid to bench the star of the team.
Even, if many think you're being mean.
You're the coach.
Who's respect for your dignity?
If anything states about you.
That you would like.
You wants them to state you were fair.
Even amongst the dislikes.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
Our family got the news today
Our bubba's gettin' hitched
Young Daisy Mae, she's near fourteen
Got our boy bewitched
He's sayin' that he loves her
He's making her his bride
She's the first to get him this close
Though not too many tried
We've got to get things ready
Send invitations and make candles
We've got to get the good jars out
The one's that still have handles
The minister is on alert
We've got to make some shine
Grandpa says he'll make some up
But, it will not all be mine
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
This time there'll be no shotgun
Like the last time for old Ben
This time the guns are empty
Not the way they were back then
The banjos will be tuned up
There'll be music in the air
The cops won't try to stop it
I think most will all be there
The ladies will be planning
Just how to serve up all the grub
While Bubba has to find a suit
And therein lies the rub
He's never worn a suit at all
Not even for a day
He's only dressed in coveralls
And that's how he's gonna stay
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
It'll be a **** dang doodle
A hell of a good time
It'll only be completed
When they run out of the shine
there'll be singing and some dancing
Underneath the harvest moon
We can't wait for it to happen
It cannot come too soon
There'll be readings from the bible
Which the minister will read
And as good holy Christians
Everyone will heed
There's sure to be some fighting
Before the couple say "I do"
I mean, they are both cousins
I'm gonna go...aren't you?
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
The Story
by Kamal Nasser
translation by Michael R. Burch
I will tell you a story ...
a story that lived in the dreams of my people,
a story that comes from the world of tents.
It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror.
It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees.
Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them
and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels.
It is the story of the suffering ones
who stood waiting in line ten years,
in hunger,
in tears and agony,
in hardship and yearning.
It is a story of a people who were misled,
who were thrown into the mazes of the years.
And yet they stood defiant,
disrobed yet united
as they trudged from the light to their tents:
the revolution of return
into the world of darkness.
Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser.
Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people.
Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
Those great sweeps of snow that stop suddenly six
feet from the house ...
Thoughts that go so far.
The boy gets out of high school and reads no more
books;
the son stops calling home.
The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no
more bread.
And the wife looks at her husband one night at a
party, and loves him no more.
The energy leaves the wine, and the minister falls
leaving the church.
It will not come closer
the one inside moves back, and the hands touch
nothing, and are safe.
The father grieves for his son, and will not leave the
room where the coffin stands.
He turns away from his wife, and she sleeps alone.
And the sea lifts and falls all night, the moon goes on
through the unattached heavens alone.
The toe of the shoe pivots
in the dust ...
And the man in the black coat turns, and goes back
down the hill.
No one knows why he came, or why he turned away,
and did not climb the hill.
7.4k
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
The idiocy,
Sheer insincerity
Of political apologies.
It WAS meant to offend.
You chose the words carefully.
A dog's-whistle in your mouthpiece.
Your career is your priority.
You are a glorified carnival barker,
With a reputation as an intellect,
But many do detect ******** in your overblown prose
(except those who are equally verbose).
Will your papa be disappointed
If you are never to be anointed?
Your education makes being PM a career choice,
So power for it's own sake should really be a piece of cake.
So how about it, Boris?
Will we hear more Horace?
How much do you want it?
Enough to blow your own Trumpette?
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
A seemingly fine day ruined with one headline.
Then another. And another. And by the time my phone stops buzzing the news couldn't be any clearer.
We lost a battle today. A battle for basic humanity, a battle to our own autonomy.
"Women" lost. "Women" should be afraid. "Women". "Women". "Women".
Every headline I read talks about how scary the world is for women.
Yes, the world is scary for women...or anyone with a ******
I don't want to make this about me. Because it's not. It's about every transgender man that fights for healthcare on a daily basis. It's about every non-binary person assigned female at birth who can get pregnant.
and yes....it's about women.
It's about people (men and women) who think their ideals should determine what I do with my body.
It's about every pastor, minister, judge, and human being who feels they have a say in how my life is lived.
Poetry has always been and will always be political.
Poetry is art and art is expression of feeling.
Today....I'm ******
I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of dread.
The same feeling of dread I felt during the 2016 election.
The same feeling of dread I felt the night of the Pulse Orlando shootings.
