Too hard for me to say goodbye
For all apparent reasons why
Even though we all know it must be
Each heart will someday stop the beat
When the rhythm of life, and silence, finally meet
Yet I always seem so surprised
To find that death is part of life
Knowing that regret, will now haunt my every rhyme
The specter called "if only", will inhabit every line.
Wish I could arbitrate a deal to have gained a little time
Just one more talk with Sissy, to ease my guilty mind.
And the sun now sets on my regrets
I gamble on time and lose each bet
Thinking I'll move on and yet,
here I set . . .
Wishing for one more time
One more pun
One more smile
That will never come
If I could just recall the things you said that mattered to you most.
Memories un memorized
That now I'll never know
Years of conversation when I didn't pay attention
Times I should have said I love you
And somehow failed to mention
Then when you tried to tell me you felt your time was drawing near
Your selfish little brother pretended not to hear.
Even when you did your best, and tried to let me know
You'd made your peace and you were ready, and that for you . . .
It was simply time to go
I do not know?
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:
Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.
He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.
After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.
In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.
Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.
He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.
Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.
On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.
Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.
His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.
In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.
On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:
‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.
Tell my people that I love them.
They must continue the fight.’
Mahlangu died for a cause!
The Struggle Continues…
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
I stand at your grave.
I do not know your name.
I know not where you are from.
Where you fought,
nor where you died.
The horrors and pain you suffered,
were not in vain.
The death and destruction brought you pain.
I weep at your grave,
for the life you gave.
I weep for the Mother,
that gave you that life.
I kneel before your grave.
I bow my head in gratitude to you,
The Unknown Soldier.
Written by my Cousin Susan Northwood who thinks she cannot write. She wrote this poem for me. pleaser let her know that she can write very well, she is also an excellent artist. By the way, I am back from my holiday, and glad to be back with you all.
My cousin Alf.
Whilst searching on the net one day
A name jumped out on me
Peter Duggan, as he is known
My cousin, that he be.
A crazy man, a writer too
Speaks his mind, I kid not you
He loves to argue, and debate
Gossip, and trivia, he does so hate.
He wrote me emails, all the time
And many poems in rhythm, and rhyme
His words were calming, made sense to me
Helped my fears,and anxieties.
Life for him had not been kind
Bullied, beaten, and a troubled mind
But here he was, helping me
With all my anger, that He could see
As time did pass, my life got better
Thanks to him, and all his letters
Back and forth, we wrote like mad
Happy laughing, and sometimes sad.
Now here in Oz, I've come to see
My cousin, and his family
Yes he's just how I imagined
Loves all life, and writes with passion.
He argues, talks, and often shouts
Sings, and laughs, but what about?
Yes, he's blunt, and can be rude
He'll shock you too, if you're a prude
But underneath his suit of armour
There stands a man, who's met his karma
All he wants is peace in in life
No more trouble. fights and strife.
There's many souls who cannot cope
With this loud, outspoken bloke
But I know where this man is from
He says it in his words and songs.
So for me he is not Peter
Or Billy, John or Ralph
He simply is my cousin
Also known as Alf.
Written by Susan Northwood, for Peter Duggan.
Speech of Tears – Zamreen Zarook
Drops of tears from our purl conveys a lot,
Each an every shedding has a ballot,
By identifying the core, our hands should allot,
Because, some might be extremely as shallot.
Chipper and blissfulness gives you cool tears,
Whereas in console and divesting flow hot tears,
Fear and pains give drains of tears,
Nothing that can be patch with dollars.
Some deliveries are automatic,
While some productions are acoustic,
Another drain says I am really bombastic,
Tears are at last solely cubistic.
They convey the emotions,
People go in search for solutions,
They become happy when they are with the precautions,
Reactions again as the tears, it’s the real abbreviation.
They ran laughing
Into the night.
Hand in hand.
Heart in heart.
Twenty-One, and Nineteen.
Forging new pathways,
Laughing at the wind.
It took only
For the driver
To mow them down.
It took only
For love realized
to be lost.
But years before
He stood next to his father
Who said the choice is yours.
