I’M FULL THANKS AND DON’T WANT ANY WHORE
I am a transient with words unspoken
I am a soul who’s been damaged and broken
For years I lived someone else’s life
Being my son’s little league coach and picking up a drunken wife
I’m an unrighteous man who’s weary and far too tired
And cannot find my way out of the muck in which I’m mired
I yearn for consistency yet find only daily different circumstances
A mortal who is always and forever taking chances
All I want is one place to live until I live no more
And in essence I have become Jesus Christ’s finest whore
I am a troubled transient
© 2011.….Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
The tragedy of a Miracle started today
Our Lord’s brutalized body passed away
Of all the tragedies in the history of man
This is one I try to grasp, but never can
For some reason I find it impossible to see
We crucified the greatest man in our history
Through all of the gain and all of the loss
It was a predestined coin man had to toss
I wonder how Pilot must have felt that day
He washed cowards hands in a cowardly way
Beaten and tortured, his skin ripped to shreds
As a thorny crown dug holes into Jesus’ head
While nailed to the cross he had one final goal
Through the mercy of love he saved another soul
He saved that soul and then our Lord Jesus died
Can you imagine the countless tears that were cried?
As we all know Jesus' body was placed into a tomb
To my minds eye it was no less than a spiritual womb
And from inside that womb salvation was born
For the tomb was found empty come Sunday morn
This is not how the story ends it is only how it starts
The Lord now lives up inside each one of our hearts
Even those lost in Prison, the ones like I used to be
Can turn to the Lord and then they will be set free
Freedom is a thing that I think we all strive to find
It is etched in our heart and engraved in our mind
I was locked up in a cell nestled tightly away
Facing several years that I would have to pay
Up inside of that cell I made my own decree
A true miracle was taking place inside of me
I was a very evil man and I was so proud to show it
In the wink of an eye I was transformed into a Poet
I learned there is only one way to truly be free
Ask of the Lord, “ Jesus please come unto me”
And just as the Lord Jesus Christ rose up out of his tomb
We can all live with-in the comfort of his spiritual womb
In a house of darkness
you should not hear a sound
but while I lye here in my bed
there's noises all around.
Doors are squeaking
floors are creaking,
shutters banging loud.
The wind is blowing,
rain is pouring down.
In a house of darkness
you should not see a thing
but while the lightning strikes,
everything is plain.
Shadows dancing on the wall,
a lady walking in the hall,
a child playing with a ball,
a man that had a bloody saw
but to someone, I cannot call,
for there's no one here,
no one at all.
BY HEATHER ROE
Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Open your eyes to the ever turning skies
I want to here with me through the night
My heart yearns into your soul
Burning as if newly lit coal
I bravely submerg the embers
That the time I have can be spent with you
And I remember each kiss every moment
I was caught in your love that for just this day I remember
So what happened was a chance for your love
A time that I kept in a locket tied with a kiss
I wanted you to feel, to love, to slumber
And to awake in my arms with that times kept bliss
I lay silient in an umber
A crowded table, all suspended in shock
The sound of the shot dimming to a ‘knock’
Only silence, except for the marching clock
The weapon still smoking; an anonymous glock
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
Loud cries arise from the elongated table,
Jack Frost is shocked, the Tooth Fairy unable
To speak whilst Santa is checking the stable
For clues on the erstwhile maidservant Mable
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
They searched for hours, called in C.S.I,
Panic set in, would the children all cry?
Sandman confirmed the bunny had died
Batman suspected somebody had lied
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
Guests were quizzed, interrogations began
The mystery unfolded when Santa Claus ran,
Grabbing the pies, he tried escaping in a van
But was stopped in his tracks by superman
SANTA KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY!
Entombed behind isolation walled
A haunting malice trapped me within.
Crouching beneath shadows shroud,
Leering eyes pierce.
Through darkness’s pitch black,
Pacing beast intercepting motions,
Movements, mocking my,
Feeble attempts to evade frenzy's,
Deceptions deceiver, silver tongued,
Weaver, spewing lies deceit.
Intricately aligning it's widow,
Feasting on innocence betrayal.
Heckling, laughter echoes, against,
A chilling appetizing, as if pleased,
At malice’s intent.
Fiendishly, delighting in torturing,
It’s human pet.
