Charlie Kirk
On YouTube
An Australian podcaster
interviewed
The esteemed colonel
Macgregor
who, at the end of the talks
that Charlie Kirk had received
millions of dollars
from Israel
This painting is disturbing for us
picture and might have
contributed to the slaying
Charlie Kirk
Woody sonnet
I tried to be a carpenter, soft wood
and a screwdriver to make shelves for
I have many manuscripts that I have not
the heart to throw into the flames
In case what I'm looking for is there
The girl in the shop said I could not
carve a name on the shelves, she
handed me sandpaper to erase
The titles I had given the shelves
Failure one and failure fifty-four
She, the girl in the shop, gave me
a plastic hammer for free
Soft power of a white shirt
is worn by public women
who are a minority
Their lifestyle has nothing
to with the struggling
low-income women we see
all around us
The Battlefield of Survival
There is nothing that brings out our fragility
to surface like surgery, dreams one has of
success is laid bare under the well-lit light
of an operating table
First time I had one of those growths removed
was seventy-five years ago by our doctor
wearing a three-piece suit with a blue tie
My memory of him is that of a man who
had a cigarette in one hand and a scalpel
on the other hand, during the proceedings
he spoke to my mother about the weather
That was inclement, and the Labor Party
He and my mother were communists
For a long time, I had to take blood tests
which I didn't mind, his waiting room was
full of magazines and newspapers
There is nothing to read in waiting rooms
anymore, apparently, it is unhygienic
Not that it mattered, one has phones
The surgeon and his assistant spoke
pleasantly to each other about their work
at hand, I just happen to be there
After the operation, I was led into a room
to rest and dress, no, there was no kind
nurse serving tea
A poet at the supermarket
At the supermarket, yes, we have one near Faro. I met a poet.
The mall is nicely built and has two bell towers.
From time to time, they chime to remind us why we are
Here, not sit on a bench in its courtyard looking up to
The sky is seeing mind-blowing cumulus configurations.
The poet I met had a white beard, wore an old black suit,
a tie with red wine spots on, a black beret that whiffed
Of garlic, I think. You could see that it wasn’t really there.
His eyes scanning the ground, he bent down, picking up.
Half-smoked butts of cigarettes. Ok, not so rich
So what? Haven’t you heard of a poor poet before?
They are not all idle sons of the rich, and with a university.
Degrees in literature. A notebook in the side pocket and
Two pencils in his breast pocket; so he was a poet, ok.
A sonnet to a friend
Lately, every evening, I listen to music on
short clips on the internet
I have not been taking this art seriously
busy as I have been composing unwilling words
trying to create art
How wrong I was not to hear
It is all there, beautiful humanity
in classical form or popular
Suddenly, as my world is coming to an end
the beauty I have missed by not listening to
the love expressed in an instrument or in
A human voice makes me long for more years
Published Poet
I wrote a poem 24 years ago,
I have forgotten it now,
but I was paid twenty quids
and my plan was to frame it
for anyone doubt
I was truly a poet,
My wife was sarcastic about this
paltry sum, she didn’t get it
I had joined the rarefied
of a poet who had been paid
for his work.
I do not do poetry comps
anymore,
The excitement of winning was
too overwhelming.
The Burden of Youth
She was seventeen, and her boyfriend had left her
Life is more intense when you are young, she wanted to commit
Suicide so he could see how much he loved her.
Filled her rucksack with stones and waded into the bay, but
The water was low only to her chest when she reached the other side
Besides, she was glad to be alive.
She met a young man also unlucky in love, who took her rucksack
Filled more stones into it and waded into the sea, but now there was
High tide and the young man disappeared under the sea.
A few seagulls shrieked in the otherwise silent area as the girl waited for the bus.
To take her back to town, block out unpleasant thoughts, she said aloud.
My father is a communist, the bus driver who was a fascist stopped
Pulled out his gun and shot her dead, and the women on an outing clapped.
This was her father letting the red flag fly in the street of Utopia.
Flesh of his people tearing from the bone,
The soul seeps as the devil feasts for the heathonous shall moan ,
For the King of the wicked shall set on his throne,
World left burning with a chilling tone,
Gifts for the vile for he who sleeps
To the wickedest of wisdom that turned them to sheep
For the mother and children were left alone
For the clock that had broken shall turn them to stone…
If you May not get the name?
WHO YOU ARE?
DO YOUR DEEDS
YOU KNOW WHO AM I?
Secrets in a box
I have a box on the shelf in the spare bedroom
The box has blue and white stripes, I think
It was a shoebox, perhaps bought for a child that
I was not born; my youth is in that box
Sometimes, when alone, I open the box, and it has
many photos of life lived in the seventies
Many friends are smiling for the camera
My ex-wife, too. What they have in common is
that they are all dead
I received a delayed letter from Alex, a friend
By then, I knew he had died, the letter in the box
unopened
I look at the photos like a visitor from a past life
I do not feel sorrow or guilt. I was a difficult
person to live with, even though I had friends
that loved me
I put the lid back on the box. The visit is over
I must go on living in the now.
What music can do
Last night, all night, I listened to music
and my heart cried not in sorrow but
It flew away and soared in the beauty
of the human voice
No. I was not there in person, but that
Didn't matter; it was about the beauty
of us, yes, we are a great race, so
Why the hatred that is on those
who hate to hear our jubilant voice
I'm a poet dreaming that I once could
Write a poem bringing humanity into
a circle of love
We who loved America
I enjoyed America and remember touring
a Sunday outside Houston (Texas), met in a café
a group of openly armed, elderly men
They were courteous people one could meet
I understood guns have cultural meaning
In America, we in Europe don't understand
I remember a saying, "A country where the populace
is armed, people are polite."
I stayed on the ship longer than needed, but had
To go home and get educated, I studied management
and later ran a restaurant
I was never at ease in my country, not that I suffer
Retromania, trying to escape my past, but
I was back on a ship again, this time as chief steward
plying the waters of America and the Caribbean.
Russet Moon
The moon tonight had a promise
of turning russet
When I looked up, the moon was
full and yellow and had a smile
on a round happy face
What can I say? Was I too late to
See what Planet Watchers had
longed for
Since from the kitchen window
It was the best place to observe
The moon, I made a cheese sarnie
and a glass of low-fat milk.
The New Morality
Trump has spoken, we get up from our chairs and salute, actually not.
The fact is, we are tired of this endless war
That is economically viable for many, an industry of death
we do not see on the factory floor where weapons are made.
A morbid industry, many states need to stave off poverty and
unemployment. Weapons used are someone’s property.
We are backward, us humans we have yet to understand that
most work is not needed, give people money so they can go
climb rocks and go fishing in the stream, swim in the ocean, and
enjoy life, which is an interval between deaths. We have finally
reached the zenith of existence, yet we, for an outdated reason, insist
everyone should work till they drop. Relax, let the Middle East
find its own nirvana.
Specific Types of Abc Poems
Read wonderful abc poetry on the following sub-topics:
friendship, kindergarten, learning, life, love, nature, rhyme
and more.
Definition | What is Abc in Poetry?