And the proud young man
Checked the box
And signed his name
That the heart
He gave the girl
Would not be
His to give.
Of holding breaths
And the heart
Began to beat
Farewell, then, AUKN boss,
The next this year makes three.
By the time they find a substitute,
Slovenes will be at sea.
He tried to cover his behind;
AUKN boss of bosses,
As every week, balances grew bleak:
He weighed merits and losses.
With all this he'd no time to eat,
And round and round he flew.
And now he's split in a hissy-fit;
So helmsman, too-de-loo!
Day after day, day after day,
He drifted on the ocean;
Guano-vernment rained on his ship
Their suggestions for promotion.
Cousins, cousins, everywhere,
Corporate boards crosslink;
Cousins, cousins, everywhere,
Let's take you for a drink.
Accountants talking rot: O Christ!
Missions, visions - oh please!
Yea, slimy characters need legs
And slimy policies.
So has he done an hellish thing?
Not hired who? We dunno:
Was it absurd, to have a separate curd
From the whey Slovenia owes?
This wretch won't play, after 60 days;
Pissflaps, he'll have to go!
God help ya, gospod Bencina
From the fiends, that plague us thus! -
It's time to go — shot like cross-bow,
The AUKN boss.
Ah! walk-out day! what evil looks
Had I from Ernst and Young!
Who's at a loss? AUKN's boss
Wouldn't take a bung?
"You'll be" quoth one, "abolished - no
Stigma to double-cross."
He chose to go - why? We don't know:
Harmless AUKN boss.
Re-reading the original gave me a great idea for dinner until I realised all the storks have all flapped off to Africa for the winter. Pity, as I have some ancient marinade from Tuš. Like the subject of the poem, I didn't have the stamina for a Coleridge-length effort.
The National Poet Of Slovenia In A Language People Understand interprets important Slovenian affairs for the non-Slovene speaking world. www.maria.si
In memory of Bob
A true story.
It was in spring of two thousand when I first saw Bob. I’d just started working at Perth Dental hospital, and in fact it was my first day there. I walked up to the front door of this building, but it wasn’t yet opened. So I turned around and went to sit in the bus shelter which was just outside the building. As I went to sit down I noted a dark skinned gentleman sitting there with a happy, benign look on his face. He was about five feet eight give or take a little, and he was rather a thickset man who looked like he’d done his fair share of hard work in his sixty years or more.
There was something about this Gentleman that I could not quite put my finger on. He had a certain charisma about him; not the phony kind of charisma that one seen in the car salesman or the philanderer who messes with women’s heads, no, Bob had a kind of friendly smile for everyone that he met, and he seemed to draw people into him with his love, and gigantic heart. I knew as soon as I met him that Bob was most definitely for me.
As Bob looked at me and smiled, the whole world seemed to open up. He said “Ow ya going mate” in a loud ebullient manner, then we started to chat. Bob was like myself, a thinker, and straight away we started philosophizing about this, that, and the other, and it was like we had known each other forever. Then all of a sudden I found Bob talking about death, and the difference in the way the Maori people faced death, compared to the rather the silly way us white folk look at the subject with great fear in our hearts. Now this had always interested me, and somehow it just seemed natural to talk to this Maori gentlemen on this subject, and we spoke about it till the doors opened and it was time to work.
I don’t think anything happens just by chance, and I definitely have this feeling that Bob and I were meant to meet, and I really think this was a major destiny thing. I have found during the course of my life, that as I am aging, I can feel something pushing me into a certain direction, and I always felt that Bob was part of all this; and I had much to learn from him. Although I have never believed in organized religion, and never followed one I have always felt deeply spiritual, and I have met many people who I learned from, and Bob was most definitely one of them with all his great wisdom and patience. As I came to know Bob, we had many dialogues together, on many subjects. Bob used to love music and could always have time to plonk away on his guitar. He used to come round to my place and we would play songs together, though both he and I were no Eric Clapton’s, I would bang around on my guitar and play the harp, while we would both take out turns at singing. We’d have a smoke or a beer or two, and we’d play songs all day long, ahhh, I remember those days well, the memories are so strong.
