Last Friday was shall we say? An un-remarkable day.' Yet George Galloway
I sadly say was then 'waylaid' by counter
Terrorist forces.' Now he must have had
An idea? Such could happen.' To me that
Much is clear.! So i suggest he would hold
No info.? To cause him un-needed aggro.'
When leaving Moscow at the get-go.' So was this exerscise of article three purely
Theater (liza Do-little) invades my mind at
This point impertently.! He was detained for (thirty minutes) phones items checked
Yet no-things emminent were innit.' En-it..
Was this a waste of all our time.? And a
Cheapening of the defence act against terroristic crime..A stick of politic.? To shut him up if so 'its sick' and a show of
Poppy red.' What sense can be in starmers head.? I gaze amazed at such antics..In truth we all should hurl bat-bricks.' Metaohorically of course.! I think
Labour are indeed un-horsed.' Though of
The hobby type ' I only inferr of course'
Shadows bruise the heart
unspoken glares slice like glass
trust begins to tear
regret taints shared memories
future burdened by sorrow
Fists unfurl at last
fury melting with the pain
scars rinsed of their ash
the past cannot be undone
yet its chains begin to fall
Mercy a wellspring
cool water for parched spirits
grace flows without price
shame dissolves in calmness pools
a hand lifts the heart again
Yet some sip like thieves
their mouths stained with hollow vows
err and forgive vain
cheapening grace with excess
pardons traded for tokens
Grace is a blacksmith,
burning what clings and corrodes,
tempering the will
its forgiveness shapes reforms
the heart forged to rise anew
Frayed threads rewoven
with fabric scarred yet shining
stronger for the mend
green shoots rise within the cracks
the bond tempered with resolve
Some scribblings that pass for poetry
Yes they bear style and symmetry
But very wordy and message thin
And however much you listen keen
There’s little or nothing to be drawn
Not a mind thrilled, not a soul won
Cheapening the art I work to uphold
As a custodian red hot and stone cold
I take after the order of the psalmists
Penning fantastic fantasies as real to realists
Aiming for indelible works worth filing
Piece upon piece they keep piling
And just as light is distinct from dark
I make shown the difference stark
For as much as God’s Grace is supplied
The works show by the skill applied
Poetry has told both history and prophecy
And is one with life an odyssey
If the present falters, the past will hold fort
Until the hopeful day when the future resorts
To uphold this discipline with excellence
As a way of according its giver due reverence
Then shall we witness how mastery tends
And among us reside living legends
K. Muitherero
Being older than I once was, inevitably places have changed,
yet where I was born now looks like an alien city to me,
it’s now a tourist destination for the ever rootless.
Back then people were dangerous yet much kinder.
Now here in my corner of no-place-much, faces
float in and out speaking a language that means less to me
the more I hear it.
We once carried books around, we loaded cars and pushbikes
with travel books and the poetry of adventurers.
We once dared to be piratical.
Of course the young were always dumb, and the more educated
they got the dumber we all got. The old have
always talked like this, our handbrakes are looser,
thoughts slip backwards downhill, yet we must speak
occasionally about the puerile encroachments
the cheapening of what was once hard won.
The land I now inhabit gave me a passport, and an address.
I recognize sometimes who I was and where I went,
however only in antiquarian maps once crossed.
Maybe I am too young to forget, it will probably get
better as I age. Besides vapid banality
tends to grow on you bit by bit.
Busily flicking possibilities, swarmed faces swum
Fishes flipped fast before the following
Murky harbour deep, screen swallowing
Clear impression of traits innate to individual ones
Flash of fin colour, gleam of sleek opalescent flank
Specimen slide best sides on show
Shallow images only clues to know
Intention is an open heart or a self engrossed wank
Beginner on Tinder thrown tasty bait in the deep end
Victim to fisher desiring a dinner
Real reason so seldom admitted
Deliciously caught before thoughts on loving depend
School density indicates potential pool hasn't a limit
Hanging keen line back in again
Hook mouth acrews horrid pain
Superfluous organs scatter float faithful love's inhibit
11th November
- Damn internet cheapening
of our valuable hearts -
Harboured feelings a f ucked up game
What cruel trick is hope;
when it only masks pain?
And abandons the heart;
as the tears fall like rain.
Disenchanted with fate;
hope promises escape.
Yet, time stretches it thin,
trying to change its shape.
Why do we feel compelled
to act like all is well?
And suffer in silence,
though we're feeling like hell.
When we prosper, we feel
disgruntled with our lot.
And scoff at good fortune;
cheapening what we've got.
Not content with living;
to God, we put our cry.
And embrace religion,
believing souls don't die.
When opportunity
knocks, greed opens the door.
And never satisfied;
we're always wanting more.
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