It comes without warning
And strikes in the dark
This vilest of humanly woes
Finding times of mourning
It looks for its mark
And into their heart sinks its toes
Tag: poetry
Blind
Sometimes I feel lost
I can’t tell left from right
I don’t know where to go
I feel lost, alone, in the dark
I can’t move
I can’t breathe
Can’t speak
Can’t cry
Can’t fight
See
Smell
Touch
I’m blind
But then there is you
And there I am safe
Forever with you
Ode to Politicians
They say that laws won’t stop the lawless
Then throw up their hands
They say no nation’s ways are flawless
And ignore demands
They soon forget of tragedies
And get back to their work
Of cutting checks to companies
Who in the lobbies lurk
Ghosts and shadows
Ghosts and shadows creep the halls
Never allowing themselves seen
They pass through the very walls
Reminding us of what had been
Clouds
High and low do clouds float by
Large and small they are
Wond’ring what they are do I
They fly so very far
This one is a wooden ship
This, a sneaking cat
Then they toss and turn and whip
Into this or that
I so wonder why they seem
To show us heav’nly arts
Maybe when the people dream
The clouds reflect their hearts
Metal rain
Metal rain
It comes as hellfire upon the innocent
It does not stop for umbrellas or a peeking Sun
It cannot be stopped by such simple means
Metal rain
It cracks as thunder, never expected
It falls on young, old, black, white, brown
It cares not who is under it
Metal rain
It comes quick but leaves marks
It cannot be dried up by sunlight
And it washes down the drains in red
End
A lost weary man
Without family or friends
Did lie down at last
Song of the Picker-pock
Out on a walk, a Picker-pock
Was searching high and low
For mischief he did alway seek
When out about he’d go.
This day was different; Picker-pock
Was extra vertenly;
And found he him some tricks to make
Right by the Fritten tree.
Without a thought, the vainly wot
Did snick around the tree
And find him there a gristled pear
He ‘ssumed was meant for he.
Alas, ’twas poisoned, and our Pock
Did choke upon its seeds
But spat in time for saving breaths
Among the groundly weeds.
And Picker-pock, no lesson learnt,
Went home that fruited day,
Back to his mischieved life he went,
Tho pears a’now gave away.
What to write?
What to write, what to write, what to write?
My upstairs is missing a light
I feel I am blocked
Like I’m locked in a box
Can’t concoct nor conceive, what to write?
When your head’s in a cloud, what to write?
Do I give in, give up, should I fight?
Do I stick it to blocks
Though my brain feels like rocks
Should I run to the docks
Or hide like a fox?
Maybe breathe noxious toxins, make words like “fomboxins”, catch pox, latch the locks, till I barf in my mocc’sins?
Oh Lord, what to do? I can’t write!
Two words
A moment
A kiss
Now here
With you
So free
So clear
So loved
We two
A Poem A Day 