Bob was one hell of a man, I could tell that he had been a wild one in his youth,
But when I knew him in his sixties he was an icon of wisdom and virtue; he had a kind word for everyone, and gave all his time to anybody who needed him, always.
He used to hear me waffling on like an idiot, trying to make him like me [as I always did] but never once did he tell me how foolish I was, he would just smile knowingly at me. He used to stand there at the window for hours, just drinking in the trees, or the clouds in the sky, and yet he was so aware, I used to try to sneak up on him; it couldn’t be done. His awareness was incredible.
Then one day Bob fell ill with terminal cancer, and he knew that he had very little time left on this Earth. He lay there sick for days in intolerable pain, but you never heard one complaint from him, even when he only had days to live, he was still worrying about the welfare of others. When the day finally come for Bob to leave his shell; he was lying there in deep sleep, when all of a sudden he woke up, with a smile on his face. His children asked him ‘Dad, do you want some pain killers” Bob laughed, compassion written all over his face, and he said to them ‘Not one of you has a clue, have you’ and he died with a big smile on his face.
His daughter got in touch with me, and told me about his death, and also told me that his last wish was to have me watch his soul leave his body. I felt very honored about this and went and sat with his body [as Maoris do]. I got the most peaceful feeling come to me [which I presume was his spirit leaving his body] as I watched his silent body, a Mari war stick and a beautiful rose lay across his chest. I still see it, and I feel blessed by it. He was my Maori warrior, and I adored the man.
I do not know?
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)
When it comes our time to be laid underground
Our voices now silent...we utter no sound
Our minds stop working and our thoughts disappear
We've finally ended those life living years
Some souls go up..some souls go down
Our bodies remain..six feet underground
We're thought of often from friends true and strong
After days turn to months some forget we are gone
So when you look in the mirror each morning think this
After a while you'll no longer exist
So grab life by the horns and enjoy each day
And if it's possible try to keep the grim reaper at bay
Love your wife your children and all of your friends
Your cousins your brothers ..all of your kin
And remember this..... Someday you'll be gone
So never live your life sad and alone
Smile each morning and throughout the day
Your time here is short...the days fade away
Enjoy your life... while it's yours to keep
Until the time comes for everlasting sleep.
As you grow, happy moments shrink,
At some day, skin aches when you smile,
These are just ordinary lines, or
Maybe just exaggerated tales,
‘D thought so but no fraction of idea,
It could be real, as real as you dwell in it,
Just like another story,
How a freckled face glance down,
Why arched brows are falling down,
The crow lines of eyes say it,
When it aches to smile,
Wearing it which was disowned years back
Don’t spell or stare or nod,
May face lays as in absence of suspicion
Knot of rope around my neck,
What changed or happened,
Somebody sprinkled dust on freshly painted canvas,
That Blush of youth _with self-indulged soul,
Beauty reflected in the eyes wide open,
Then agonizing hand interfered,
So made me wore this,
The face you don’t look at.
I have told enough, misery loses its grief,
If explained to satisfy that deaf ear,
Let it prevail, the dust,
Let me blacken myself in the stained canvas,
For that is what meant, and so,
Let this veiled face pray, in the shadow,
For the last breath, not for shrine,
Lived in mundanely and so did suffer,
Shall die in that ordinariness too,
If life asked you about my tiredness,
Don’t blame a name but a cure,
Which is desperately awaited, let her know.
It was a home on the river we lived .
It was the ghost of a young man whom had taken his own life.
I still remember the vision of him walking by me with a blank stare
We, as a Family of seven , moved into this river house
Panoramic views right out to the river , I should mention
I was home alone as a child , looking out at "The Julia Belle Swan " as she went by .
Upstairs in that room as I saw a figure walking by , with very nice features , auburn hair
I thought he was my older brother , a handsome young guy
Then I realized the young man was not my brother , a apparition he appeared .
He was not there to scare or frighten ,
the message I believe he wanted to shed light on, so clear.
He walked right by ,then disappeared through the window, out to the River .
