Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?
Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace
More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry
Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage
Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience
Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing
In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby
She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II
Annie received little compensation
This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty
To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home
With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse
Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009
It's been a good run
To the back side of sixty,
The short side of time.
First Hollywood kiss
Behind a pink crepe myrtle.
Thanks, Patsy Werner.
High school was okay.
Didn't help me to focus;
So, my mind wandered.
Surfed Bonzai Pipeline,
Big waves break into lava.
What made me do it?
I wondered why I was there.
Smoking pot. Stereo.
Good fun in the seventies.
And three wives later,
I finally found true love.
We're still together.
My destitute heart,
Saved by the sweetest angel.
I love you, Sandy.
Sooners are my team.
Most winning football program
In the Modern Era.
I am retired now.
But I have plenty to do.
I've been writing more.
Perhaps I will write a book.
I have many tales.
I'd chase young girls; but,
Girls with a "grampa" fetish
Are so hard to find.
If I am lucky,
I will just drop dead one day.
With my peace of mind.
Yes, made a good run
To the back side of sixty,
The short side of time.
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
It's Anzac Day today
Or lads were sent away
To fight a war
And what the hell for
Because they had to pay
Copyright © Vera Duggan | Year Posted 2014
I remember his words, not that long ago
Telling of such times when crimson flowed
My Grandad, my hero, who's memories told
My bedroom window I look, it all unfolds
Neighbours fighting neighbours, why I cry
People talking yesterday now in furor
I'm young, I'm eleven, asking myself why
What's changed overnight, fueling this score
In panic surround Dubrovnik is now where I stay
Walled city, Grandads house, from Serbian tirade
Seven months endured, walls holding well
Wishing it's over ending our imprisoned hell
Again his stories unfold of countries in ruin
Fighting with Tito, heroes they one and all
Repelling the Germans, killing their doing
Repulsed he is, by their murdering thrall
Back to the present and a silence exists
Can it be that the fighting has now ceased
What I'm seeing aged eleven, people I know
Holding back tears of whom known deceased
It's now 2015, I'm a Lawyer of human rights
I've lived many nightmares, said killing sights
For my Grandfathers memories, he and all
There will be justification, when no one will thrall
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2015
THE UN-BEETABLE BUG
Simplicity, elasticity, beauty in the thirties,
not like some sedans, ugly and beastly
This popular car and it's history from the past,
from it's World War two template, it sure did last
How many know why it's being came to be,
a car for the German people, to what you've seen
The Sixties starts the decade of the Summer of love,
unique form of the bug fits these times like a glove
Born in Germany in yellow, black, blue or white,
but see I desire the color red so alluringly bright
Won't you agree, it looks sexy, pretty and nice?
This models size and style sparkles to burst some spice
Its voluptuous rounds makes it friendly and sleek,
to busy roads and highways surely it can easily sneak
It may look slow but I tell you: you are wrong!
This small car runs like the shooting star song.
Alongside trucks or vans, it doesn't tremble a fear
as when I turn the key, horsepower shy with its gear.
Easy so easy, I can turn the wheels to any curves
soothing so soothing to my sometimes worried nerves
Many a design of automobiles will pass
but hey, my red Volkswagen still holds the class.
The "un-beetable" Beetle bug definitely hits a big shot
to a parking lot you can easily save her a spot
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015
Battle of Culloden
1746 is a date I now know
Descendents of Ours, Great courage they showed
After fearless fighting the Jacobites grew fewer
Bloodshed ran thick through Culloden Moor
The Catholics gathered in the heathered feild
Faces war painted and blunt swords they did weild
It was a time where the Highlands Clans colided
The Fate of many already decided
A Cunning, curageous but desperate technique
Planned and ready the first regiment streaked
The Highland Charge took its birth
If only they knew what the outcome was worth
Seen in the air the mist of last breaths
As the next wave ordered run to their deaths
Fearless and determined , ill prepared and Rustik
They Stood no chance against the Hanoverians Muskets
A date in Ano domini's Time Line For sure
An end to the jacobites long lasting tour
At the end of the day the battle elapsed
The Jacobite's coalition began to collapse
Prisoner's are gathered and sent south to Suffer
Their Forced into Labour or Death penalty they discover
The remaining few who rebel and oppose
Get tried for High Treason and put into rows
The death penalty is issued and the craw of the crows
Echoe Eerily as they hang by the Gallows.