The same feeling of dread I feel every time I think of wearing my trans pride shirt out in public.
I'm not afraid to say how absolutely terrified I am....I'm just afraid for whatever is coming next.
Sincerely,
- Your friendly ****** having transman.
Jun 24, 2022
Jun 24, 2022 at 10:26 PM UTC
365Nectar #46 The High Priestess of Soul
Fri. November 8, 2013 10:38 P.M.
Deep in the distance
dancing upon the horizon
a deeply distinctive voice
defies definition
bending genres to her will
clearly breaking boundaries
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
Little Girl Blue
lettin' it all out
with a wild as the wind
Sinner man
just tryin' to feel good
absolutely refusing to be misunderstood
a strong-willed priestess turns tempermental tunes
into blazing beautiful harmony
putting a revolutionary spell on you
belting emotional songs of freedom and spirit
Peace of Heart
Nectar of Truth
just in time
to do what you do...
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues.
Born to a preacher handyman
and housemaid minister
a gospel pop fusion diva
emerges from the Glory of Love
a strange volatile fruit
blossoms into young, gifted, and Black
spitting storms of spiritually smoldering Black Gold
from a silky soul
that scorches the earth
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
Masterfully mesmerizing
Black rock
Blood
and Candlesmoke
a fiery flow of
tangy, tantalizing and titillating
under a fog of duality
genius bears two heads
vibrant and intricate
a saucy songstress swings with passion and honesty
an empowered diva
breaks down and let's it all out
just energetic expressive jazz
injected with well composed folklore
live at Ronnie Scotts
an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
From Newport to Baltimore
an exiled priestess feeds forbidden fruit
and hypnotizes the masses
with tantalizing love me or leave me alone torch songs
a powerful
Four Women
high on Lilac Wine
blush from Broadway Blues Ballads
in Baltimore
See-line woman
goes to hell
to save Little Liza Jane
and shelters in Barbados
Cotton-eyed Joe feeds
Brown Baby controversy
behind Blue Prelude
Did it move you?
Yeah...
Hell yeah.. it moved me too!
Mr. Bojangles wave bye bye to a Blackbird
in chilly winds that don't blow
while willows weep something seemingly
symbolic of soothing
to an African mailman in Central Park
and an exiled priestess wails louder than ever
silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues
The High Priestess of Soul
caged but still singing
shivering sensations
from stubborn sweetness
under sweet strings
that sharply spill and scatter strength
to the sorrowful
that daily dine and devour
silky, soulful, and spicy
Pastel Blues.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
"Do you know who the prime minister of Canada is?"
"Hmmm isn't it Tim Horton?"
Sweating, shivering, and shoveling snow,
Looking up with relief as the flakes begin to slow.
Starting our mornings with pancakes drizzled in gooey sweet syrup
And greasy, cheesy, poutine being our last meal we eat up.
We hike up a green lush mountain just to see the view
And shoot down the slopes of silvery snow and feel as if we flew.
The rascally beavers are our vandals, the loons are our song,
The cougars reminding us that we are strong.
We are Canadian, eh?
But would we really want it any other way?
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green,
And an off-white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams,
Like leather, like elderly skin, like a crossword puzzle with half the letters filled in,
She sat by me and spilt her sentences and her tea:
She claimed her husband had been killed by a cabal of spiritualists,
Killed by a bull elephant in the streets of Nepal,
Killed by the seven plagues,
And never killed at all,
That he was once a number
Somehow both perfect and prime,
That he was Prime minister of the sea,
And independent of time,
That his bones were cracked marbles
Bought from a widow in Tennessee,
That his name continued to escape her,
But that he looked something like me,
Leaving I saw her wings drag her heavenward,
I saw her terrible wings,
As I stumbled and veered from concrete to tarmac
I heard the pavements start to sing:
“I was once a flowerbed,
My father was a field,
My mother was a source of light,
Before which all the people kneeled.”
Then lost in the eye of daytime and night,
Drawn to the moustache of a Spanish racketeer,
He was once abandoned by his books and his babies
In the boot of a broke-down cavalier,
His pasts and ideas caught up to him,
And gripped him by his belt and his teeth,
His pasts gripped him in quiet of his nightmares,
And slashed his arms in the street,
Visions shook me by the bleeding palm,
Her terrible wings now pinpricks for the moon,
Visions shook me as deities died,
With eyes like a card-trick and fingers like doom,
Then stuck in the endless space between words;
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green;
Stuck in the endless space between words;
And an off white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams...
