Ivory

Tusks

White Stars

Hunter's Dream

Tools, keys, food, roots

Fight

*Author's Notes*

This poem is in the style of a Japanese Lanturne and its short length is intentional.  What are your thoughts?

Check out my other environmental poetry below:

1. Extinct

2. Harpoon

3. Crocodile Tears

4. The Pack

5. Immortal

Chav-Busters

Who you gonna call?
Chav-busters!
I aint afraid of no chavs.

Pot sized bellies spill down to nike trainers,
I flushed my chain down a drain; it had started to rust.
Chavs never seem to know, when their trousers are far too low,
this fashion trend has crashed into a dead end.
That bling is outdated and so overrated.
The chav takes a crack, but will it snap back?

Boom! Bang! Boom! Bang! There goes that slang slang!
What's that, mate? Could you repeat? I don't understand you when you're talking so street. Your words make me burn; they chill my blood.  You're dragging English through the mud.  They drip drop out of your mouth, as the words slowly ooze south.
Innit, that chick is bare sick.  She aint butters.  She aint toy.  Oh skeeeeeeeeeen, she's a boy.  Her legs are like trees.
Wait....what the......? English please.

Be careful, blad.  I beg don't trip.
You might just break a hip.
Be careful, blad.  I beg don't smoke.
You might just choke.  You are a fucking joke.
Be careful, blad.  I beg don't shoot.
I might have to extinguish your zoot.
Be careful, blad.  Don't wear a backwards hat.
Or you'll be asking, do you want chips with that?
Be careful, blad.  I beg don't cuss.
I might have to bust a cap in yo ass.
Be careful blad, I beg just trust.
Looks like I have some motherfucking chavs to bust.

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.
Clomp! Clamp! Ugg wants to shoot.
Thwomp! Thwamp! Ugg wants to loot.
Stomp! Stamp! Ugg don't eat no fruit.
Clomp! Clamp! Ugg is lower than a root.
Thwomp! Thwamp! Ugg is a brute.

*author's notes*

This was a poem I wrote for my writer's group, when we were exploring whether or not to use rhyme in poetry or not.  This is the rhyming version of the poem.  

I wrote this poem based on my friends' comments that they'll be starting up a chav-busting agency.  I wasn't going for any specific rhyme scheme within this.   I'd like some feedback on the last stanza and whether the whole "stomp stamp, thwomp thwamp, clomp clamp" thing is effective, or should I change it to a repetition of "stomp stamp."  

Chav-Busters Non-rhyming Version

Who you gonna call?

Chav-busters!

I aint afraid of no chavs.

Pot sized bellies spill down to nike trainers.

You look really cool with your trousers around your ankles.

If I pull down on his cap, will it snap back,

that fashion trend is so last year.

I sent some bling to cash4gold; they sent it back.

Who's the father? Only the DNA test will tell.  

Have you heard of a gym?

No, not your homie Jim who lives in 4A.

A gym is the place, where you can wear your nike, umbro, puma.

Let me tell you mate, you don't look badass,

wearing your adidas

on a council estate.

I've got my chav to English dictionary.  

My water cannons locked and loaded with industrial strength make-up remover.

A belt.

Some Cash to ease their Tinie Temphas, 

or maybe we'll all take a trip to Denver.  

I could hire a good Cooke and we won't have to go to Mcdonalds.

Don't you just hate it when a chav is talking to you and you have absolutely no idea what they're saying?

Al Capone and Bonnie and Clyde were the real gangsters, remember?

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants to loot.

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg is a brute.

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants his boots.

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg wants to loot.

Stomp! Stamp! Ugg is a brute.

There were Two in the Bed

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her and Her dearest lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her turning, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her breathing, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her rustling the covers, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her phone screaming, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her answering, whilst Her dearest was lying still

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her dearest asking to be let into the house after he had left his keys at home

On a night so silent, the bed creaked,
the sound of Her asking just who was lying still.

*Author's Notes*

This was something I wrote in my creative writing group.  We were all supposed to write in genres that were completely new to us and I've never written horror before, so I thought I would give it a go.  I'm quite happy with the results.

