I can almost speak
Bully for You
.
He drew his paw and THWAK
He smACKed the dog across the room,
A blink and he was there
Atop the dog, rolled on his back,
All four paws gripping while he bit,
Ripping, kicking, a ball of fury
Exploding, erupting in a flurry,
Subsiding slowly…
His eyes met mine halfway
‘Was that good enough?’ he seemed to say,
‘…and can we play another day?’
.
©Denise G Allen, 31 October 2013 10:21
Edited
.
Are we too blind to see
Symptoms of a sick country:
Crime gets bail in place of gaol,
Prisons are full to overflowing ~
Enough said !
Justice and the Law
Are often at odds
But cash paves the way ~
Life is cheap and death is cut-rate,
Fraud and corruption rule,
Sex is the best ~
Porn and abuse never go to waste,
Cater to every taste,
Girls and boys ply their tricks, BUT.
What kind of man gets his kicks
From raping babies, hidden away
From others in dark corners?
This land, OUR land, is sick!
.
©Denise G Allen, 29 October 2013 09:08
.
Some people have holes for souls,
Emptiness where their soul should lie
And they walk on by, shells themselves
Space to rent, for living or working
Or space-saving for stolen ideas
Packed neatly for use should the need arise,
Nevermind the origin was from another brain
While yours rides on the train to nowhere
Holidaying…
.
©Denise G Allen, 27 October 2013 10:53
.
A poet weaves his words…
A painter blends his shades…
To praise the wonder of God.
Impossible to say… impossible to do…
We cannot even begin to envision
His glorious be-ing.
We are as no-thing
Comparing brain to brain,
Heart to heart, or
Soul to soul.
He is all.
We are as the blind who read without eyes;
Or the deaf who hear without ears;
Or the lame who run in their dreams.
We know our Father loves his children –
Whatever infirmities they may have –
And we should have faith and return His love
A hundred thousand fold.
.
©Denise G Allen, 21 October 2013 08:47
.
Little dry islands form in the rain
On the slasto pathway
A breathing space between the drops
Miniature islands in the sea
Pushed up by the earth
Giving man more space
To expand his world
To fit his living… his devastation
In his war against nature
.
©Denise G Allen, 21 October 2013 10:18
.
There’s a fine mist
kissed by the snow on my head
while brain fried, cotton-wool dyed
birds fly high in the sky;
they screech through the leaves,
crash into branches of trees
and winter’s dry twigs
break as they shake to the ground.
Darkness descends from above,
and the air quivers… lightning shivers…
the birds calm down, they make no sound,
waiting… waiting… for the thunder
to rupture, to fracture, the peace.
.
©Denise G Allen, 20 October 2013 11:59
.
My soul sings
With the song of the wind,
Harmonising, synchronising…
Blow high, blow low
As around the world we go
Carried as the air’s
Sweet currents flow
From the mountains on high
To the valleys below
Lift me up, lift me up…
Let my spirit soar
On the wings of the wind.
.
©Denise G Allen, 19 October 2013 13:56
.
Twelve hours here and
twelve hours there;
Twelve hours here and
twelve hours – where?
I’ll never forget the mournful sound
made when you found
you had to leave ~
The softest howl,
almost under your breath
brought a lump to my throat
and a tear to my eye as
I turned around to retrace my steps
and found you had gone
until the morrow…
An invisible force,
an inaudible voice,
you had no choice
but you had to obey.
©Denise G Allen, 17 October 2013 05:54
* Edited
.
It was clear as daylight
Right from the start
He needed a friend
As did I, heart to heart.
Tho’ his visits took place
In the silence of night.
Regular as clockwork
He would arrive,
Stay the night then depart
In the early morning light,
While birdsong crashed,
Clamouring to wake the dead.
.
©Denise G Allen, 15 October 2013 08:22
.
The warm winds blow
(sometimes with a hint of ice –
tail-end of winter’s cold),
ruffling the leaves
on the evergreen trees,
dusting the bare branches
of the unclad.
Dust rises in great swirls,
reddish and coarse,
echoes of the ground beneath
where it settles once again,
providing succour to the roots
whence it came.
Seasons’ circles,
cycles interwoven,
life and death
to the eye,
but the soul
will never die.
.
©Denise G Allen, 04 October 2013 07:08
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