Copyright © Liam Fraser | Year Posted 2014
When I met her , a very old lady she was , yet inside lay a frightened child .
I felt my heart cry , I felt as if I was touching history itself , as I made this older lady, child, chai .
I remember the day , and so many tears I have cried
I have cried before she and I met
As a child , so many tears, left confused inside .
Not understanding Why , and how could we stand by and live our lives as if this never happened ?
It happened , we are left in dismay of the movies seen the accounts taken of History
My self ..I have caught stereotyping the very people whom did this to she , the rest of her Family erased .
The white candles we light , we try and forgive , or just simply block this pain out completely.
It occurs , over and over , as it has been said History will repeat .
When thinking of my children , when I think of that little girl losing , cold and scarred , feeling only defeat .
There is a lesson here and I pray , that all whom have been taken from life , have no pain and are gifted spirits throughout eternity . May they be warmed with love, and reunited with the ones they lost .
The first time I met her , her old hand I took and warmed it with mine , I held it for a long time .
You could not, but notice ..the Evil imprinted on skin , the Evil only to remind.
This very old Soul , in her eyes you could see .
The child that once lived , so innocently free, not aware yet, of the Hostility .
I speak of a Little girl, I speak of a old woman , I speak of a Jewish, chosen Religion.
There as I held her frail , old hand , a brand , a number stamped in Evil a long time ago . In 1945 , once in our distant, yet Frightening past .
We should never forget , never forget it happened , never forget all the names .
If we do , we have learned nothing , A World living in Shame .
" Etta Babooshka Kofman "
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
SARAJEVO the going insane
Could anyone explain the going mad
of someone whom your life's depended on,
or how, the sanity, all they have had
grows weaker until all they've had is gone?
You know their love's been such a part of you
but life had reason, it just couldn't stay,
and in your heart you know the love was true,
it did not end, it only slipped away.
To watch, as those you've loved, grow weak in mind
is watching death--in all your eyes can see,
and helpless, all your hope is but to find
their death is not as fast as death should be.
It takes a long time knowing all is gone
and longer finding reason to go on.
© Ron Arbuthnot aka Ron wilson
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2015
This expanse of land has seen things.
Things all of us can only see in dreams.
It's seen war, it's gotten it's fair share of scars.
Bombs bursting, bullets throwing sand into the air like it's a volleyball tournament.
The sand running red with blood silently mocking our arteries.
This magnificent stretch of land has seen heroes' tears fall; dropping to their knees while sadness envelopes their fallen brothers but also looking up to their beloved whilst carrying a ring in their hand.
It's seen bright days, the sun glimmering over wet sand, footprints of past loves being washed away as the sun smacks the horizon.
This expanse of land...has seen things we can only imagine.
Copyright © Tyler Kisner | Year Posted 2013
I woke up early in the morning, on
My canopy snug bed laid on
Stinks,I managed to stifle my yawn
I remember my war
War in my life
War in my life
I breath heavily
I almost choked by fumes
In bundle,I packed my belongings
Thinking of what to eat
I have no where to stay
For the day
I have noting to do for feeding
Relative sent me away because I am noting
I walk around the street
Sometimes,I stand,bend,and knee
Begging for money to feed
I heard this proverb says, if there
Is life there is hope
Hope, hope,hope for me in this world
Now that I am old
Greyish hair on my head
If I heard something about thirty minute
Ago,hardly will I remember
I have not much to live in life
When will I have halcyon day in my life?
Can I still be optimism or I should hope
To be fortune in the
Hereafter?,I mumbled alone.
for shhhhhh contest sponsor by Silent one.
Copyright © Afolabi Muideen | Year Posted 2015
Limerick: Once Japanese Robot lied about its age
Once Japanese Robot lied about its age
To an American Robot under age
At marriage registry
Paid haemophrodite fee
That night in shed they locked jaws in mad glad rage.
One said: “If only I knew your true old age
I would not have stooped so low to engage
You in pédophilie
Despite the reduced fee!”
Said the other: “Shut your trap. Open your cage!”