Harbour

A seagull flies towards the horizon.
I look over blues upon greens
rocks as rugged as lone cowboys, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, that sort of thing, you know?
I look upon the wall,

the wall that stretches past fallen ice cream and balloons running free,
the wall that travels parallel with the azure skies with white candy floss,
the wall heaving with living green and ants
returning home after a hard day's work.

Denim and cotton,
clothe the boy with messy hair
squinting into the distance
of Sea-Houses Harbour.

Upon the needles and plates, the waves crash one by one,
salt ebbs through the moss and algae
a process that will take an eternity,
but water will wait.  It's a patient being, you know.

A 12 second melody is sung from the ice-cream vans,
as people queue endlessly for their sticks of rock,
being slowly tempted by fish and chips wrapped in the Sun,
salt and vinegar seep through column by column.

Idle talk falls from tourists posing by their attractions
and locals catching rays on their deck chairs,
a book on their chests,
as their sunglasses  lie crooked on their oily faces.

I absorb all this in a huge breath of contentment,
you can't go through life too quickly, you know?
A foghorn tells me that it's time to go,
I hear a camera shutter clicking.

*Author's Notes*

I was at my writer's group and the theme was poetry.  Our task was to think of a portrait of ourselves and write a poem about it.  This was the portrait I chose:

Illusory

The more we do to you, the less you seem to believe we are doing it." - Dr. Mengele

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore.

What's that, Perkins?
Rogers told you that our truth is wrong,
Rogers is a liar.  Our truth is always right,
Say it! That's a good boy.  Have a gold star

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore.

You run after the social media, bobbing like apples,
in front of your face,
whilst a cane of Palestinian bone whips your backside.
But then you slow to a walk.  You're not quite sure why,
we didn't do anything, did we?
I'm glad you agree.

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore

What's that, Perkins?
Rogers told you that there are a multitude of truths
and it's up to us which ones we believe in.
Rogers is wrong.  We are the truth.
Say it! That's a good boy.  Have a gold star.

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore

Fallen birds with broken wings,
the marching feet of the Israeli drumbeat,
Ebola flying over oceans at supersonic speed,
fizzle into Goetze's German winning goal,
brats being beaten down
and trash ready to abort for her 15 minutes of fame.

Propaganda billboards
are strung up by motorways
to warn you not to miss the
latest episode of Jersey Shore

Repeat a lie often enough and it becomes the truth,
isn't that right?

*Author's Notes*

Thanks to my Liverpudding a.k.a Todesengel for this awesome quotation.  So as usual dark, disjointed work from me.  I'll write a happy poem soon.  I promise! Pinky promise! Virtual brownies for you if you understand all of the allusions.  Let me know what you think in the comments.  Hmm, I guess this is similar to Silence in content really...

This is the latest in my collection of poetry based off quotations.

1. Left Behind

2. Shattered

3.  Crystal

4. Revival

5. Silence

Homage to Public Transport

For I'll consider public hell with red buses and an incessantly ringing bell.
For I won't escape the angry shouts, the rage-filled screams, the duck-faced pouts.
For I'll consider how I ran to reach the idle standing bus,
with the driver pulling away, looking for pay, leaving me by the pavement to wait another day,
the amber light flickers between passion and jealousy.
Damn! Do I have the £2:35 or is it £2:40?
For I'll consider the window seat to enjoy the view.  I sure hope you don't consider it too.
Or worse, I hope you don't join me and inflict a curse, by speaking in unwanted verse, if that's the case, I'd rather take a hearse,
For I'll never escape the modern-day Rousseau staring out of the glass,
or the bus driver screaming "fuck out the way or I'll tan your...behind."
For I'll consider the angry young man speaking his mind or the philosopher trying to think, the middle-aged drunk with his open can of drink or the chatty passenger thinking he's a shrink.

