Number 10 particularly resonated with me, “True writers don’t think about the destination of their work. They are too busy falling in love with their writing during the journey”.
A short sighted police officer called Mia
Arrested a young lady named Tia.
On taking another look,
She said “I mistook
You for my nemesis Maria!”
There was a young man called Adolf
Who was very fond of his golf.
On his wedding day
He stayed away
And played with his golfing partner Rolfe!
I dreamed that I was dead.
There was no dread,
Merely a desire
To cross the barbed wire
And escape something or somewhere,
Perhaps despair.
Pressing my hand against the barbed wire, I felt no pain.
No guards came.
I did not cross, for I new I should find
That which I had left behind
– A man locked in his own mind.
A minor poet, of little note,
Once a poem wrote.
I am sad to say,
That self-same day
His verse was eaten by a goat.
the man of letters said, in a most melancholy tone
“would that you had left my verse alone
O most vile goat
And fed
Instead
Upon my coat”.
This poem by Linda Wolff speaks for itself.
I wish I could paint it… in a picture.
Hateful words—Hurtful words.
Words that are, carelessly thrown from an open mouth.
Words that cut, right through to the soul.
The way they bleed internally.
Some will never allow the invisible scars, to be visible.
Some will never know, it steals one’s, soul.
I wish I could show, how hurtful, hateful words,
look on canvas and how the paint flows over ridges.
How something so colorful, becomes black droplets.
Maybe no one would want to throw words, without thinking.
©Linda J. Wolff – http://www.urbanpoetry2017.com
We all have dreams, loves and hopes; but what if you are a girl growing up in 20th century Northern Ireland before, during and after the ‘Troubles’?
From the poetic thoughts of Agnes Mae Graham, we get a sense of what it was like, ranging from humour, sadness, wistful thinking and sometimes just downright nonsensical, these are the words of one such girl.
I heard an angel sigh
And ask “why oh why
Must I
Fly
In Azure sky.
I spy
A man below
And I would go
Amaying,
But my conscience is asaying
Angels belong up here.
‘Yet ‘tis drear
To see one so handsome and so near!
I fear
That I shall fall
And my angel dust
Shall turn to gall”.
A handsome man, looking upwards, did softly say,
“The day
Is beautiful. Pray
Float down
In your gossamer gown
From that painted sky.
Ney do not resist or frown.
You and I
May our sorrows drown
In yonder pub, for the audience refused to pay,
To see our most excellent play …!”
The estate agent’s lights fade.
I wander home,
Thinking on other temporary things.