The Ghost knew I could see him , a gift I have been given
when I was a younger child of five , I had once died for a short time. I was lifted by Jesus in Heaven . Death is not for us to decide .
Later in the years we moved from that home , every home we lived in had a story
or a presence of its own . My Mother had told me later , a young man took his life there .
Keep fighting your way through life and its despair ,
you are important to someone whom cares . If you feel alone and want life to end , Please pick up the phone , call anyone , call for help , call a Friend .
"This is not fiction , it truly is a gift I have been given "
written 17th Sept 2013
sung by Brad Paisley and Alason Krass
Just married, he loved his new wife,more than anyone saw
a day after they where married, he got drafted off to war
Overjoyed to finally return home to his bride
he walked in, to find she was in bed with another man
With just a slight second, his heart died
pain overwhelmed his entire soul, he picked up a drink
And started to drink more every day, to try to forget
as time passed, he drank himself to death, with a note "I'll love her till I die
they buried him beneath the willow, as she watched she filled her soul with regret
left to blame herself, she began to drink his memory away
As years passed she slowly drank her pain away
they found her next to his grave, holding his picture as she passed away
They buried her beneath the willow, and they were together again
and the angles sang a whisky lullaby
So when you find your one true love, be faithful and true
for no amount of alcohol will mend a broken heart for whatever you do!
I chose this song for my mother and my father both became alcoholics after they separated and my father passed away at the age of 42years old, my mother still lives but never stopped drinking she will be 58 years old she took off with his best friend from the age of 12yrs old
The Ballad of Tich Tomas
A dog was howling in the night
Perhaps she knew the truth
That Tich would not be coming home
This dog needed no proof
That the man who she loved so
He’d come to her no more
Because Lance corporal Thomas was
A victim of the war.
Now Tich, he was a country boy
His farm it was his life
A boon to his community
He’d give in times of strife
He learned his trade in farming school
With honours he’d come through
Then settled down to work his farm
That’s what he planned to do.
But then, one day it came to him
The news he did not need
He’d been called up for army life
He went off without heed
To do his time in Puckapunyal
To get him set for war
He soon made it as Infanteer
So he joined a fighting corp
He worked real hard and gained a stripe
This showed he had potential
He earned his skills in jungle fighting
And then there came the call
For he to go to Vietnam
To five RAR he was sent
Charlie company was his unit
When off to war he went
It was in April sixty six
Our man went into battle
There in the Phuc Tuy provence
Those guns did roar and rattle
Our Tich he fought real gallantly
So brave was he, but then
The shrapnel done it’s evil job
He joined the fallen men.
They brought his body back to those
Who were waiting for him there
The whole town came to welcome him
And helped with grief and prayer
They buried him with all the honours
That came to fighting souls
Who died to keep their country free
Courageous in their roles.
More honour it was placed on him
By the country where he’d fought
They built a statue in his name
And his likeness it was caught
By the sculptor who did honour him
And carve him into stone
And now Tich Tomas guards the park
As he stands there all alone.
If you’re ever down in Nannup town
Go to the park that’s there
You’ll see the statue of young Tich
As his spirit everywhere
Will fill the souls of those who see
This fighting man, so brave
Who’s body lies so peacefully
In his own town, in a grave.
Byron’s life was full of fire
Some from passion’s strong desires
Some from temper, child spoiled--
Too much paper--desk embroiled
But he suffered sacred fire
Shelley’s wretched funeral pyre
On strange shores his friend succumbed
Drowned so far away from home
Fighting valiant-- Greeks allied
Keeping paper by his side
Used a fire to keep warm--
Daunting rain that did him harm
After death friends burned B’s words
What a shock if people heard
Thoughts that Byron dared to write
Deeds he carried through by night
Thus his words sung to the flames
Protecting friends from nasty names--
Luck-charmed chimney to embrace
Ash-thoughts of man so wrong defaced.
Victoria Anderson-Throop 12/03/12 ©
Juja, Kenya Africa
Where am I? Why is it dark?
This isn’t what I had in mind when I left the park…
Why isn’t the wind whispering…the songbirds singing?