For I'll consider the tube accessed only by ticket or card.
Got no money mate? Sorry man, you're barred!
For there'll always be windows carved with names
Dan, Tom, Michael, James
For there'll always be that one man staring at me from Uxbridge to Aldgate, from zone 1 to zone 8, from  Epping to Ealing Broadway.
They never stop, do they?
For there'll always be me squished between two men, like a battery-reared hen, reading the Metro over someone's shoulder, trying to pretending I'm not getting older, as I hear
patronising people saying public transport causes less pollution, congestion, aggravation.
Do they not hear the moans, the shouts, the frustration?
For there'll be always be that one selfish bastard throwing himself under the tracks, making us all late.
It's not our problem.  Why do we have to wait?
For we are Londoners with our stiff upper lip, letting nowt affect us, unless our transport cocks up, which is when we jump ship.
For there'll always be rescheduling and delays and a busker singing "bout your plans to make me blue."
But I wanna know if the trains run for 24 hours on weekends, will the rail replacement bus service run for all that time too?

For there'll always be a taxi painted black, with a driver nattering away
"the other day, my little girl said the metre's running,
I think she'll grow up to become a cabbie, just like her daddy."
I wasn't so sure.
For I'll never escape the driver asking "where to mate?"
Oh just down the street? That'll be £9:28."
For there'll always be middle finger salutes, cunts calling each other cunts.
For I'll never escape the seatbelt getting jammed or my body being crammed or my suitcase getting slammed.
For there'll always be the demon ghosting into the taxi rank, playing a prank,
But he doesn't fool me.
For there'll always be that mug, stealing innocence, numb to their screams, while the concrete walls look on.  They're used to it.
For I'll never escape the inevitable Atmos sticker or the CO2 fumes becoming thicker and thicker or the split oil making the road slicker and slicker.
For I'll never escape London's leading attraction,
the one you should always book for.
For I'll never escape the taxi filled with Saharan desert air,
For there'll always be apple and pear, or a chocolate eclair or a steak done rare fighting in my stomach to be the first to make the return journey.
For I will never escape public transport, as I live in London and the congestion charge makes it freaking expensive to drive there.

*Author's Notes*

So this is a poem I originally started writing in a Creative Writing lecture months ago and I left it untouched, until a few weeks ago, when I thought I would end it.  This poem may seem a little different from my others, as I've tried to make this one a 'performance/slam poem' and I'm not sure how successful I was.  Compared to my other poetry, there is much greater emphasis on rhyme and rhythm.  If you're from London, then you know my troubles.

Homage to Public Transport poetry performance

Soldiers in White Coats and Blue Scrubs

The Men in Suits always come to visit us when they need to be popular:
the wrinkled old man, me with the tube up my nose.  They promise
to sand down the floors, to carry the nurses' bags,
but they're not the ones who keep away the grime, who keep away the hunger.
The Men in Suits don't have the time, so instead,
we rely on our soldiers in white coats and blue scrubs.

The Men with black shoes always visit us when they need to be popular.
They always visit me when my bags are heaviest,
when my bones are achiest,
after I've just finished washing my hands.
We wouldn't want to get other people's muck
on their spic-and-span shoes, would we?

The Man in a blue tie ignores me, as he walks across the polished floors.
He takes notice of the naked yellow sunshine,
the cracks in the walls
and wrinkles of our exhausted soldiers,
of our buildings stacked on top of one another,
like a game of Tetris gone wrong.
If we don't get enough ticks, it might
be game over for all of us.

The Man with studded cufflinks points to the running junior doctor
with a crooked tie and wavy hair.
He is pointing to me, as I hold pink lansoprazole to quell Mr. Watson's raging stomach.
He's an old man, you see.  He can't take much pain I tell him,
We're understaffed, I tell him,
I'm always running, I tell him,
from patient to patient, from nurse to nurse, to
the senior doctor to decode my colleagues' hieroglyphics.

The Men in Suits line us up for our final register,
They straighten their ties,
They uncrease their trousers,
They clear their throats,
They inspect every single one
of our loyal troops.