All night they toiled without oil or French vintage
Pungent fumes coursed through finely wired visage
Love counter showed much glee
Neither side of Pacific need take umbrage.
Hiroshima Nagasaki sheer mirage
Robot lingo spout like Zen-type soul adage
Nuts bolts screws a-plenty
War rights out of country
Robots join dumb Robots in Atomic Age!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015
A series of hello’s, and only that;
We are each other’s familiar stranger.
Those glances queer yet unsuspecting,
My soul begins to wonder-
My thoughts, they dance and wander.
A careful denial to a careless disregard;
Surrounded by a wall t’was built amiss.
A trap in a non-existent black hole
A suffocating sorrow-
A melancholic hollow.
Your deep-set eyes and glimmering iris
Don’t miss the warm facade
Of a beautiful countenance
But a sombrous ghost I long to know-
My curious and subtle soul.
Your perfect golden smile,
And then, presto, it’s gone.
The mystery of your avoidance
And the dreaded war of silence-
The war that’s non-existent.
Oblivion is no excuse to ignore each other’s presence
But still confined for decades
Behind the walls we put up
For our souls to only converse in silence
As we are a series of hello’s and only that.
Copyright © Cheri Teng | Year Posted 2015
I wasn't supposed to be here,
Stuck on a field painted with crimson.
I didn't choose this life,
What have we-what have I done?
Standing before the rising sun,
But I feel nothing but the cold,
As a gun is pointed to this head,
I am not the one to die, this story is foretold.
He is the one to fall, not I!
"The trick is to kill the poor bastard before he kills you."
He did not expect the silver finger to point back at him,
"Give them that final respect." Before they see a white hue.
I was not the one to die, no, I am still alive!
But why must I feel so dead now? This body is still here!
No, that spirit I once had remains on the battlefield,
That spirit is in the past, which is far from near.
I walk with the heavy burden upon my back,
I truly was the one to fall.
Without a word, the memories I hold remain,
Blocking me from moving on like a wall.
I may still be here, I am still alive today, no?
But that once perfect and innocent mind is laying on the field,
Waiting for it's time to come, waiting for life anew,
The mind is alone, it's fate is sealed.
I still walk this Earth, I am dead, but still alive,
But why do I still remain?
I still see the face of the one who deserved to live,
If it is like this, is my life just in vain?
My body is long gone, but that mind still remains,
Residual and replaying that scenes as a projector.
It waits to tell you the story of he who never returned home,
And about the Minds at War.
Copyright © Frisk Carris | Year Posted 2014
Oh, the age of innocent play,
And to the park we went each day;
The park at the end of our street,
We would play like we were athletes.
I hung from play bars a monkey,
Brother focused seriously;
At baseball he hated defeat,
We would play like we were athletes.
I was a carefree butterfly,
Hey brother don't let that ball by;
No didn't want to go home to eat,
We would play like we were athletes.
The age of innocent is fast,
Little brother is but the past;
As a soldier death he would meet,
We would play like we were athletes.
Oh, I still am that butterfly,
That often hangs her head to cry;
My memory is bittersweet,
We would play like we were athletes.
November 20, 2015
Written by Broken Wings
For the contest, Oil Painting 4&5, sponsor, Eve Roper
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
Young Love In Auschwitz
Not into life too firm, and dying slow
before the years intended for death's claim,
youth wasted by the way she had to go,
she never had the chance to feel love's flame;
nor cast her flashing eyes in teasing's charm
to courting boys, who begged her company,
whom otherwise would keep her safe from harm
and far removed from how life had to be;
though spring was on, the time for love's sweet breath,
in hunger is a pain that stops love cold,
and in love's place the hope for instant death
was all that kept her here, and growing old.
Somewhere deep in her heart, his probing eyes
brought feeling her life couldn't recognize.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016
Memory, oh sweet memory,
Lost in dizziness, but found.
Excite my brain to joyfulness.
Pain is sometimes lethal.
Memory loss is just one warning sign of this war.
Add to that: headaches, depression, oh, the mental pain.
Numbness, insomnia, heart palpations, and more, begin slowly.
From whence comes your sweet deception?
My bones ache and I cannot breath in life's memory.