All I remember is a telephone ringing…
A scream and a crash and a pain in my side…
Is this what happens after one’s died?
I don’t feel like myself, I feel wild and free,
Yet I’m cold and alone, 'stead of filled with glee.
My whole life I’ve studied, and pondered, and prayed,
Trying to fathom what would happen this day
But now that it’s here, I’m beginning to fear
Maybe the afterlife’s not what it appears…
It’s certainly not what I’ve been told by my preacher
Or my parents or brother or best friend or teacher…
Is it a bad thing, or is it good?
Maybe it’s just not quite understood...
While I was on Earth, I just couldn’t wait
To meet good St. Peter at the heavenly gate
And ask him a question or query or two
“What was my purpose?” “What good did I do?”
“What’s it all for?” “How does it all flow?”
“Can I have one more body, one more try, one more go?”
But where is the angel? Where is the gate? And
If this is Hell, then where is Ol’ Satan?
Am I a lost soul? Am I forgotten?
Am I to be left here until I am rotten?
Lo and behold! what, now, can this be?
Is this a wonderful spiritual epiphany?
Is this the magical feeling all souls receive
When they leave Earth? Oh! was I that naïve?
How could I have not seen the realism?
Why was I consumed in man-made idealism?
This is more wondrous than all I was taught
Oh, all the times I argued and fought
With others, ‘bout how their views were asinine
Now I see, theirs were just as wrong as mine!
Little I thought was actually correct!
How, why, did I let others petty beliefs infect
My untouched, my pure, my virgin mind?
I regret all the hours I self-tortured to find
That compared to what I see now, I was empty and blind…
Wait - - What is this that I see?
What is this gateway that is revealed unto me?
Now a door is opened to my immortal soul
I am expected now to enter my life’s final goal…
I am scared, intimidated, but still I am glad…
For the truth I have just seen is anything but bad.
This is the end of my journey, I’ve nothing to fear,
For now I am going Beyond the Frontier.
A full moon night
to my delight
what is so wrong
with doing what's right
nothing is right
after so long
no use in complaining
time to move on
The Dream Water one day
might take me away
farther from the comfort
I float on my back
then shut my eyes
my body now sinking
into ocean arms open wide
Now swallow your son
back to his nature
when he is no longer
needed to stay here
the next generation
are dooming themselves
they need my experience
to guide them through hell
Why should I bother
on my own, I strive through
I turn my back on the thought
of bothering to save you
alone in this world
my, is it spacious
I'm finally smiling,
never so gracious.
Time moves on,
and soon will tell,
when asked for whom
they ring the bell…
…and forty lost,
you left before twilight.
When it’s half as much,
at twice the cost,
in perfect light…
We live in castles
…made of sand,
we come as a stranger,
but leave as a friend…
your last first kiss,
those times will be
Your smile indeed
could cast a spell.
You learned to
play a bad hand well…
With all our hopes
and dreams in tow,
we are old too quick,
and wise too slow.
Life’s an elaborate
Would you live again,
if you had the chance?
Copyright © 2013
Show me a clear midsummer’s day, and I
Shall reveal the coldness lurking beneath
For which the mortals heave a knowing sigh
In kind, the winter bares her savage teeth
Yet we, who know better than to implore
Play games with Time that are cruelly coy
Always to have less than ever before
And thus is the fickle manner of joy
To depart tenfold as quick as it came
Seeking first the ones who try to hold fast
For all who dare speak that elusive name
Breathe tender eulogies of summers past
Fear not, for the blush of this earth entombed
Shall run our blood until we are exhumed
My Time Has Come
My time is over here in this body
I am being called home as my work is done here
I hear my Lords voice calling me home
Although I know I will miss this old world
With all that I have seen and done
All the People I have met and talked to
My body can go on no more for it has reached it’s time
Rev. Samuel Mack, OMS
Death had come.
Death had killed.
Death had left.
Death had taken my friend.
The only one I trust.
Leaving me here alone,
Death had come.
Death had killed.
Death had left.
Death had taken my family.
The fire burned our home.
Turning them into dust.
Burning loneliness into my heart.
Death had come.
Death had killed.