The junior doctor who is still panting furiously.
The nurse displaying her polished silver watch, as if it were a war medal,
The cleaner with his trusty mop and bucket always standing by,
The hospital consultant whose forehead displays his battle scars,
The electrician trying to protect the lightbulb's modesty,
And me, the civillian, with the tube up my nose.

The Men in Suits take out their checkboards and pens.
One cross is all we need
to be dissolved.
Our victories will be forgotten,
our trophies will lie buried underneath
the dirt.
Never to shine again.


*Author's Notes*

So this is the second draft of a poem I'm working on for a competition about the NHS.The general idea behind it is how the NHS is suffering from being underfunded, but it's still soldiering on and doing what it's doing without complaints.  Thanks to Jaz for beta-reading this and my dad for telling me about lansoprazole.

Country Roads

All roads lead to nowhere,
except for the one that takes me home,
my favourite one that stretches
into fields of nothingness.

Bare land whose only
inhabitant is an idyllic peace,
held by generations gone by.
Sitting in the field's centre

is a creaky, comforting farmhouse,
that'll always exist
even as an everlasting memory.
Mind your head!

Watch the rafters,
which hang as lazily as
the farmer does,
on a long, long, so long Sunday afternoon.

His only companion is a Sheep dog
and the Murder of Crows that are sheltering in the stables.
Why not? All of the little ponies
have gone out to play.

People always say that there's a difference
between loneliness and solitude.
A rocking chair endlessly sways,
as the chirping of cicadas fade into silence.

The farmer stares into serenity,
as the wind dances through the corn and barley.
The Murder of Crows take flight from the stables
and fly into the silhouette of the dying light.

*Author's Notes*

So, this is the first thing I've posted on here in quite a few months, but I wrote this in a creative writing seminar I had.  Our prompt was to talk to someone and get them to describe their home to you and from that we wrote a piece of writing.  The girl I was talking to described her home as an old farmhouse in the middle of the country.  Hope you enjoy.  This was the second piece of writing that I have had published.

Silence

It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak out and remove all doubt Abraham Lincoln

Everyone already likes you.  Everyone already loves you.  You're the lovable fool, the village idiot.  Everyone already knows you're the one who sits back, who stays silent.   You're the passive one, the submissive one, the subordinate one.  Everyone already knows you're the one who ignores the pain, who dances in the sunshine and runs from the rain.  You're the one who walks on by, you're the one who never says a word.  You know that everyone already thinks you're a fool.  Why shatter that illusion? After all, everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you.

Her transmission is lost in the static.  Your transmission is lost in the static. Yet you know that she's still watching you.  Judging you and your every movement.  You want her to send words swimming into the void.  She wants you to send words swimming into the void.  You speak.  She thinks, ponders, contemplates.  She sighs out a response, which sends the words crawling back down your throat.  You should have stayed silent.  She already thought you were a fool and now you've just confirmed it.

Silverware dances through the darkness.  A splash of red.  One last cry.  One last glint of the moonlight.  You have so many regrets, but one last threat persuades you to shut the window, to lock the door.  The key sticks in the hole, but it turns full circle. You see the sideways stare.  The black metal striking up; staring into the eye of the devil.  You're safe.  The person next to you isn't.  You want to call, to shout, to scream, but the words are hiding in the bottom of your stomach.  You're already a fool.  Why remove the doubt?

They want you to stay silent.  They want you to listen.  They want you to forget the mushroom clouds, the wall of skulls, the bloodthirsty crowds.  They want you to forget Vietnam, the Somme, the gladiatorial games.  They want you to forget Khan, Stalin, Zedong and all of their victim's names.  They want you to forget the horror, forget the pain.  They want you to run from the rain.  They want you to stay the lovable fool, the village idiot.  Ignorance is bliss, isn't it? It  is better to stay silent and remain a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt, wouldn't you agree?

*author's notes*

Bloody hell, this turned out dark and very abstract.  This quotation really describes me.  Yes...my very fragmented, disjointed thoughts concerning the given quotation.  Hmm.  All credit to Abraham Lincoln for the quotation, although it could have been Rami Belson who said this .  With thanks to my friend Zayd for helping me edit this.  This is one of my more abstract poems.  Have a go at interpreting it.  What do you think it means?

