my little contribution
This competition raises money for Nourish Food Bank. The winning poem, by public vote, has £50 sent to Nourish in the poet’s name. Voting is by “likes” and ends 12th July 2018.
She left home at six without breakfast
took the bus to her first client
washed him, served him bread & butter,
tea and ensured he was safe before she left.
For six hours she knocked at new doors
helping those who depended on her
as she drank water to keep going,
she was the only person to care
until her shift was over. She stopped
at the dark door to collect a box
of donated food, with a short shelf life,
from a stranger in a Food Bank jacket.
This is so beautiful ans a wonderful tribute to Tonia
I drove home from the meeting
Through a late evening sunset,
Blush pink in a sea of orange
That merged into that special
Clear blue of a hot summer nights’ sky
And thought of you,
Flitting through your garden
Touching this and that bloom
With a gentle caress of your hand.
You were not there tonight,
As we met and shared words
That tumbled and jostled
And vied for attention.
We will never hear again
That coy well enunciated brilliance
That you conjured up,
Well defined and honed
By your imagination.
You were not there, and yet
You will always be there
In step with us
Encouraging and urging us
Towards a higher level.
As you tripped through your garden,
You will tiptoe through our minds
Call us to book, and we
Will try just that little bit harder
To emulate that magic that was
“Thy subjects blood
With fire and sword
Cries vengeance Lord.”
Parliamentarian motto from ‘The Great Eclipse of the Sun’, 1644.
“Hate begets hate;
violence begets violence;
toughness begets a greater toughness.”
Dr Martin Luther King, 1958
like someone forgot to turn the key, shoot the bolt,
guard the cage door and now its loose, running wild,
raging on pent-up retribution for its incarceration;
not hiding in the undergrowth, a hole in the ground
but behind a look, beneath a word, within a promise
travelling in a crowd forming clusters along chains
of transmission, hitchhiking on breath and bodily fluids,
a stowaway in an attitude, an illegal immigrant riding
the virulent fear of itself gone viral, breaking-out
with a swelling of symptoms: the sharpened accusations
of ‘susceptibles’, slammed doors, raised voices, dog shit
through the letter box, broken windows, burning homes,
a contagion of tears, smoking guns, targeted spot-checks,
View original post 77 more words
Good and pertinent poem Colin
I once aspired to be you
or at least just like you.
You were cool
you stuck it to the man,
You gave flowers to soldiers
and young men to wars.
But your hamburgers were legend
and your cities…
They were so tall.
I never knew the history
only the Hollywood statue.
Dreaming of walking on your land,
being invited in for apple pie,
and root beer.
I look over at you
and what you have become.
Cruel and detracted.
Give me your poor,
Tired huddled masses,
yearning to breathe with the free.
But the flaming lamp,
by the golden door,
has long been extinguished.
Refused at your teeming shore.
No more dreams,
not from me.
I long no more,
for the land of the free.
I long no more,
for the home of the brave.
As I don’t see bravery,
In keeping kids…
View original post 10 more words
Our young are our future a crop we manage
birthing, raising, loving, shielding
until we release them to fruit in the world.
For they are the future of country and culture
planning, learning, loving, caring,
and carrying our lives, values on when we’re gone.
We share these values across the globe’s nations
whatever our colour, creed or nation
we strive for home and sustain our families,
no matter whether a beggar in rags, or rich as Croesus
for gold is but metal as Midas found
when bread and wine turned to gold he couldn’t drink.
Who hears the children afraid to go to school?
Scythed in their youth by the boy with gun
or broken and blasted by a tyrant’s bomb.
They are the crop that fell on hard ground
taken by birds of greed, war, ignorance
to favour the harlot of hatred and fear
she walks down the street with sympathy’s
flag and gun in a belt or bag
but the children are dead and the coffins parade.
© 2018, Carolyn O’Connell