Death had left.
Death had taken my life.
Jump up and down like a jackrabbit
running through meadows
running from what?
Could it be heartbreak,
a venemous snake that hides in the grass,
hiding with fangs ready to pierce the tender skin
upon the tight, bronze flesh of everyday life?
Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye now!
I need a vacation a long way away from the faceless smiles
and ignorance of young girls, who don't look at you,
who don't show you love and respect.
Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye now,
as jumping spiders hop everywhere, crawling eight legs around me
my soul black like carcoal, but my heart still beating
slower this time, not like the days before
and like the jackrabbit running from anything and everything,
I run to seek love and vanish away from the empty voids
that people call, their souls.
Recording a film with no tape,
talking to a woman you love, but not having the guts to tell her how you really feel
Jump my boy, like a jackrabbit, take my advice
tell her before she leaves
turns down the endless avenues of endless dark love
the trees grow taller, taller than you
and you sit there feeling away yourself die, missing out in life.
I cannot see you lose your love.
Say it, say it, Say it!!! Tell her! Tell her! Build the guts up!
Build up the courage, tell her how you feel. Take her by the hand and never say goodbye! Never say goodnight, stay with her till the flight comes in the morning
of the first rays of sun shine through your dorm room take her and love her!
Do not be like me, the jackrabbit! I see no happiness
Reading poetry it makes me sad,
to write of others falling in love and I never finding the one.
People tell me, you'll find yours, have hope
but I am a frightened little jackrabbit
who flees from sounds of deep emotions, not having courage to fall in love,
not building the guts up to tell her how I really feel.
She walks alone, I find my oppertunity and sing my love song
She smiles and moves on,
please tell me I cannot fight anymore.
All I have to say is Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye
I need a vacation
to go to some sandy beach on an island of love
and write and write and write, the same poetry that depresses me
but makes you all fall in love with words!
Fiction about love stories, please kiss me
Blue eyed death comes, plays a game of chess with me
I bet twenty, he bets my soul
Kiss me death, the only love I'll ever get,
besides my poet friends who kiss my ass
Listen to my heart, truely, I don't write of beauty
I write for the sorrow soul, the fleeing jackrabbit
running away from love.....
Thank you for the beautiful memory
you left on my mind
you are not dead
but you are not here,
to me you are gone,
cos i cant feel you the way i used to,
everything you used to do are left untouched
the space you ocupied is empty,
our yesterday is fading away like the rainbow
so beautiful but so short,
how can i forget the endless yesterday?
when you are here with me.
in loving memory of my sister (you are not an angel but you did what an angel can do,you fly to heaven.)
Slaughter in Syria by the pound
The rebels take their place under ground
Shell shocked children in a school of fire
Assad revels in his twisted desire.
The armies of the Bear unleash their goods
Assad taking his anger to the neighborhoods.
A world in sorrow a place of death
the people of Syria take their last breath.
The world is a stage in a tyrannical flood
the smell of death the rivers of blood.
The flight from horror is a fanciful dream
for the people of Syria nights filled with screams.
The leaders of tomorrow should now take heed
for the rebel in the streets are a different breed.
They die for their country they die for what's right
they cry out for their freedom to the Heavenly light.
What will be the outcome in a future so bleak ?
for peace and love is all they seek .
By Larry Hays
All turned down to the worst
as the children lost innocence,
as the bums drank their last breath away,
as the man eating sharks finding their way,
to the over-crowded sandy beaches,
as the man turn to the woman
and gave her a slap across the face,
as the thef steals in the night,
as the coward goes behind his loved ones' backs,
as the oil lanterns spill over and burn the bridges
to salvation and paradise.
Something always happens to the good guy,
a knife in the back in the midst of dawn,
his woman leaving with another man,
he dying slowly of cancer,
or suffering from intoxication of the blood.
Poison. Poison, ravages his body,
oh, how could God let such things happen
to such a good man?
His life work, his social life, his nirvana
all destroied, burned away, turned to dust.
But with the evil, came the good.