My latest in my poetry inspired by famous quotations.

1. Left Behind

2. Shattered

3. Crystal

4. Revival

Immortal

Glass eye mounted high,
winged beauty frozen in time,
varnished beaks can't cry

*Author's notes*

A simple haiku about taxidermy.

My fifth in my collection of environmental poetry.

1. Extinct.

2. Harpoon

3. Crocodile Tears

4. The Pack

Oh Fuck it

OH FUCK IT!

Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.

But what if I had?  What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit.  FUCK IT! Did I do it again?

It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word.  We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?

Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse.  I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus.  We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all.  We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word.  We have cunt.  Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?

Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch.  Is bitch so bad?  Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend.  Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts.  Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word.  All we have is the "B" word.  All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?

Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock.  That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again.  Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.

Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard.  Oh, fuck it! I swore again.

Life is such a fucking bitch.

*Author's Notes*

For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned.  We're not punished if we say those words.  Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.

The True Meaning of Christmas

It's not about that pesky snow,
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.

It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.

It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about

It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.

It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for

That's what Christmas is about.

Click here to see me read out this poem

Revival

"It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."-Alfred Tennyson

I've been wading through too many dreams, but I've finally reached the haven of reality.
I've broken through the raw surface of emotion that had trickled into every crack and crevasse, every nook and cranny, every abyss and chasm. Your wondrous glory has burned me; left me with so many scars.  I wear the wounds with pride; they've become my trophies. They're sharpened to the point of shininess; polished to perfection.  I can see my reflection.  Even though my love has lost, I've still won.

Your rosy petals have withered; your kaleidoscopic colours have faded into monochrome.
Your blade sharp thorns have become stepping stones; I'm immune to your cuts and stings. You're the only one in the ocean I ever wanted.  Trying to catch you left me with more than just a hook in my mouth.  Blood was spilling into the waters of self-pity.  Sharks were swarming, surrounding me on all sides, snapping up fish which were mindlessly opening and closing their mouths.  What did I do? I grew thicker scales.

Your eyes have become jaded to me; just two more stars in an already cramped sky. Mesmerised by spiralling coils of liquid gold.  Your fire has been extinguished now.  Mine is still blazing on; all you did was add kindling.

When buildings collapse, the rubble is swept up,
when tyres puncture, we patch up the wounds,
when ice melts, we can refreeze the fluid,
when milk is spilt, the mess is absorbed by towels,
when we cry, we dry our tears,
when muscles tear, they grow back stronger.

*author's notes*

My fourth poem based on a famous quotation.  All credit to Lord Alfred Tennyson.  I loved you once, but I'm over you now.  This is my final act of closure.  In retrospect, this seems more of a creative unleashing, rather than something of any true poetical form.   You could argue this is a happy sequel to Falling Petals.

1. Left Behind

2. Shattered

3. Crystal

The Pack

  They had been running after prey.
When had they become the hunted?
The wolves had seen happier days.

They think it's a game; time to play.
The growth of young wolves is stunted.
Stopped in every single way.

Aerial attacks sent to slay.
Their weapons are never blunted.
Wolves are less each and every day.

Their hot thermal colours betray
them.  By traps they are confronted.
Diamond teeth; knives, swords, the San Mai.

Green crimes are fatally risque.
Out of guns, bullets are grunted.
Wolf coats are terribly cliche.

Lust is reflected in chrome trays.
Laughing where the wolves are shunted.
Wealth blinds them in a selfish haze.
For every single wolf, I pray.

*Author's Notes*

This is my first shot at a villanelle.  I have to say I'm not a big fan of the rhyme scheme and the tentametre.  It's all rather restrictive.  Continuing my theme of poaching and the environment, this poem focuses around on wolves been hunted by humans. The San Mai is a type of combat knife.  With thanks to my friends Louis and zayd for helping me with this.