Lost in my own fantasy with dizziness.
Imagining a chemical warfare against the masses.
Common folks like you and me but subjugated peons.
Mushy brains found among the young and innocent thin.
Excite my brain with your pondering, my muse.
To you, I owe this mysterious inkling.
A powerful infiltration, a plan concocted by the enemy.
Chemical warfare on the home front, disguised as pleasure.
Marketed among the unsuspecting –
Aspertine is thy name oh great deceiver
In the name of sweetness, mental acuity dies.
Freely given to the soldiers in Desert Storm, diet soda!
The Plan: Conquer a great nation from within.
Infiltrate every aspect of life in a well-laid plan.
Thus, food and drink may lead to a nation's folly.
Slowly slipping away our freedom to be US.
Quietly. Unobtrusively. Ingeniously. Irreversibly!
Joyfulness, visit me; remove this pain for it is great.
Chemical warfare kills.
Sometimes, we close our eyes.
But we must not.
Lest it becomes lethal to our free nation –
© March 17, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Et cetera Free Poetry
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
RELATED LINK: http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2011/11/06/aspartame-
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2012
Which is it: you can't get started unless
you're riding some current bigger than your reporting voice
or the best time to write is when you don't have much to say
and without plenty to say about everything you'll get better right away.
Form is very often a betrayal of reality.
Although we are initially drawn to poems by their passion and urgency
we are convinced by the formal means invented
for their impelling motives. Every accidental crack or dent.
Not just mildly disquieted but actively repelled.
Running for the River Styx, the doors of Hell pell mell,
there must be a crack, deep and unmendable, in the poet
that the poet must forever try to mend. Or not.
While mortal poets imitate, immortal poets steal.
That's plagiarism. Fortunately the public feels
less strongly about poetry than television,
communism and aging gracefully through meditation.
Now I'm being silly. My silly indefatigable lusting,
silly sadness, silly arguing and silly trusting.
All I do not know about our nation's history, wars
and what showering the people you love with love does.
Ransacking apothegms, algorithms
and selling the loot as memes
and feelings. Bearing fardels
with the warrior's skull.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2016
That day the army came to our village
And ravaged every part of it with terror
I held my baby sister, blood soaked,as she took her last breath
Dad died in the battle lines trying to protect our family
Mother and my two brothers managed to escape
I was recruited into the army with many other boys my age
Eventually I got up the ranks of a captain
I still fight the war that I don't understand, I still fight the war that's me
August 20 2015
Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015
Words by: Afolobi Muideen
Being alive is war
We often pray not to die young
Yet battle upon battle
we live our lives in destitution
We stretch arms to feed
yet we are part of the global world;
We are unable to sleep
warm, with our love ones
We sleep where we are as the day roughens,
a terrible life indeed;
We accept our destiny
with optimism, for a better future.
Here's a few comments by members of soup towards this poem
"Wish one day you will sleep in peace comfort & love" Arthur
"Being alive is war, I can't agree more on that first line" Skat
"Positive energy gives us the will to move forward" Nette
"It's important not to lose hope in face of adversity" Mystic
"Optimism is a most important value for a better future" Leonora
"A powerful poem on the times of our reality" Cherl
We are the hopers that need to rise above
And give ourselves and others a chance
Repeat kindness share a meal forgive try to forget and mend
Because war, leaves it's scars
But the soul with a little love can win it out, by far....
Thanks you Afolabi Muideen
For your treasured poem
Copyright © Mystic Rose | Year Posted 2015
This is as simple as it gets
The truth displayed on blank pages
Lies on the written ones
For you, for me- the wages
From fighting this war are meager
And it seems that we are eager
To leave this hole we are in.
Can we write a new story?
Nothing is happening but nothing
Can prevent this unbecoming glory.
Winning was never an option we
Had considered in the first place.
But to actually have victory
Would be kind of the one we call fate.
This is as complicated as it gets
Food turns to drink in moonlight
But still we cross our fingers and
Hope that a beam could be our spotlight.
