Where did I leave my keys?
I'm running late for work.
Going round in circles,
And feeling like a jerk.
I stayed out way too late,
And had way too many drinks.
My memory's shot to pieces,
And all my reasoning stinks.
I've searched in every room,
And checked the cookie jar.
I peeked under my bed,
Are they still inside my car?
I didn't find them in there,
I just can't understand.
I wonder where they're hidden,
DUH!...I've got them in my hand.
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Brilliant stars, silent nights
Fireflies, Northern Lights
Mountain streams, fresh air
Fall asleep anywhere
Small town, take a chance
Pig roast, barn dance
Allemande left! Do-si-do!
Spontaneity here we go!
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
Beat Zen's hey-day
Doing things our own way
Nonconformity, anything goes
Kerouac-Ginsburg-Burroughs
Shot to pieces, picking skin
Benzedrine, adrenaline
Don't forget the Phenergan
Notify our next of kin
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
…as she partakes in real time drama
her legs shot to pieces by foreign pursuit
Kin and friends have chipped in for wooden
crutches much easier to avoid land mines
in any case and thus she seems content
A satellite dish towering over the ruble
projects a shiny world of alien domination
doubles up as a parasol in the scorching sun
The screen is vivid and livid with many a
persona non-grata and the stigma of Kain’s
recurring news adorning foreheads of gory glory
She cannot forget and must remember to
pass on the baton and story to her descendants
and she is lucky to have born two children
despite the sucked-up fact that she feels
little below the floor of pelvic give and take
By law of statistics comprehending her dire
situation Para is quite normal because walking legs
come as a premium and so she forgives and
hopes that her son will not join the militia and
her daughter can bear the cross in dignity…
>Kat is asleep
Dreaming .
Twitching.
Asleep.
Twitching.
Dreaming
Asleep is Kat.
The original poem which has been edited for competition was one of my first when I started writing to clear my mind of cancer. It is on page 47 of my first book. It went.
Kat's asleep.
Dreaming.
Twitching.
Kat's asleep
Twitching.
Dreaming.
Kat's asleep.
Both have ten words, but as I am Grandson sitting I have been over ruled by my Daughter the former being her version and hence the entry one lol (The new mad Author) & Poetry Soup Hon. Mentioned.
Having just read the rules for the competition, something I must get into the habit of doing. I find this poem is completely on the wrong track, subject, whatever and am therefore not entering it. Between my memory thingy and having to take the occasional strong pain killers I am coming to the conclusion my brain cell is not forgetful but shot to pieces. I sill think my version is good, but were I judging the daughter's would pip me to the post. I did not say it is better, although it might be, that's because she played with words in the last line. Which I think is not right, I did not say it was wrong. Just mines better. lol . <
I watch them on parade,
Wearing medals won by relatives long dead
And poppies hand made.
I see expressions as cold as the grave,
As they remember the brave who fought in wars moving further away each day,
As they fade back, ever back into the mists of time.
This young generation from our great nation
Standing tall, marking their respect as best they can
With little knowledge and even less understanding of past deeds and sacrifices.
For them I have great despair if they should ever go to war,
With less discipline than those who went before
Relying on group decisions, never having been under a chain of command.
Their immune system already shot to pieces.
Fitness levels below par
And feet that have never seen boots.
Yet it may not be too late to change their fate,
While relative peace still prevails.
And only professionals are relied on to go to war in a few hot spots.
If we can ease them into a plan with enough discipline to help,
Whether in peace or in war to bring them back safe
And keep faith with those who once stood in their place.
My passion, is the main heartbreaking tragedy of this world.
War I hate war,
Soldiers from all countries lose their lives for what,
what insane reason can allow so many people to die.
The babies shot to pieces but still alive, to live,
what life can these poor children live,
what other horrors await them, just to survive.
The soldiers, horribly wounded returning home,
to a family that might not be able to cope, who turn away.
What happens to that man or woman.
Who will be their cane in their hour of need.
The countries themselves, reduced to rubble, history destroyed in minutes,
the animals, wiped out in an instant, never to regain its numbers.
The birds, who no longer sing. Shock affects nature as well as people.
Who cares, I do, I care.
----------------------------
Dated 2 October 2013
IT'S HARD TO WRITE THE FINAL WORDS.
SO MANY HOPES AND DREAMS...
THAT VANISHED IN THE DUST..
THE INK WON'T DRY....
CAN'T WIPE MY SADDENED EYES.
THERE FULL OF TEARS...
WEEPING WITH SUCH HEARTACHE..
THAT MY WORDS ARE CRYING OUT..
SCREAMING IN THE DARKNESS..
BUT YOU DID NOT HEAR THEM..
THIS LOVES A TRAGIC DECEIVER...
A SERPENTS TONGUE..
THAT TWISTS AND TURNS...
TANGLING UP OUR FRAGILE HEART'S..
MY FEELINGS SHOT TO PIECES...
LAYING SHATTERED ON THE GROUND...
BY LOVES INSENSITIVITY..
EMOTIONS SITTING CLOSE AT HAND..
HOLDING OUT TO TOUCH ONE MORE
TIME.....
BUT YOU HAVE GONE...
SO MANY WORDS WERE SPOKEN..
BUT NEVER MEAN'T A THING...
WHEN SPOKEN WITH A SERPENT'S TONGUE....
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