Let me know your thoughts

Crystal

"Only in suffering do we recognise beauty." - Proust

Only in pain, do we find clarity.
Through torture, who can we truly depend?
They're all demons.  Do we want charity?
Villains, foes, family, does the list end?
Angels take cover in the deep abyss.
Waiting for us to call; to see the truth.
Our guardians protect us with their kiss.
Lover's eyes are gentle beacons which sooth
temperate storms.  They ignite peace in souls.
They tame the beast and pacify evils.
Lovers defend us.  They fill the dead holes.
They fight our little worries-our Weevils.
Lovers hear our screams.  They're our protection.
We can't fight our most welcome infection.

*author's notes*

This is my first attempt at a sonnet.  Well, I say sonnet, it's not in iambic parametre, which I've never had any grasp on.  I tried to stick to the rhyme scheme though.  Let me know your thoughts and give me your interpretations of this poem.

Crocodile Tears

Centre piece.  The eye of the predator has been set into the front of the handbag.  Varnished.  Polished to perfection.  Shining in the midday sun.    Having trouble shopping for the Missus? Then buy her a reptile skinned handbag.  For the small sacrifice of the Nile's fiercest predator, bring home this fantastic present that will make your wife love you for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.

The accessories crash and bash in the bag.  Fighting for room.
Rolling from one side to the other.  Rolling from one side to the other.
Souvenirs, compacts, key rings, the odd adorable reptile hatch ling.
Not even the bourgeoisie can tame wild animals.  You will not grow into it.

You rip the smile out of the crocodile. Me, you, I, him, her, we all share toothy grins.
You wear a cashmere coat of scales.  It falls past your ankles.  Be careful you don't trip.  You cry fake tears.  It lures the animal in.  You blast it to oblivion.

Is it a scarf? No it's a snake.  With marble smooth skin.  It moves down the woman's body, as she shivers in fear and disgust.  It dances away through the grass, leaving the human to lumber after it.  CLIP! CLOP! CLUNK! CLUMP! STAMP! BANG!
Who had the luckier escape?

Slow and steady wins the race, unless you're a tortoise.  The hunters sprint to the finish and bide their time.  They endlessly wait, as the hands trudge around the face.  Tick Tock.  Tick Tock.  Tick Tock! Tick TOCK! Tick TOCK! TICK TOCK! How much time do reptiles have?
Who are the real front runners?

*Author's Notes*

A continuation of my environmental poetry, this time focusing on the Reptile trade

Shattered

If you're going through hell, keep going." -Winston Churchill

Have you ever ran from a war zone? Have you ever ran from the Sandman? Have you ever been chased by silently screaming soldiers? Have you ever seen victims of war? Have you ever heard how they whimper? Have you ever smelt burning rubber? Have you ever been touched, by the smoke from a freshly fired gun? Let me tell you something.  If you're going through hell,

keep going.  The entire world shivers in fear.  Something is hiding down there.  In anger, in frustration, in torment, it brings down its scaly fist.  Reverberations are felt throughout the planet.  The oldest of trees stumble and stagger.  The coldest of buildings shake and shudder.  Humans, animals, vegetation alike are sheltering from the fearsome earthquake.  You watch childhood memories crumble into oblivion.  Let me tell you something.  If you're going through hell

keep going.  The printing presses have ran out of ink, ran out of paper.  The common man is reduced to the dole.  To escape from this hole, he might've to sell his soul. What choice do they have? Rolling around in dirt and filth.  Scavengers hiding in a dump.  It's not our fault, they say.  No.  Not me.  Never. they say.  Blame him, her, them, they say.  The average Joe waits.  Every Chandra, Garcia and Tyler hopes for change.  You and me, we pray.  John Smith has ran out of patience, ran out of hope.  He collapses in the gutter.  I kneel by him and say one thing.  If you're going through hell,

keep going.

*author's notes*

All credit to Winston Churchill for thinking up the awesome quotation.  From what I understand the Sandman is an equivalent to the Grim Reaper.  As you can see for each stanza I explored a different definition of "hell."  The identity of "they" in the third stanza, is open for interpretation.

