So we’ll go no more a bowling
So late into this night
Though our arms be still as willing
And the lanes be still as bright,
For balls wear out the fingers
And arthritis shows its might,
While the back pains all linger
And knees need rest’s respite.
Though the night is made for bowling
And the lanes close far too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a rolling,
Until the clock strikes noon.
No more a good man
He gave it all
Cos he was in love with her
He trades alot just to keep
Her happy with him
He was so nice
He always wanted the best
She ever needs in life
Cos he was in love
No more a good man
He gave it all
Cos love was his motivation
He never want to see her in needs
So he worked like a bull
Every time always trying to make
Money to keep her love with him
So sad she was not same as him
She got her love out side
She love what he gives
Not him
Despite her pretence
He still was in love with her
No more a good man
He gave all he got
Cos her love was all he ask of
Despite all his deeds and care
She left him so cold
She left him for a younger richer lover
She left for the money
Not love as usual
She got no love not at all
So She left cos she was just after
Her survival not love
He was heart broken
Tired and defeated
He got no other choice
All he wished for was gone
And left him in grief
So he sworn never again
Will such occur to him again
Never again as he chant
In pains
I will never be
No more a good man
I’LL GO ONCE MORE A ROVING
I’ll go once more a roving
Past my door beyond my gate
Fear and rules no more condoning
No authority berate
No more now for me to hunker
Nor to lock myself away
Loose the latch and leave the bunker
I regret I cannot stay
Take the path along the river
Cross the Heath and by the shore
In the sun I’ll no more shiver
I’ll go roving forth once more
Friends I’ll greet if not too nearing
But not veer nor shy away
Share the freedom with a clearing
Of restriction on our day
‘Safety first’ a favoured adage
In life values that we weigh
With elan as of a cabbage
Flinching ever from a fray
Those before us saw affliction
Faced a world surfeit with strife
Ventured forth without restriction
They embraced the game of life
Give us freedom of decision
May we not give reasoned voice?
Be not treated with derision
As if children, make no choice
In regime with no imposing
An existence smooth and bland
Let us go once more a roving
Wander free across the land
The rainy season is on the land
I see much sward without sand
It’s like music of a good band
Trees have grown striking flowers
A strong wind makes’em shaken off
Down, many fall; others stick maiden
I am a floppy mother chicken;
My chicks do slumber in a kitchen,
My heart has fully pulled to worsen
My heart and my body are no more mine;
My unique bilabial flower was swooped,
My only blossom, the legacy of any woman.
Left unmended, my heart got wounded;
For my only flower’s petal was torn,
Leaving me a shell whose content was pilfered.
I am no more a woman; I’ve nothing of a woman.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
It’s not about technique
or style or genre
But something more…like a reflection
or memory once known
Its light coming through
a universe dark…undiscovered
Its message more a feeling than any genius
—or logic grown
(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 27th 2016)
Watching Elton John’s Free Concert
Sutherland No More – A Proclamation
Sutherland Springs from the pages of my media feed,
A story of guns, grief and the need, for no more.
Sutherland no more.
The innocent and the free sitting in their Sunday Pews,
Little thinking they would be the news, on the door.
Sutherland no more.
The white squat steepled church reaches to the sky,
The congregation and world asks why, whilst the tears pour.
Sutherland no more.
‘Fortunately somebody else had a gun’, the saying goes,
That was equalising those bullet flows, from ceiling to floor.
Sutherland no more.
Freedom to Bear, Freedom to Speak, Freedom to seek
The solution to these nightmares in our sleep.
Guns cause the rift and opinion must shift.
When you’re gone,
Will you send back a letter from America?
X.
©Keith Murphy
Lost many ideas into air
And broke many themes in the way of forgetfulness
In the name of lifting my standard of writing
In a pattern or in a schemes
In meter and in rhymes
In a particular flow or in a particular rhythm
So vanishes many a poem in the choosing process
When I went to select the ideas biggest
When I was told not to write
Everything
What gyrating or churning in my peculiar mind
What the heck the advice gives me nothing but naught
I dried up like a lake which was once oozing like a hive
No more I wish to deprive the world
From whatever I loss or gain
The pain I suffer, the grievances I have
Or go through the mood of sadness
Disregarding another advice
Poems should not have any personal remorse.
When i think of schools feled i always think of the winter days
with your mates in the snow,wind and rain
the best bit is the snow making snow balls and throing them at techer.
having fun making snow men on sliding on ice having hot chocolate, but then again some
people hate winter when it snows rain and very high winds so they huddle together like
penguinsin thire black and white uniform they hate the snow balls hitting them in the face and
slipping on ice and hurting themselves but the best bit is getting your mates i rember those
days and at a few acasions it has bean an oceon of mud and a copple of island of children
huddeld aganest the coled. ow year and getting snow of thechers cars to make big snowballs
it is yousaly veary coled and windy
CAN YOU REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME YOU MADE A SNOW MAN A SNOWBALL SNOW ANGELS
YOUR HANDS GETTING NUME SLIDING ON ICE ?
I CAN CAN YOU ?
BY JAMES CHRISTIAN