Yes with time and time again
repeating itself in a circle of time,
across the crossed faces,
as blue eyed Death smiles
and as the girls grin,
Everything came into place,
Anyway with evil, came the good.
Indeed it had came right to his front doorstep.
You’re another day older
The world’s much colder
It’s not your fault
They were taken
Don’t blame yourself
for God’s mistake
Her beauty reflects your own
Her life reflects your future
Chasing rabbits will get you there faster
Loss of faith will bring you there faster
The ball drops
It’s clever to see
What happens to us
And here we are
Take the evil out of this
She’s stronger and always,
O my graveyard
How I do find it hard
That I must sleep with you
“Until we meet again”
How sweet that sounds, my friend
But we both know it isn’t true
O my own death
How I’ll cherish that last breath
When I’m waiting here for you
I know this life must end
And how sad this is, my friend
But there’s nothing we can do
My heart held a funeral today
The love I had for you in decay...
I enshrouded myself in black
While sobs my weak body wrack
My face swathed in filmy lace
So others the tears could not trace
The requiem played in my mind
No solace could I find
By the casket, I sat still
Forcing myself at will
To accept my tragic loss
I look at the golden cross
On the box in which lies entombed
That which my hidden feelings exhumed
The idolatrous image of you
All I held noble and true
That which I had adored
Which in my heart I had stored
I had to bid farewell
Whether to heaven or to hell
Your image would take flight
To bright day or morbid night
The funeral must come to an end
My heart in need of a chance to mend
But, you...you are not dead
It's only true in my head
You are still alive
And oh, how you thrive…
Breathing and moving
Speaking and wooing
Teasing and dreaming
Smiling and scheming
And oh, how I must strive
For you're close, still bright
You fill my eyes with delight
Such a sight to behold
A heart I thought was pure gold
But your soul….
For me has died
And I mourn and I weep
As this secret I keep
I beat my chest and wail
All to no avail
I thought you were fine
But what could I do?
A fault was found in you
One that I could not ignore
And so I frantically tore
My garments in lament
I had thought you...heaven sent
Today I attended a funeral
And I know recovery will be long
The secrets in that coffin belong
I rise to leave the funeral hall
Where from the pedestal you did fall
My wounded heart keeping
The tale of the great demise
Of your image in my love struck eyes
Eileen Manassian Ghali
"No." She whispered before drowning into her sorrows.
Her life had been a simple happy one.
There were no pains and no troubles.
Life was life and people were people.
Life was simple.
and life was all about tomorrows.
Life didn't know about sorrows.
Those same sorrows that she drowned in never existed.
They were never there, but where?
First to be sad in the naive town of joy.
Sorrow became contagious and what was known as happiness no longer was there.
It was non-exististent.
A meager thought
and a blessed memory.
She tried and tried.
She failed and failed.
Life was no longer hers.
For Pain was her only possession.
She lived and she died.
Yet, her legacy was passed on.
Never was it gone.
"No." She whispered before drowning in her sorrows,
The Murder Of One Lead To Another
My death caused yours. I left without a fight like I had all those times before. Murder by my own self-indulgence. Looking how I had left you to your own devices, if I would had known that would be the cause of your death would I have been less self centered? Can you hear me singing to you as you slit your wrist and separate soul and body? Slowly slipping away as I sing the song of the 7 veils. I yearned for you, as you loved for me could we be the most perfect couple to die for selfish wish. What fools we are leaving this world just for a death we know nothing of.
Stop! Return! Don’t leave me just yet! Are the words I hear as I return to living breathing state, I was returned back to this world? For you I could live on, for you I could die by your side, for you I would make you live forever with me. I was murder, you slit your wrist but in the moment of leaving this world we both was called back by the body we left behind. We came back hand and hand together to stay side by side. I was murder you slit your wrist, but in that last moment I came back for you and you came back for me. Did you see it our nearly over soul ready to be devoured and consumed by our greed?
I was murder, as you slit your wrist. We tried to destroy our suffering and we nearly destroyed our bond. My death led to your death but in our final moment we were called back to this unforgivable world. Murder by self-indulgence, suicide of a broken heart, which was our ways out of this world. Thank you for calling me back.