Left Behind

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  They don't mean to, but they do." Philip Larkin

Good old parents,
sending me to a secondary school,
where I was alone. Isolated.  Deserted.  Abandoned.
An insignificant fish in a sea of
sharks.

I was the epitome of outsider.
Everybody
laughing.
Screaming!  Endless noise
smothering my deaf ears.  Everyone else in their social
circles.  Closely K-N-I-T-T-E-D.
I felt like a piece of stray
wool.
Slowly unravelling, as I drifted from one group to
another.  Hoping for interaction.  Receiving neglection.

They knew I'd be alone.
They knew I'd have no friends.
They knew I'd be a wanderer.  A migrant.  An undesirable.
They knew.

It didn't stop them.

Everybody else.

Me.

The weight of the Others.
Suffocating.
Crushing.
Pushing
down
on
Me.

I remember.

*Author's Notes*

In this poem, I let out all of my teenage angst and edginess.  This was partly written for school and partly based of the awesome quotation.  I felt that freeverse would be more effective, for this type of poem.  It's been a while since I've experimented with structure like this.  I definitely resent my parents for doing this.  This is a bit of a rantish, moany type poem.  Not the best of my work, but I needed to express these emotions.

Harpoon

An organic submarine flies through the water, effortlessly.
Followed by horrible beasts who steal hope.
Men.  The silent assassins of the sea.
Teeth for torpedoes.  The shark's eyes are its periscope.
Can you hear the animal screaming in the dark? In agony.
Its freedom is taken.  Bound by rope.
All it can do is wait.  Can sharks cry?

The harpoon rips through the serrated skin, easily.
The animal's eyes begin to slope.
It writhes in the crystal black water.  A simple amputee.
This was never predicted in its horoscope.
The lion of the sea has changed into a snivelling puppy.
Its trickling blood is the colour of taupe.
The leaking liquid attracts other predators, moving in on the sly.

Cartilage crushed to cure cancer.  Teeth turned into a trophy.
Man's reward is a single cheque.  Delivered in a white envelope.
The Dorsal Fin is churned into a tasty
soup.  A luxurious treat for those at the height of the slope.
The prey's infected. Through the animal's bloodstream, the chemicals flee.
Listen to the frantic heartbeat of a netted shark.  Use a stethoscope.
Beating a thousand times a minute.  Preparing to burst out and fly.

Sharks are misunderstood.  A mystery
shelled in a cocoon.  Viewed through the tainted lens of Man's telescope.
Hunters should thrash in cages, while sharks are free, sailing majestically.
The poachers tuck into Cazon.  Manufactured from the meat of the Tope
shark.  The lions of the sea are an enigma shrouded in ambiguity.
Men ravage anything they can't control.  All they do is interlope.
The sharks are dissected until they're memories, drifting through the sky.

*author's notes*

My second in my environmental-based poetry.  ped me edit this.  I'm not really a fan of rhyming poems, I much prefer freeverse, but I gave it a shot here.   I wrote this in the rhyme scheme of A-B-A-B-A-B-C.  This was certainly a challenge.

Extinct

Blade.  Bullet.  Animals being murdered.
Slaughtered in their prime, for their fur or bones.
Patterned coats, either striped or spotted.
101 Dalmations

Tigers stalked through the wild.  Tracked by the eye of the sniper and the greed of Man.  Brilliant base orange contrasting with intense black stripes.  Sunlight glistens off the big cat's arsenal of a mouth. Swords, daggers, knives are not enough to protect themselves

from keeping the floor warm in the houses of the bourgeoisie.

A snow leopard gracefully jumps.  From boulder to rock. Moving so quickly that their beauty becomes blurred. They're still crystal clear in the eyes of Man.  More rare than rubies.  More precious than pearls.  More expensive than emeralds.

Skinless corpses of big cats are decomposing in a pile of bodies, as humans parade round in their stolen fur.

Is this the height of fashion?

*Author's Notes*

A subject I feel very strongly about.  I decided to write this in a relatively, regular structure.  I realise it's a little short, but I didn't want to stretch it out for fear of losing its effect.