There was once a dock worker whose name was Dick,
His employers knew not, Dick had worked out a perfect trick,
Forty five was his speculated age,
He dressed according to his meager wage,
Went home daily with a barrow, security noticed dick was quick.
On other days they noticed many a different kind of trivia,
Told security was selling empty boxes to buy pills, had leukaemia,
Will tell you more when I retire,
Continued with his routine and poorly attire,
His secret, confessed stole a barrow a day, headlines in media.
Moved to Mexico, learnt Spanish, dyed hair black so could blend,
Applied for a job in revenue office, made many a friend,
Managed and learnt to cheat a little,
Hey Dick be careful, don’t fiddle,
Persisted to play his tricky games, predictably caught at the end.
God isn't neat
He hasn't got it all sewn up
Tidy
Complete
He doesn't have a perfect plan
Preprepared
A place for everything
Colour coordinated
Sussed out, exclusively available
To the spiritual elite.
He doesn't have a bag of surprises
Distributed on a whim
Leukaemia for you
Long life for her
Alzheimer's or dementia or a road traffic accident for him.
He doesn't mete out chance events
Based on our choices
The sound of our voices
The town of our birth
Our place on the earth
The state of our hearts
Our love of the Arts
Our reliance on science
Our sin.
He never has promised that life will be fair
Or tragedies rare
Simply he tells us
Because of his son
All that he is
All he has done
In the light and the dark
In joy and in pain
Perceived or
Ignored
Trusted or
Doubted
He will be there
IN THE PLAYGROUND
by
LIZZY DUNKS
Juniors bulling readily.
Wind howling loudly.
Infants spying quietly.
Dogs barking roughly.
Mums watching cruelly.
Cats purring softly.
Branches falling swiftly,
By Lizzy Dunks aged 7
Leslie Manser Primary School, Lincoln, UK
Lizzy a grate niece in-law of mine; wrote, and had this poem published in an anthology of rhymes* all of which were written by children from the age of 11 down. Sadly Lizzy died of leukaemia at the tender age of 9, An immense loss to her family, and her talent an immense loss to the world!
*Anthology title will be added as soon as possible, apologies!!
So much more cheerful now
no longer treated as depressed
among those with mental illness.
A simple blood test has revealed
leukaemia and the threat of death.
But Julia now feels understood
by all who desire for her the best
together with the ones she loves
so much more cheerful now.
Blood is red for vibrant,
Beating and in time,
Rhythmical with vitality,
Resounding in spark and shine.
Zestfulness depends on your blood,
Having it and living by its pump,
With transports plasma around the body,
To clot when cuts scare and could stump.
The zeal we get from red blood cells,
Save from Anemia, Malaria and Sickle cell disease,
And when too many white blood cells accumulate,
Leukaemia damages our tissues, the sleaze.
The heart is rightly denoted,
As the centre from which emanates love,
The essence of the person,
The call that you shouldn’t be above.
The colour red is spritely,
Vibrates energy and drive,
A dynamism which supersedes,
The dirge that sometimes thrives.
When you see an icon,
A symbol, logo or picture,
That's covered in the colour red,
Just remember its derivation structure.
You could say that blood was made red,
By god, coincidence or accident,
But I think that red is the colour of blood,
The true precedent and determinant.
rampant and deadly
eating up the red blood cells,
leukaemia on course,
Fatigue,pain,profuse sweating,
uncontrollable symptoms.
It has many sibs
all with pure killer instincts,
one attacks prostate,
others the breast,skin and brain,
scientists in prolonged battle.
CONTEST:"Cantankacerous" sponsored by Joann Grisetti
sometime I watch
the fear held aloft by you, possessed,
you try to protect yourself from you in vain,
very thirsty, white
hydrangeas on your lips tremble, exhaust
their need for clouds in blue eyes,pale
fountain gives up
tumult of sand grains for high skilled
white god of snow who could not prevent
a land slide all morning,
my bones still do not agree for a
marrow withdrawl for an emptied leukaemia
hidebound, rapacious
in the chaste tree, stuck by night grab,
the bright stars fall one by one on ice
SATISH VERMA
In techno-malaise, Mother Russia, how you truly coughed hard,
Four and twenty million to be baked in your back yard,
Spewed forth black wrath that wrought black earth,
Glowing wombs impregnated to give unwanted birth,
Radiation rape as intense as a thousand Hiroshima’s,
Flesh and bone infected with such pretty nuclear glimmers.
The graveyards in their endless dreaming swelled, are swelling still,
From twice the normal defects of birth and future sons to kill,
To accommodate more excess dead than Stalin’s purges in these lands,
Infected with radioactive iodine - a hundred thousand thyroid glands;
The death toll more than the last world war could ever seek to boast,
Eight hundred thousand children with leukaemia suffer most.
Humankind smashed, crushed, bathed in ashes, debased, destroyed again,
From the gaping mouth of Belarus down the throat of the Ukraine,
Chernobyl dies in shame at the cursing of her name…
Should not the powers that be in power sincerely feel the same?
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