The stream (all workshops)
By the light of the morning sun
And the peace of all that's begun
Calmness stirs up hope emotion
In absence of chaos commotion
No whirling thoughts around my mind
But stillness that's the comforting kind.
Even breaths escape in gentle swathes
Unaware of the joy it gratefully saves.
Birds sing tunefully up high in a tree
And in this moment it grounds me.
Sending warm waves of gladness
Pushing out any thoughts of sadness.
Dear God,
My life's dwindling,
And my grace's losing mercies touch,
I'm frolicking in misery,
My pain sipping more fuel,
The fiery furnace stares at me,
And my stars turn a blind eye..
Dear God,
I've lived a life full of loopholes,
Dining with the opposite of hope,
My saviour begs me for a save,
And my helper has no help but me
He was born.
He died.
Somewhere in between he did stuff
That will be forgotten in 100 years...
But he had a hell of a good time doing it!
She tried to write a final poem
before her bell had tolled,
but took too long composing,
now her hand has turned to mold.
This poem is a locust cloud,
a sacrilegious sinner’s shroud
that pours its poison on the page
and rains with ruthless, righteous rage.
Though maybe it’s a cry for help,
a coyote’s howl or puppy’s yelp.
Or it’s a case of: quite absurd,
to waste the worthy written word.
And poetry’s a poor excuse
for pent-up pain to be let loose.
A poet, out of shame or pride,
should, in his soul, let sorrows hide.
It's all the same with everyone
I was here, I lived and died
Some will feel, good he's gone
there's those that can't decide
I'll be cremated, not buried deep
underneath the grass
No place for you to piss upon
but you can kiss my ash!
For my accomplished accomplice
Smile stay
be with me always
my lady eternal flame
light of life
wonderful haunting aching crying
raging at imagined deceit
coming up for air with a smile
alive in your golden eyes
You touched a place
no one reached before
nights days
all your crazy ways
wise alive
carefree child
companion friend
don’t let this ever end
We’ve got so far to go
farther still when we get there
but I wouldn’t want to get there
with anyone but you
Here lies the body of Obadiah,
died for the want of
an un-punctured tyre.
Obi.
Who will write the nursery rhymes?
Or tell the tales of old
Spring days
Long summer days
the Autumn days of gold
With winter days so cold
For the children have stopped singing
The playground is still
And the swings have ceased their swinging
No knock and run
Or just for fun
Making games up
And trying their luck
No clapping games
Or simple tag.
Not like the
Childhood
You and I had
It makes me rather sad
To think we might be the last
We who played outside
The great canyon mountain
Above is the vast blue horizon sky
Across there stands a tall
fearless high courageous mountain
portray bold as no others can defeat him
Like a mighty guardian angel come to
protect his nature land
In the hot barren dessert that it stands
despite facing many obstacles
nothing can tear it down
even with the own reflection echo sound
Through rain or shine, cold and hot
It stays strong and remains to survive
To let nothing breakthrough
With the thick and rough layer of skin
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