Poetry Blogs (tolerance)
You don’t know me.
The time is gone
for you and for me,
but with this gun in your hand
you see the future
of your illness mind.
Call me by my name
and kill me after that.
Maybe in your eyes
I can write my happiness
and give you for the rest of your life
a peaceful victory.
We could die together
but who keeps alive
in this world,
the only world
that can exist?
Tuesday 26th June 2018 6:59 am
How cruel a tongue can cut
a'fore thought would have it held
and how blessed be the but
the sparking nerve would gently meld
for that curse’d misplaced word
thrown eager toward the fray
t’would be better left unsaid
at the closing of the day
Sunday 17th April 2016 6:20 pm
Rattling through the low hills
in the darkness and the endless endless rain
the train is overcrowded
because the train is overcrowded
because the train is always overcrowded
and the conductor’s now a manager
a voice we never see
mumbling something through the tannoy
about weather and delays.
We used to have seats
now we stand
and this is progress.
the airwaves are full bey...
Monday 16th November 2015 5:37 pm
I cannot reason the ferocious cowardice of mankind,
my verses have been dishonored,
blighting my poetic task
My tears stipulate deep anguish in the depths of my heart;
It’s a colorless wail that increases my belittled pain
Challenged by those living undercover;
seditious words of insensitivity,
full of hatred, shadows, malediction
Tuesday 1st April 2014 12:33 am
Offend a Daily Mail reader – today!
In our miniscule existences upon this planet Earth
There’s precious few occurrences to occasion us true mirth
So listen up real loudly, those with brains and minds to spare
Who still hang on to plucking out true hope from thinnest air
Here’s the solution, if you’re open to such play
Just offend a Daily Mail reader today
Thursday 25th July 2013 9:19 pm
What worlds turn behind your almond eyes, that ready smile,
that childish innocence that lingers long when you are gone?
I feel your warmth through chubby hands and stubby fingers
of a child. You will not make old bones in this cold life
of sticks and stones and superstitious fears. Some careless god
cut short your years; played blackjack with your chromosomes
in a game that ...
Friday 7th August 2009 6:30 pm