Why does a child have to go to school?
Why do we have to spend so much time working?
This seems simply cruel.
Isn't it just irking?
Some people say school is important for learning
Couldn't a child learn on their own?
It would cause much less yearning,
After all, we can learn from our phones.
I can somewhat see a parents point in sending their child to school.
But why would you choose what we wear?
It just allows us to look like fools,
We may as well come to school bear.
As you can see school is not fair,
So please don’t force us to go if you care.
With welling eyes we'll trod this broken day
Still the rumbling heart with a hand in mine
And speak of precious dreams that always stay
When love is true and sweet the world's sublime
To share and comfort when a heart is blind
Raise a spirit's light from its darkest shroud
And free the weeping shadows in the mind
From a humbled pain where pride has bowed
No Sherpa guide needed when love is found
To lead a weary heart from its despair
Empathy is the medicine I've ground
To heal your broken soul because I care
To hold your hands before your heart's abyss
And be a friend, there is no better gift
I would be standing alone with a plea
Like a frail structure in solitude,
If had not you helped me so nicely.
My heart is filled with humble gratitude.
When no one did appear to be mine
I was really alone among crowd,
Then you appeared as a silver line
Being so friendly, in the deep dark cloud.
Your sweet words, filled with real sympathy,
Soothed my heart and saved my sinking hope.
You helped me forgetting the tragedy
And encouraged me with strength to cope.
All these support made me obliged to you
And I can never forget your virtue.
You'll doubtless think my mind is fooling me,
or all my hurting's only in my head,
but pain is what brings on my misery
and makes my heart to wish that I was dead
and though my case is weak for proving it,
my lumbar's slipped a disk--and out of whack,
because of this my life has turned to shit,
and how I am, depends on how's my back.
My wish is you would have for just one day
sciatica I bear--so you could feel
in spite of what the skeptics have to say
my pain's excruciating--and is real.
If you could stand a while here in my shoes
the pain you'd feel would make you moan the blues.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa
for Facebook, Well this is a pretty picture of a storm coming
on Fort Knox, with me cut and pasted onto to
photo I took last week...
Aptly said and boldly spoken.
Chess is over
Lacking all stakes and honor.
Every Black went to Checkmate,
All others forfeit!
Let's ignore the real someone and scatter back homewards.
"We didn't much play him Good Folks, but remember
In this world so dishonest,
We're dressed up quite nicely.
And, oh yeah, Chess is a serious endeavor. . ."
He's undefeated, not Dead
So just hold the Presses.
Once he's passed let me know,
With however badly he suffered.
To work towards a tournament ten foolish years,
To be recognized, honored, and considered a Legend. . .
But, hey!, we're Checkmated Winners,
So now don't cause much trouble!
Since he's owed chess monies now, and it's about that that you're asking,
Just listen up People,
We mean he won't get his money!
Voice Of Unfortunate
Today our want is
Some food to live;
We want no so ease,
Only need relief.
Our dream is naif,
We do ever combat
With lack of life,
Hap is our regret!
We dark by polity;-
Be poor by canker,
King isn’t hearty,
So, we hate any war.
Now we are cipher,
So, none us honour!
My love, shall I deceive thee with a kiss
While tending gardens of adultery
Leaving with lust; returning to your bliss
A man whose mask is most untrustworthy
Somehow I saw in something of a rose
A younger you, or innocence of youth
Attractions grew as other roses rose
Into affairs, from me to you untruth
For pain is the surprise you mustn't bare
Knowing of my affairs and afternoons
So it is that this mask I'll always wear
To cover up the guilt of my communes
Yet from our kiss should my secrets eclipse
Believe me, not the lies inside my lips
Phillia; oh My brother of life,
Brought through time and wrought though strife.
We've met this day through unblood ways,
given this test of heart we've made.
With youth we bled from youthful knees,
Carried the hearts of youthful dreams.
We grew into the Brother's we are today,
given this test of heart we've made.
