poetry

Mistaken Priorities

People I just cannot get Would rather save an ant Than one of their own Rather protect a plant Than help the homeless Worrying about the issues They know nothing about And not seeing the little things That would really count Happily labeling themselves Left, right, or by nation Or yet, worse still, By their religion Man made rules to kill For a man made God Hustling, bustling, striving To outdo one another, while Following their dubious heroes Emulating their style What a fucking joke Conspiracy and doom Echoes of their self-created hell Selling their sordid stories Even when there’s nothing to tell They feed off each other Born again idiots spouting hate Confidently assessing their own salvation If that’s your ‘heaven’ I hope you go there as one nation

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Thinking of Poetry

Just recently, I have been popping a lot of rhyme. Poems have been and continue to spill out of me and you know, thats just fine and dandy. I enjoy poetry. I enjoy playing with words and sounds. Somehow, poetry gives us the flexibility to play and joke with words and structures without having to worry too much about whether the result is correct or not. There surely in no correct in poetry – no right and no wrong. Poetry just is and it either works for you or it doesn’t. It doesn’t even have to rhyme! When I write a poem I usually start with just a feeling. Not an idea. There is no plot, no characters to develop, no story line. Just a feeling. Poetry is, or should

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The Sound of Dying

Sirocco breathe Stalking me Skeletal death A crossroads Decisions to be made Deeply disturbing Wrongly played I stare at eyes That pierce back at me A shadow falls Thinking radically Passing muster A heartfelt prayer No one’s listening Do it for a dare? Synchronous monsters Slithering home Silence is golden Especially when alone Deepening despair As eyes start to cry Is this it? Did I simply die? Fading sounds Darkening Grounding Rounding A corner Gone. Image: The Dying Fall – JG Ballard

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Texas Summer Sun

A summer rain falls Wet but warm Steam rises from the heated pavement The Texas sun is strong An endless scourge of baking heat It’s only fit for ants and reptiles And Mexican gardeners mowing lawns Dabbing perspiration from my brow Sipping on an ice cold yet tasteless beer Can I make it to the cooling pool? Or to an immense air-conditioned mall? Hoping for relief from a passing thunderstorm I’m dreaming now of winter European snow – a good icy blow Escape from this rabid summer heat Slowly frying in my own juices Dying from the scolding and abuses Of the blazing midday Sun

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Poetry Collection No. 4 – Moon Whispers

For some insane reason, I have bundled together a lot more recent poetry and am preparing another collection to be issued by BookSurge called Moon Whispers. I am currently looking for a couple of people willing to review it for the back cover and also perhaps for a good image for the front cover. Any takers?

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Julia Robert’s Smile

Troublesome emotions unchecked Anger deepens, rises and overflows Where does this deepening depression lead? Meanwhile the stars dance and twinkle Uncaring, unsharing shards of light A smile widens; teeth shining bright white Happiness is a viral happening at times Like Julia Roberts in Notting Hill No need to swallow any bitter pill Laughter tickles in the back of my throat A sneeze of exquisite joy explodes Those little drops of laughter burst out Infecting those around me It’s simply now a cacophony Infectious, riotous and bold As global laughter takes a hold.

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Moon whispers

Breezy, breathless whispers She speaks to you Rasping, her voice is in the wind Leaden overcast clouds scud Trodden ground wet like mud She asks ‘see, see me?’ Tho’ you look high and low There is no sign of her Raindrops splatter the pavement And damp is the rising scent The Moon is sheening silver Hanging low in leaden dark sky Reflecting the one true light But long are the lunar shadows Following us like the scudding clouds The monthly days slowly lengthen Tears of crystalline water droplets As She no longer has anything to say Ripples of a long gone era overwhelmed her Caught in the shadow of the Son The golden orb slowly sails its journey She rises at dawn reflecting all Like a mirror to all humanity

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Dancers

Lift up your head and look around Take the time to see the world Bit by bit. Open your eyes and really see Observe and focus your attention Byte by byte.   Is this world an illusion? Created in your mind Are you simply a delusion? That God left behind   Now close your eyes and listen hard Hear the sounds around you Bit by bit. There is cacophony in the silence If you have the ears to hear Byte by byte.   Am I the center of creation? Constantly creating Or just an aberration That God left waiting   Bit by bit Revelations Byte by byte Animations No answers No questions Only dancers Dancing on a stage Image: Degas Figure Study 5

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Blame It On The Papers

The newspapers are cruel Saying what they think might sell Sending better reputations to hell There’s no news like bad news To shift a few more papers, We can make it all up Give them what they want to hear Keep it juicy, Keep it rude and lewd No one cares that it isn’t true They believe it like the gospel right on cue

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The Stream of Life

Bobbing along the stream Sometimes fighting Other times alighting For a longer look Checking out scenery But no real choices Except to go with the flow I go where I need to go Can only slow The inevitable As I start at the beginning I must end at the end That’s the way it really is Life is like a stream Winding its lonely way Always just passing through Never sitting still Ripples speak to movement Movement is my destiny One day, I will reach the Sea And that, my friends Will be the end of me.  

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