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
389
There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House,
As lately as Today—
I know it, by the numb look
Such Houses have—alway—
The Neighbors rustle in and out—
The Doctor—drives away—
A Window opens like a Pod—
Abrupt—mechanically—
Somebody flings a Mattress out—
The Children hurry by—
They wonder if it died—on that—
I used to—when a Boy—
The Minister—goes stiffly in—
As if the House were His—
And He owned all the Mourners—now—
And little Boys—besides—
And then the Milliner—and the Man
Of the Appalling Trade—
To take the measure of the House—
There’ll be that Dark Parade—
Of Tassels—and of Coaches—soon—
It’s easy as a Sign—
The Intuition of the News—
In just a Country Town—
4.2k
Some sit there and take in the message of the word.
While you wonder about others seated next to you.
If the message was ever heard.
Some sit and say amen to the truth.
Whle you still ponder what's going on next to you.
Church folks.
The people, who say there come for the word.
Sometimes you wonder.
Wonder, what change after church?
Where outside you see the attitudes change?
People arguing over almost anything.
Not that they are not legit.
But there's a time and a place.
Church folks.
This inner family of members.
Where you only need three touching and agreeing?
Except, even them seems bent on debating.
Was the minister's message ever heard?
Did they not listen to the mesaages of the sermon?
And what about the visitors?
Do you think as church folks you left a good mark upon them?
Least, to ever return again.
Church men.
Yes, many church ladies knows the creeps amongst them.
Always trying to hit upon them.
And the church women.
Even some creeps in the ministry is trying to eye even them.
Church folks.
Oh, they comes in many varieties.
But without them
Where would we be?
They do pray for you.
As they do me.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
Questions Please
Put up a question please
Throw me a question please
Question, any question
Burning or sensational
big or small or silly
easy or tough or absurd
hypothetical or factual
All questions are invited.
Only and only questions
No Answers at all
As I already have answers
I have answers to all the questions
that ever existed, but ceased to exist today.
I have the answers to prevailing questions
that are making us crazy day by day
I even have the answers to the questions
which are still in the future's belly
waiting to be born one day
in this beautiful and ugly world
Questions please
All sorts of questions
May be from geography or philosophy
Or from religion to defence studies
It may be from medical science or history
Or from space research too
Animal husbandry is no taboo
Questions on skydiving are also welcome
Politics is my all-time favourite
although I can answer sports or adventure
Questions on corruption are also solicited
You can ask on oceanography or calligraphy too
I know everything, literally everything
but neither I am 'Google' nor 'Bing'
I am not even 'Duck Duck Go'
nor I claim to be 'Baidu'
I guessed your question.
You are wondering – "Who am I?"
It's very-very simple Man!
I am a nasty spokesperson from the ruling party
I may be found mostly in television debates
as a panelist, as a debator, as a joker
as a disturbing element, as a liar
as a person making hue and cries
You may or may not like my answers,
but, please like me, please love me
Raise slogans for me, Praise me
Make me famous, make me a celebrity
But even if you dislike me
I don't care, I have my media
I have my own followers
I also own a troll army
I train them perfectly
I pay them heavily
I spend too much on
News media and Social media
I have my own trustworthy mob
who is always ready for violence
anytime and anywhere
at any cost whatsoever
Beware, I am from the ruling party
I inherit a complete readymade system
of Investigating agencies, Ready to book anyone
on false and frivolous grounds.
And it will take years to prove innocence
Innocence may be proved, may be disproved
This also depends on Money, Power and Links
Or the nasty arithmetic of alliance with us in future
So if you still chose to dislike me
It's your choice, but wait
I can still become a minister
Or even a prime minister
I have the quality to lure voters
I have the answers to all the questions
That ever existed or are existing
Or that are stilling waiting to be born.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 2:16 AM UTC
What do you think of the ****** of the Prime Minister?
Yes, what do you think of the ******
of the Prime Minister?
And what do you feel?
Are you in shock
or depressed?
A question was asked.
And do you stutter
or are you unsure of what will happen,
or do you speak with such bewilderment
because of the future or the present—
A question was asked.
And perhaps you feel stupid
or without a point of view?