Copyright © Juli- Michelle | Year Posted 2013
We are all equal, though they say you lad
who do they think they are they're not my dad,
on battle fields we live or die the same
fight for king and country that's why we came
being just fifteen makes no difference
able to shoot and fight only makes sense,
hungry, cold, lousy, I write a letter
to my mother, try not to upset her,
I do not record horror of warfare
or how my superiors do not care,
fix bayonets, our Sergeant yelled out loud
heard a whistle blow so followed the crowd,
those big tough men dropped down lifeless, like flies
sounds so loud though can not drown out their cries,
then shell carrying my number 7
sending me from this hell straight to heaven,
to the memorial now mother goes
to read my name, so much sorrow she shows,
she now knows the truth warfare is awful
Don't forget memories are immortal.
Copyright © Roy Pett | Year Posted 2017
These old bones are compromised
Surviving the bolden wars of yesteryear
First, enduring stones, then arrows, then bullets
Fear came near when in the third encounter
Nuclear in nature
At ninety seven I feel the bones rattle
Moving with feeble clarity
There is so much left to do
Simply moving to the next room is a battle
The mind remembers Pearl Harbor
But not the spirit
Hospitals will not take me in
My mortgage like me collapsed in payment
This is the land of the free
According to memory
There is no glamor in these old bones
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2016
I do not know?
*A assignment was due in class. *
Every time a gun shoots
A tree looses its roots
Every time there is bloodshed
Along with it millions of tears are shed
Every time a heart is stabbed
Someone else’s life gets barren
As violence grows
Many more mothers moan
The sounds of destruction
Overpowers the voice of those
Who are innocent
Who suffer with no reason
Who beg for life
Who have heart full of innocence
Why do so much violence?
That the child’s cry cannot be heard
When his father is killed
Why do so much violence?
That a mother moans
Over her child’s dead remains
Why do so much violence
For winning any stupid battle
Which is taking lives
Of people who have wives
And mothers and children
When you can keep calm
Talk things out
Do whatever you can
To keep violence out
Because there is no sin as big as
Copyright © donna lu | Year Posted 2013
If I had lived yesterday
in that chaotic world echoing
of Gatling guns shots and canon blasts,
I would have made a difference:
hate and prejudice would have not prevailed,
and power wouldn't have been abused;
from History's records, we know that even
when Jesus lived it wasn't that peaceful!
During the American Civil war,
Northerners fought Southerners...
did they hear Scarlet's desperation,
or the moaning of her loss as war went on?
And for sometime, it had become
a modus vivendi she couldn't change.
Let's return to the stark reality of the present:
have we noted some drastic changes
in Government and social behavior?
Yes, it has given us more liberty,
but another war has shattered many hopes
of ever seeing peace as blood continues to be shed...
while nations arm themselves to their teeth!
How can we welcome those winds of change and feel safe,
if we tell our children that danger still exists?
And has society been kinder and more caring?
Obscenity, teen sex, violence, greed, vulgarity
and exploited sexuality are being condoned by many;
we wouldn't be that cool if we didn't use obscene words,
and worst of all, we are called hermits or asexual
if we abstain from sex to prevent those sexual diseases!
Is this rebellion, or a trend of the new generation?
Having unprotected sex, making babies,
laying the burden on their Government that's fighting
a terrorist war? Do we seen any future
for these lost kids who imitate the habits of their parents?
Blame them? Ah! Lots of things would be changed,
if they turned to God and ask for His guidance!
And to end my visceral narrative, I shamefully confess,
" I hate to live in this loathsome age of greed!"
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2012
The world is in awe,
Of such devastation,
Is this gonna be the future?
Of our great nation .
What's this world coming to?
I surely can't comprehend'
We're all brother's and sister's
And we're also your friend's .
We live in a world
Full of wars and wants ,
So buckle up your belts,
And grab hold of your pants .
We don't feed on wars ,
Like some other's do
We won't mention their names '
But the world knows it's true .
Do they care for our children?
Ask and see, what they say'
Will we be here tomorrow?
Come and ask me, the same day .
Copyright © Roberto Santana | Year Posted 2015
The few achieve enormously,
while the decrepit fools realize their assistance.
During the control,
beneath the breathing rumor,
Below the eye,
authority falls from its pyramid.
Little plans towards the bright objection.
The powerful urge swings above the time-bound findings.
Among the magnificent storm,
those collect quickly
following the rainy justice.