Phillia; oh My Brother's, Son.
My heart hurts for his hearts one.
Time has taken us different ways,
But with this old ticker, Phillia remains.
Well into the shadows of life we've claimed,
settled minds and unashamed.
Captured essence of solitude,
Phillia; oh My Brother, I think we made it through.
A glowing angel ascended from the skies:
came down, stepping slowly towards him
she touched his face looking into his eyes -
a view of heaven, galleries of a dream
something beyond beauty is seen:
through the eyes of the soul viewed
like the touch of God from within
our hearts... each other imbued
everything is seen more beautifully
leaving him to painfully and compassionately ponder:
leaving him weeping for those who cannot see fully
wishing they could have this magnificent wonder
he then wishes this for all the living: -
for most of the seeing are more blind.
The younger I was, the quicker and kinder
I responded to love, and believing in sharing,
I spread that kindness to anyone fonder
of my perception that all were deserving.
I gave all and kept nothing to shelter me from fear;
everybody thought I didn't need up-lifting words,
and being left without the courage to ask, I sank deeper
into loneliness being caught up in loveless thoughts.
I yearned for their friendship, but none came...
and by putting on an alluding smile, it didn't help indeed,
because they assumed I wasn't in need;
if only they had known me better, I wouldn't bear this blame!
Even now, being lonely and caught up in loveless thoughts,
desire for happiness doesn't seem stronger than it was!
Oh how you want to be a renegade,
moving against the grain of convention.
Fight the machine, but still need to be paid;
a twisted paradox of pretension.
You want to be an underground fighter,
and still retain the vice of wordly greed,
slinking in-between walls pushing tighter,
this greater control will surely impede.
Why not save yourself by being stealthy,
recoup some lost freedom while you still can,
dipping your ideals into the wealthy;
add an escape route to your little plan.
Fight against the machine, it will crush you,
there is a far better way shining through!
Love taketh my heart and soul
it recaptured my trust
never again shall I stand sole
for your love, is lust
I learned not to love
Thy heart cast melancholy melodies inside
Thy love is love that is only loved by the man above
For love isn't a vied
My heart seems to haste
yet I suffered
Unquestionably your love can be replaced
When love comes to push and shove, I defer
As lies come across my ears
As much as my pulverized heart been through
I learned to put off love as it corker, belittlement, and depressed me for years
Thy heart day by day grew
Heavy,thick dust on the floors and benches
Open back door and a key on the table
Grass uncut, beer bottles strewn about
Brown water spurting out, pipes detached
Original wallpaper melting off the walls..
Old ,loose fitting, rusty handles on doors
The house is empty,rotting junk mail aplenty
A vine inside creeped in from the floorboards
No kitchen,no handrail,where are the landlords?
A peaceful view of a backyard with a wild turkey
Lorikeets happily feasting on bright flowered tree.
Misty sun showers on a western mountain horizon.
She said "Do you like what you see of our discovery?"
Her pointy nose + fine sense of scent lead us there.
Far from the west came a man,
And me in the Indian Sands',
Making a friendship tight -
It was freddy who met me in the night.
The month of October, the weeks of November,
The bond flew more slender -
Thou left in the month of January;
Thy memories make me sorry!
Oh thy gossips cheered me all;
Like the beauty of an ever lasting waterfall,
Thy music rings in my ears
Resulting in hot brimming tears .
your memory is as fresh in my mind -
Giving me hope to remember thine!!
He treads on this footpath bravely
With guts, on the street yonder
He hangs up the tiny tent thither
Or prostrates himself on the open field gladly.
‘Vagabond’ is the term that people ascribe
To his lone self that lacks identity.
But he possesses daring dexterity
That a meetly-mantled man fears to describe.
The stranger sports a regal air
He thumps his feet with pride
In his ride he is his sole guide
To the frowns, why should he care?
We often talk about roots, hearth and home
But to him, the entire world is his kingdom.