Answer.
And I reply:
All that you say is right
and you are a dear person.
And I want to add one more thing:
The Prime minister died a happy man.
Peace to the dust of the Prime Minister
Husband and father and something more:
the son of Red Rosa.
Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
4.2k
My life is simple, humble pleasures
The girl I love, summer leisure
‘The Duke is dead’ the prime minister says
‘Your time has come, you must do your best’.
My heart grows large, my eyes turn red
One final kiss, I lose my breath
My mother weeps, my father stares
His parting words ‘you must do your best’.
We train for the task that lies ahead
Our tools of evil, our countries crest
Brothers forever, until the end
The sergeant says sternly ‘you must do your best’.
The foreign soil, our blood it thirsts
We do not falter, we march and curse
We face our destiny, we march abreast
My father’s voice follows me ‘you must do your best’.
The fight is hard, our spirit put to the test
Death follows us, we cannot rest
Our bravery triumphs, ‘oh how our country will be impressed’
We do our duty, we do our best.
But the victory is fleeting, our brothers fall
Staring eyes, cold skin, we loved them all
Our grief immense, we lay them to rest
They were the bravest, they did their best.
The darkness surrounds us, our souls to stone
They want to end us, to send us home
I raise my weapon; one man lay dead
I have taken, life most precious, I have done my best.
The war is over, the Duke avenged
We wander home, those who were left
return to crowds, they stand abreast
They thank us all, ‘You are the best!’
The war is over, still a battle I fight
My hands tremble, sleepless nights
I see his face, where his body rests
My heart is cold, no pride, but guilt instead ‘I did my duty, I did my best’.
My parents proud, my love distressed
My suffering is silent, put to them instead
They grieve for me, the boy that left
The Man, broken, who survived, who tried his best.
A fatherless son, sonless mother
A widowed wife, man’s lost brother
Their pride is poison, a shot to my chest
I confess my sins, they do their best.
My life was simple, now changed beyond measure
The girl my wife, our children treasures
‘The Duke is dead!’ she says to them
‘Your father went, he did his best’.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
I hated thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan
To think that a most unambitious slave,
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave
Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne
Where it had stood even now: thou didst prefer
A frail and ****** pomp which Time has swept
In fragments towards Oblivion. Massacre,
For this I prayed, would on thy sleep have crept,
Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,
And stifled thee, their minister. I know
Too late, since thou and France are in the dust,
That Virtue owns a more eternal foe
Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime,
And ****** Faith the foulest birth of Time.
3.9k
We pass laws about things we don't like.
Or don't want in our community.
But when you look through the microscope you amazed by those you see within the lenses.
Oh, we protest the strip clubs and that environment.
But pay attention to the visitors or clientele.
Always seems to be someone we know so well.
The businessman.
The police officer.
The minister.
Hosts of others
You know, those important fellas
Especially , a few elected ones.
The same ones supporting the bans on things.
People, even protest Walmart cause of the small family's store facing competition.
Oh, forget about the jobs for those unemployed.
Forget about customers to get a slow economy back on the path of recovery.
We, don't want the street walker disturbing visitors going to the store too.
After all, they have secrets to create several havocs to a happy home.
Again, when you look through the microscope or witness the news.
You shocked by their clients too!
Same, with the dealers of drugs.
Who?
When arrested we amazed that his clients might be teachers/ministers/politicians/judges/famers and the hard earn worker.
Looking through the microscope reveals the sinners controlling us.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Though life should come
With all its marshalled honours, trump and drum,
To proffer you the captaincy of some
Resounding exploit, that shall fill
Man’s pulses with commemorative thrill,
And be a banner to far battle days
For truths unrisen upon untrod ways,
What would your answer be,
O heart once brave?
Seek otherwhere; for me,
I watch beside a grave.
Though to some shining festival of thought
The sages call you from steep citadel
Of bastioned argument, whose rampart gained
Yields the pure vision passionately sought,
In dreams known well,
But never yet in wakefulness attained,
How should you answer to their summons, save:
I watch beside a grave?
Though Beauty, from her fane within the soul
Of fire-tongued seers descending,
Or from the dream-lit temples of the past
With feet immortal wending,
Illuminate grief’s antre swart and vast
With half-veiled face that promises the whole
To him who holds her fast,
What answer could you give?