The dizzy deal muffled by the old symphony
beside the cemetery of memory.
Copyright © Samuel Griffin | Year Posted 2015
A hundred-ten year old soldier was interred in Arlington Cemetery today.
Corporal Frank Woodruff Buckles now sleeps nigh his comrades in sacred clay,
Awaiting that glorious morn when Gabriel's bugle will sound that final call,
To fall in for the last calling of the roll! Corporal Buckles will be standing tall!
"Taps" was played echoing far beyond the hills of Arlington into the misty past,
Reminding all of brave men who were destined to die or were horribly gassed!
Courageous men who willingly placed national destiny above their very own,
To ensure that our precious and hard-won freedoms would ne'er be overthrown!
Only sixteen, he lied about his age trying to join the navy and marines with no luck,
And was told, "Go home before your Mom knows you're gone, you young buck!"
He told a bigger whopper telling the army recruiter he was all of twenty-one!
The sergeant, looking for warm bodies signed him up, thence the deal was done!
He was promoted to corporal and served with distinction as an ambulance driver.
After serving in France, he was honorably discharged, returning a heroic survivor!
As a civilian he was a prisoner of the Japanese in the Philippines but was kept alive,
And was rescued after three years in Los Banos prison camp in nineteen forty-five.
He proudly represented the 'doughboys' of The Great War as last man standing.
So much, so very much to him we owe for his service was most outstanding!
That venerable symbol of America, the majestic Golden Eagle, cried,
On the day that the old veteran, Corporal Frank Woodruff Buckles died!
(Corporal Buckles, the last American survivor of World War 1, died 27 February 2011, at the age of 110)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2011
In days of old when knights were bold and dungeons were dug deep
Widely renowned back then was found, a race of hero sheep
These sheep were strong, these sheep were tough, these sheep were eight feet tall
And lots of very useful stuff was knitted from their wool
The wool was strong, and woven long to any length was able
To out perform the tensile strength of any modern cable
While nimble hands, pulled finer strands from out that noble flock
Which taut, sufficed to cleanly slice right through the toughest rock
Those sheep were prized, and many wise men kept their woolly kind
Twas said the bleating of those sheep would stimulate the mind
The wonders that those sheepies wrought, would fill a hundred lists
And fuelled a boom for work by loom and wool technologists
They found that wool, if tightly bound would not only float
But closely weaved and interleaved, could make a woolly boat
While natural grease, gleaned from that fleece, if applied just right
Succeeded to fulfil the need to make it watertight.
So woolly fleets sailed ancient seas, to ply the trade in wool
Till pirates knitted cannons, to fire woollen cannonballs
And so, therefore, a woolly war broke out throughout the world
The war was short, but keenly fought where woollen sails unfurled
The brief wool war had one deep flaw, though everyone was willing
For woolly blades, however made, are little use for killing.
This one defect completely wrecked the wool age upward trend
And so the golden age of wool came to a sudden end.
Copyright © Lee Leon | Year Posted 2009
He saw me I saw him
We leaped for greatness
But we were earth bound
He surpasses my hopes
And shatters my dreams
I feel darkness in him which I bravely embrace
He’s my hope my shield my love
My undivided trust
I feel that I can reach bounds and mounts of greatness
So why do I still feel so empty
Copyright © Apolo Amai | Year Posted 2013
Young generation ardor from sculpted hero borrows
Older generation, torpor to graft peaceful tomorrows
Can young eyes through steely sheath glimpse marrow
O'er from dried paint, the blood stains that do burrow
From pursed lips, do the painful strains bellow
O'er from silent gun, percussive waves billow
Youthful glint on glimmering memorial glows
From aged lens, vicarious tears solemnly flow
Lad's fawning beams on chivalric statue strew
Elder's sorrowful squints the mediated surface furrow
Young mind each, savory fold does swallow
Aged intellect each corroded line does follow
On gilded bust, youth's prating eyes wallow
Gaunt septuagenarian mourns core now hollow
Around girth, innocent lids embrace time's fleeting shadow
Experienced hearts scorn clones strung from future gallows
New hopes, dreams cover the base now fallow
New doubts, fears sweep sodded ground, now sallow
Copyright © Stephen Parker | Year Posted 2013