A vacant mumbling feeling over,
A deeper anger begins to rage,
Rebelling against hatred’s,
Motivated to survive beyond spectral,
Hear my disgust, creature,
I shall destroy thee.
Leave me alone, screaming aloud,
Sanity's domain gives way.
In musty halls empty hollows,
An odorous stench.
Fills mine senses,
Cease mortal miscreant,
None leave here alive,
Shudders blood runs cold down raw
Veins nerve endings,
A deepening realizations rushes,
The conscious mind,
I'm deaths play thing.
To be pounced upon, a toy mouse,
Caught between claws,
Extracting, retracting at whims invoking.
Invisible hands grasp choking life's,
Feeling every heartbeat slowing,
Stinging painfully ringing at ear,
Oblivion's mute murmurs never part,
Lips tightly closed.
Let mercy's fallen be forgiven,
Beyond hells hidden regions,
A place devoid of spiritual salvation.
Foul demonic spirit haunting,
A madman's kingdom,
It whispers to me in sweet melodies,
Now we begin, and you truly belong to me,
With satisfactions grimace, it smiles.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
These snow veiled tombstones, suddenly vestal,
seem to shroud grief, yet wind keeps visitors
away, save for some recent widowers
who with lifeless bouquets, stay dutiful.
Beyond the starkness of winterized elm,
a fresh grave awaits someone’s beloved,
I walk silent grounds, chin down, hands gloved,
still, a chill pervades. Markers overwhelm.
Mid-February was meant for sweet tokens.
A Victorian couple, paired yet alone,
display only dead blooms, fashioned of stone,
no kin comes today, distant lines long broken.
One valentine, crafted with true sentiment,
languishes, forgotten, now mere monument.
*For the Forgotten Valentine Contest.
Written February 7, 2013
*This is a modern sonnet which lean towards mid-line punctuation, freer rhyme schemes, and a more relaxed syllable count.
**For a photo of the tombstone, found in Mt Hope Cemetery in Kitchener, Ontario, please click on the About this Poem link, if you are able. Cemetery art is lovely, yet so poignant. Each marker tells only the tinest bit of their story.
HISTORY IN POETRY
REMEMBER, REMEMBER THE 5TH of NOVEMBER.
The world still remembers Mr Guy Fawkes,
who plotted to blow up the House of Lords.
Tortured, guilty of treason, the story is told
how he cheated The Hangman; he jumped off the scaffold.
A broken neck did not appease the Crown,
who hung and quartered all foes of renown.
In response, a decree that all people remember
the failed plot; a holiday, for the 5th of November!
Children hunt while mothers groan,
‘Why can’t we be left alone?
All we want is a place to rest,
But all we hear is, ‘Where’s Grandpa’s vest?
You want those old trousers I threw out,
and those old shoes, with their soles half out?
If I threw them out, then they’re no good,
So please be quiet you know you should.’
‘We won’t be noisy; we will be good.
We’re looking for two long bits of wood.’
‘Hey Mum, we found these sticks, in the bombed out houses.
Can we have Dad’s old coat; and those old trousers?’
Stuffed with paper, gosh, he’s fat!
The bonfire’s ready, but where’s Guy’s hat?
Oh there it is, stuck fast in that briar,
Now Guy Fawkes was ready for our street’s Bon-Fire.
We couldn’t bother Mum, and Dad was at his works,
but, we needed money to buy fireworks.
‘Penny for the Guy, Mister,’ we called outside the shop,
‘we must have some crackers when we put him up top.’
Bangers and Jumping Jacks, were thrown on the ground
to give a fright and a scare as all dodged around.
There were bottles with rockets that fly to the sky.
There were hands in pockets; warm and dry.
The flames rose high, we could see through the fire.
The Guy stood up on his funeral pyre.
He cannot jump off that pile of wood;
he’s tied tight to the chair that used to be good.
On the chair’s legs, we all scratched our names,
And remember the reason as it goes up in flames.
Guy Fawkes, on barrels of gun powder; a patsy
for the treasonable reasons of Robert Catesby.
Remember, remember the 5th of November
not for the gunpowder, the treason or the plot.
Betrayed, found guilty, Fawkes cheated being slaughtered.
By the government who wanted him drawn and quartered,
but Guy Fawkes? He died his way, whether they liked it or not.