mercy

Mercy In Australia a mother appears To have killed Her eight children with a knife And before we think of vengeance Let our mercy reign What she did when her mind was confused Is an unbearable knowledge A burden so great Forgiveness is the only thing we can Offer her now.

verse maker

Verse maker Poetry is to see Ignorance in a sentence The filling out of pleasant words The intention being Making the reader cry a little A poet sometimes is a mockingbird A mimus humming bard of Christmas songs

Tanka

Tanka Wake up at dawn Listen to your gentle breathing Can’t bear the thought That fate should be so cruel Let me live after you,

Tears

Tears When I was young I cried for no one I drowned my sorrow In pride f being dry-eyed. And inside of me a dam of tears not shed. I had a dog she lived to fourteen I borrowed A spade and dug her deep into the soil. The dam busted. For days I cried for my parents, siblings, The dog and all those I loved so deeply but never said I did. Old now I cry easily when seeing children and animals Being harmed And it pines me to know This is the way of the world and no God Around the corner to save us.

Olsen's America

Olsen’s America If a Danish sea captain by the name of Egil Olsen had discovered America, would it be called Olsen’s land, and if so would it have become a more friendly land without ambition to become a superpower? I would not let the Name Egil come into it, people would soon change it to eagle and as we know that is more aggressive. And since no one had heard of Canada – not many has- it would have been Olsen all the way to Behring Strait. He would have to deal with red Indians though, let them dress the way they wanted and wear fur which, as we know, is frown upon in Europe; but most of all he must have kept the with missionaries out.... more banned them outright.... Funny thing names, America is like a uniform, fits all sizes, But an Egil Olson would have had a grey beard and be fond of beer.

washing machine

Washing Machine There was a time I always went home, by road rail, flight or by bus I always got there and still do. Even though when I get there I want to leave. The house shrinks every year sibling’s gone mother too, she never looked up from the romantic novel she was reading to say halloo. 1953, it was summer, well there are summers every year, some are warm, some not. I was home from the sea and had bought mother a washing machine and we were the only ones in the street that had one it was a warm summer, open windows, cold beer and laughter. Then for a reason I could not fathom a silence fell, the sky was grey and nothing was the same again; it was only me who kept returning home. The washing machine I bought in 1953 is still in the basement rusty and dusty, but it had for a short time brought happiness and an end to stifling poverty after the war ended, when factories stood still and it was hard to be working class.

politics of work

http://oskarthefirst.podbean.com/e/politics-of-work/