Middle age men, look in this clear mirror
and spot those gray strands of hair:
they may seem ugly, but they bring wisdom;
look again, you are still vibrant,
and accomplish more than those who won't dare:
tell them to live as you have...
Lines on these foreheads are the furrows that
make us so conscious of our existence,
and death is not far from life's painful truth;
we think of the future as a time yet to come,
but we live it this very moment...not realizing it:
and with spirit and courage, we race to stay alive...
Each year another gray hair is added to our increasing age;
can we accept mortality, and not reject discontent and rage?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
In forty kilometers squared
They’re killing livestock in Japan.
Atomic refugees, though scared,
return just to grab what they can
in the five hours they’re allowed
before leaving their homes for good,
look sadly at the farms they’ve plowed
and mourn their poisoned neighborhood.
Still searching for family lost
at the funeral homes each day,
they haven’t realized the cost
or the price that they still must pay.
means little while they sort debris.
I'm the sonneteer of another era,
Struggling for fame and dreaming of glories...
Living free in prosperous America,
Where there's hunger for interesting stories.
Invite me to share yours as thrills resume;
I will give my opinion anytime,
But perfect syllables count and strict rhyme scheme
Are required for rhythm to happily chime.
Petrarch and Shakespeare were the greatest
Poets who created remarkable sonnets;
Read their works with unquenchable zest:
You'll discover they wrote them in the hundreds!
Study the unique forms of each sonnet;
Model yours on them with true interest!
Hola, I saw her today with a smile, so sweet and fresh
like the milk she nourished me. She sat, on the back
porch, weaving her passion, creating a web of caress,
for this young heart---the black and white pic of a duck.
I sat, not far, watching her eager hands with patience
of a saint, as she stitched the last image, of her mind;
sometimes, she threw looks at me, perhaps her conscience
bothered her, for letting me, me alone, pass the time.
‘Cos for her, occasional strong wind howls that bother
is her savoring concern, not wanting this young heart
to live and be clothed by its un-gentleness, but rather
be warmed by a mantle of love---her passion, her art.
Hola, I saw her today with a smile, so sweet and fresh
like the milk she nourished me, from her own breasts.
I’ll add you to my safe keeps.
And put you with my collections.
I’ll sit back with my own reflections.
After, I’ve taken hundreds of peeps.
I’ll put you under my pillow where I sleep.
And then there will be no exceptions.
It’s where delusion versus deceptions.
You and I will never weep.
Until your heart is free to run,
I’ll be collecting ashes and dust.
I’ll never be done!
And I’ll never rust.
My collections of restorations appeal.
Piece by piece many of you will heal.
®Registered: Ann Rich 2006
sonnet no 49
Her dowry brought a future with such wealth
Lame sire as I have non to compensate,
A pauper who has nothing but good health
To eat the finest foods, regurgitate;
Who hath not seen the light of day for years-
I’m trapped in working class with friends so fine
With lack of understanding Lords and Peers,
Whose mother tongue was made from vintage wine,
Though married life has brought with it much woe
Then who said such is money, pride of place:
Has taken second best, that’s what I know
For something more, that money can’t replace
Whilst wealth can least at first be pleasing some,
There’s more to life, it’s working for a crumb.
Some days I feel all fine and great, but some days there are just too many
decisions to make.
Some days we’re sad when we would rather be glad. Other days we fight
everyone even the ones we like.
Some days are quiet and our hate just can’t fight it. Most days we’re just tired
and we’re afraid we could get fired!
Some days we’re scared when we should be getting prepared. Some days
we’re spacy like we have been tripping daises.
Some days we’re confused when we would rather be amused. Some days we
lack concentration and everything we heard was mistaken.
Some days we’re full of joy, but by the end of the day this feeling soon
becomes destroyed. Some days we act like a baby crying when everything gets
Some days your friends just aren’t enough and you don’t know who you can
trust. In other words SOME DAYS are better than others.