Zmiana sposobu prezentacji
(The word thee is a Yorshire word still used today it means you)
(Spanish Winter refers to the Flu epidemic that killed 18 million in 1918)
.(the red step is what you see on old terraced houses which are always curved from generations of scrubbing. Sheffield in South Yorkshire still has many properties with this step.
The Red Step and Thee
.
Progress dissolves the paint of Lowry’s image
never to be seen again in children’s eyes.
Faceless individuals
blurred in match stick graves,
witnessed by strangers
from a forgotten window
In the clouds of the last steam train.
.
The homes of yesterdays hovel
covered in blackened walls of soot.
Leaves a legacy
that the faeces of wealth has moved on
and brown field is the apology
that council apostles give.
.
Still the echoes of humanity
gives way to a church
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A fertile wind lures a petting call
from the bull who will swim the Lough.
Immortality lurks within its perfume
of dynasty and a future king.
The scent of tomorrow makes love extinct
for our genes are perfumed with success.
Prada and Versace can make the lemon sweet
but the offspring will question this statue,
we call David.
Poets will bleed a loves embrace
this beauty of presence a royal write.
While nature spins the spiders web
of a lover who creates life with death.
These tears will soon be forgotten,
in the rose that greets the winter.
For love grows cold in the markets of man.
But love should not be abandoned
for creation is a spiritual thing.
As the warrior holds his head against the tree,
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The face behind the harlequins gaze
hides the scars of yesterdays man.
Born in an Attercliffe slum
in the rags of fathers graft,
with a pencil for a voice
stolen from milk mans note.
A boy in possession of an imagination
and no future
Who can still see a glimmer in the rust
buried in the abandoned steel works,
lost in council’s regeneration
of a green field sites that now offers
the quest for a four leaf clover.
This gift can be a lonely thing
in a world of regimented minds.
Inspiration needs a partner
for every word is a journey.
Writing belongs to my addiction
and my love
for the glorious water of Scotland.
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God cannot intervene in sovereignty
and the boy will plead no innocence.
Seedlings cannot control the wind,
in birth the Oak has called their name
a command from the forest unseen.
A biblical sandstorm unleashed by unworthy souls
Will scatter this seed
that a millennium of kings could not see.
Time demands the old to look away
For Medusa’s face will give the peace.
Hope now resides in young men’s eyes
and the currency at stake is dreams.
These are the orders of man.
As the desert celebrates the rain with life
and the Eskimo gives reverence to flesh.
That is the natural dignity of things
It was this harmony that created the ark,
a speck of light in the darkness
that gives meaning to the stars above.
But war is the Cancer unseen
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I know that this person was born to Phorcy and Ceto. The purpose of this write is about symbolism and the power of this individual. Nothing is real and I hope that the viewer can take what ever message they wish. A single Malt, well tasted, and a beautiful Versace belt inspired this.
In forgotten dreams
a lonely phoenix gives its last breath
to birth an ancient spell.
An egg that is forged from her heart
This last act of innocence
Will gives hope to
a love caged in a world,
surrounded by winters cold.
Silently love waits for the fires lament
that will free a shimmering soul.
An apparition of emotion
searching for a hand that may not exist,
fuelled only by hope and desire.
This spell that was born in royal veins
corrupted with ancestors curse ,
conspires to cheat the reapers hand.
For life is suspended.
Beauty is in league with time,
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To ask a flower to kill a bee
is to ask a man to become the beast.
That is the will of war
The skylark rages it’s voice above the battlefield
For destiny lies below.
No argument with this world ,
but a foreign invader has entered his field.
The song of life is threatened.
The immigrant guns have freedom of movement,
they scream a betrayal of life.
The seeds of the poppy are in turmoil,
the sound of the shells
replaces the tractors of life.
And in this chaos the poppy symbol is born,
in a reluctant will of sacrifice.
Innocence of poppy will dull man’s pain,
but nothing is real.
War belongs to foreign shores
for English tea must not be disturbed.
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(World War One Poem)
Field OfDreams
The World has stated our freedom,
the worms shall share a soldier's fear.
To look above my trench
is to be a thief in the night.
Life shall lurk, afraid of what is above.
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My brothers wait for their moment
the maverick shell will deal the deck.
The queen of spades shall flirt with all,
hoping to sear our blood against this iron of hate.
War treats victims with the vindictive pain of foe
for non are welcome to this battlefield.
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The steam from burning bodies is wine to the party,
this thrill of reality a true Russian roulette.
A link between man and beast,
for we all take part in this unifying glory of slaughter.
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Refugees are we
the artists and the poets,
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I scrawl these visions
in the light of exploding shells
and the grey sleep of a million corpses,
making my pencil the last witness
to the moments between life and death.
Truth shall guide my trembling hand
across a blank canvass that will inherit
this day’s memory of pain.
A transformation in the dark colours of suffering
that echoes the sounds of war
to a respectable audience,
taking their morning tea in England.
The epitaph of a race captured in a wooden pencil
sharing the blood of mankind
in another holy grail.
Come drink this sweet wine of youth
for it will never empty.
My pencil denied by the colours of life
creates glory on a foreign field.
The sons of mothers pose
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I am the man that feeds the world
genetically engineered crops,
come take your fill.
I am the investor who gives you land,
your debt can wait,
for we know who you are.
Multiply and grow fat for I need an army
teach your children about us and them
and be grateful that you belong to us.
For we are civilised so pay the tax
that freedom brings you.
Tomorrow uncertainty waits
time is the rain that washes the future.
Famine will always be your brother
so hold my hand and walk with me.
Should the bee turn its back on you?
then nature will focus the brain.
To kill for survival is a gift from God,
to live is the right of every man.
Follow me and the acrid smell of new asphalt
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A Fairy Story According To Jeremy Kyle
Her Life defined by the size
of potatoes in a supermarket trolley.
She opens her battered purse
out of shape from the coppers of life,
viewed with despair from eyes
embedded in the bags of time.
Self-esteem abandoned in discoloured trainers.
Her contaminated cheap cider mind
still clings to the fog of that special day,
when she gave herself to him.
The doll that came to life
In dreams that found a prince.
Sweet anticipation was the nectar of being
and forever had found immortality
in the quest for life.
But this flower was envied by the weeds
jealousy was rife amongst the onlookers.
The detritus who once shared her life
now whisper their poison into her veins.
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I am a successful surgeon
but In reality I am a failure.
For I pay for the company of life.
I pay to be human,
pay for the understanding
that my patients receive for free.
I am the geek in the corner
the wall paper that eyes don’t see.
My bond is with god
for he shows me his creation
and I must correct his mistakes.
Vanity is to say such things
but the sick will come to my door.
They gamble that I could be a saviour
for fear is anointed by hope.
The good and the bad
will sell their convictions.
My hand can cheat
the cards which have been dealt,
and my face belongs to
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