Sight of one face I crave,
One only while I live;
Woo elsewhere; for I watch beside a grave.
Though love of the one heart that loves you best,
A storm-tossed messenger,
Should beat its wings for shelter in your breast,
Where clung its last year’s nest,
The nest you built together and made fast
Lest envious winds should stir,
And winged each delicate thought to minister
With sweetness far-amassed
To the young dreams within—
What answer could it win?
The nest was whelmed in sorrow’s rising wave,
Nor could I reach one drowning dream to save;
I watch beside a grave.
3.8k
O brother dwimalu!
Why did you bring the white elephant?
In the country of misfortune bodo race!
One of the next one to the king
Country attack in the feet of your own feet.
How glad we had!
You are in the country to increase!
Like to give the flowers to god
The king dwimal to give to the prize
How much happiness was you
The white elephant of burma country.
But the knowledge of the bodo
Knowledge in mud like a bath,
Not to have mercy for the chief minister
Tolerate can't be punished by the king!
Not water to fire
Not stick to elephant
No gun molten to lead
So much injustice did you finish!
O brother dwimalu!
Charlatan and scrooge
Step up mother and then how to believe?
But loved, had food for dinner!
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Remoaners to the left, Brextremists to the right,
Theresa “Maggie” May has an uphill fight.
I can’t see her lasting many more days,
Unless she changes her stubborn ways.
Theresa is an immovable object.
Her hubby must be totally henpecked.
Trying to please just everyone,
Annoying all is what she’s done.
Right now she is UK Prime Minister,
But her own back benchers are getting sinister.
Some say she’s sold us down the river,
A thing for which they can’t forgive her.
Others claim she’s gone too far,
As we should stay just where we are.
Some see Europe as our friend,
But others say the UK we must defend.
Ireland is a sticking point
A thing that’s gonna rock the joint.
They don’t know where to put the border,
Without causing grief and disorder.
What an impasse, feels like stalemate,
Are we heading to be a slave state?
Who knows what’s going to happen next?
No wonder we are all perplexed.
Paul Butters
© PB 17\11\2018.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
Some voted for freedom from that rusty EU shackle.
Discussed immigration issues they were unable to tackle.
An establishmentarian North, South divide. When poverty strikes there's nowhere to hide.
Deep trenched anger rising from the disenfranchised vote. The pound devalued as the right wing gloat.
Uncertain times causes a global ripple. Bank of England acts to avoid economic *******
But what of our neighbours? Our brothers in arms? Democratic victors, do they know who this harms?
Young against old, divisions laid bare. Political wrangling, do they really care?
The Prime Minister resigns and a new chapter to be written.
Democracy wins in a diverse, Great Britain.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
Tacked tin sheets
promoting brand names
Real local grown food
little meat eaten
our elders thin, bony and fit
Yet birthed another foolish generation
seeded by World Wars
planted by Lend Lease
fuelled by aged forests
we farm, feed, cleave and eat
Greed walks besides naive naivety
slaughtered sheep full of cancer
processing industrial carcase-ed meals
shopaholics fat consumerism
a speeding, partying, dancing waste of ills
Lawyer-ed politicians chain us
whilst stymied party politics deafen us
Money-ed propaganda’s herd us
Local economies destroyed to feed
*National ..European ..Pan European ..Pan Asian ..World Bank ...
Prime Minister ..President ..Minister ..Senator ..Consultant*
Globalisation’s plague of selfish-self-grandiose labels
A generation’s survivors
will despair
as the Ganges runs dry
then die with their children’s children
in an armed-hungry-thirsty tide
.
Apr 23, 2010
Apr 23, 2010 at 3:41 PM UTC
Johnny can't join
his daddy has no car
Michael can't join
they don't like his shoes
Ahmed can't join
he has a funny name
Bobby can't join
supports the wrong team
"What's going on?"
bellows the red-faced teacher
"You can't treat each other like this!
"Have you ever been excluded?
"Yes?
"And how
"did it make you feel?"
He ushers them in, muttering
though somewhat gratified
by the shame in their eyes
Then herds them through
to assembly
where the guest of honour
is the minister
who proceeds to explain
to the obediently seated rows
that if they don't see things his way
they will be eternally,
terrifyingly
and agonisingly excluded
from the great big party in the sky
And the teacher hangs his head
in baffled complicity,
defeated.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 2:56 PM UTC