silence...
Lets listen to the tongues of our feelings
and the noise of slient mouths
like calm river in still motion of .our dark hearts
let our eyes be bail out of jail
Without a price tag
eyes to eyes
we will stare and
away in a deep distance
until the wish of our heart spread like scattered of
listen
i have learnt to deal with unpleasant situations by finding humour in everything
It helps .
fleeting with the dark just seem attractiveness
Cluzing on dark humour isn't this life a joke
call me a fool of love stupid!!!
that is the shadow of my being
i am like a strange stream
at the edge of the earth
where noise is forbidden
don't give me your heart
from the chest of another man
i don't have .......
An unconventional comedian
Indian born comic Spike Milligan
His dark humour in sketches
Had the people in stitches
Without doubt was a very funny man.
When his friend Harry Secombe passed away
Spikes quite darkish humour came into play
Said "Glad he went before me
He'd have sang out of pity "
At Spike's service they played one anyway .
Now peacefully in his grave he lies still
In a lonely church yard up on the hill
His dark humour won the day
When sadly he passed away
His headstone says , I told you I was ill...
Some people told you to go to hell
Because of your repetitively maltreatment.
Your hearts broke after hearing that but
You continued being very merciless,
Thinking they were unmotionals.
I tell you to go to heavens
Because I know that you will kill
Those brutal animals in your hearts
And you will look different in their eyes.
Receive my love where you are in different countries.
June 28/2023
Little wimble is oh so small,
He sought the tallest place of all,
He's been wandering since his birth,
Looking for the peak of the earth,
He journeyed from valleys to hills,
Then to mountains with colds and chills,
Each time he climbed he had it rough,
But nowhere could be high enough,
Wimble's hands gave up 'fore his will,
He fell down and now remains still,
During his flight he came to see,
People smaller than they should be,
Although he didn't feel content,
He was glad that this is the end.
Father Christmas was flirting with fate
On accepting for once a blind date
In the park on a bench
He sat waiting to quench
His desires but she was very late.
Snow was falling and that made it worse
This encounter was surely a curse
She turned up past mid night
Found him rigid and white
In a panic she called for a hearse!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Park Bench Christmas Contest
Hosted by Sara Kendrick ~ Pict. 3
© 4th December 2018
When out walking it started to snow
I’d forgotten to take my chapeau
With nothing on my head
Got frozen, soon lay dead
Hypothermia killed me you know!
As I was out walking in the snow contest
Sponsored by Kevin shaw
Dark humour for the contest
2/16/18
I lay my dearest Susan down to rest
Of tall tales and humour she was the best
An excuse each night
Wouldn't hold me tight
There's something I need to get off my chest
See, Susan was a talented old hag
Three men at once she quite often would shag
The gents often told
Of her lips of gold
and the tricks hidden deep inside her bag
I put up with her, turned the other cheek
She was built of strength, I a man so weak
Shame filtered these eyes
She laughed at my cries
Til they found her in the bag by the creek
*no bags were hurt in the making of this poem*
WOE IS SHE
“Was ever woman in this humour wooed?
Was ever woman in this humour won?”
Is the theatre of the absurd the new market place for suitors?
Her the jester unbeknownst to her,
Juggling objects too far from her reach as if by catching she herself will
crumble.
Foolish her showing up on set with an open mind and an unmarked heart,
Hilarious wise cracker with her flimsy moves around the nutcracker;
Wobble on; duck duck she is still the goose.
“Was ever woman in this humour wooed?
Was ever woman in this humour won?”
Or the conduct presented she misread,
Too many teeth covering his smile should have been a sign of something
more hidden
Perfected moves as the lights shine on his perfect pose
Her imperfect self feeling gratitude for being licked by the light shining on
him,
Wobble on, duck duck she is still the goose.
Wobble on, duck duck she is still the goose
All birds in the same pond but the colours tell
Unique is no camouflage it remains a mark distinct
The final hurrah is here while the ducks curtsy
She in her dark humour wooed,
Remains backstage_
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