THE HUMAN CONDITION
Accoding to Wikipedia "the human condition refers to the distinctive features of human existence" - this collection is about life and the people who live it
It's time to do the weekly shop To tread those serried aisles Mingling with ones fellow men Exchanging frazzled smiles. First the cigarette counter For this weeks lottery picks,
Born with silver spoon in mouth He has the best in life, His parents chose the smartest schools One day they'll choose his wife. He has his pick of everything All he could ever need,
"I' really must be going Can't miss the final bus," "Be careful at the other end" "Sweetie, please don't fuss." I know she did not mean it She liked it that I care,
Having read Ewan's deservedly cherrypicked "Where Were You When..." (I watched events unfold in my office on the internet) I have decided to post this old poem of mine
A is for Amazement That I can suck my toes, B's for Bouncing Baby And for my Button nose. C is for the Crawling I'll do quite soon (with luck), D is for the Dummy I Diligently suck.
I saw a homeless man today Sat huddled on the ground, As countless people passed him by He sat and made no sound. Bedraggled hair and unkempt beard A face downcast and grey,
A kiss for a baby, new born to this life, A kiss from the mother, be she "single" or "wife". A kiss for the dying, a kiss born of death A kiss that devours your very last breath.
This is by far the most difficult rhyming scheme I have ever attempted - this poem was nearly 3 years in the making, i hope you think it was worth it
I wrote this poem in the summer of 2009, the 150th anniversary of the battle that led to the founding of the International Red Cross. Notes appear at the end of the poem
Big Ben has fallen silent Another year is done In hope or trepidation The new year has begun. A clock may have two faces So too can New Year's night, Some see an end to darkness
A poem alphabetically? Boy that’s tough said I, Can such a thing be written? Dare I even try?
The plot and people portrayed in this poem are purely fictional. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is completely coincidental …… and possibly quite spooky.
The business suit of standard grey Is taken off and stowed away So ends another working day …..Behind the bedroom door. His shorts are off and in their stead Lacy briefs of harlot red
The perfect school ma'am home at last Another working week has passed, She climbs the stairs, she clears her mind Kids and classrooms left behind. She kicks her brogues beneath the bed
With the abuse of children by the Roman Catholic church again in the news, this seems an apt time to unleash this particular poem. It may offend, so read at your peril
A silly something from my archive - but a fitting way to wish all on ABC a very merry Christmas.
I've hesitated for a long time to post this one, but with Blair's appearance at the Iraq inquiry, now is as good a time as any
A distant cry, a soldier falls One more young life's laid waste, As he lies with face pressed to the ground It seems of blood to taste. A distant whine, a shell explodes
In the dentist's waiting room An all pervading sense of gloom My palms are sweaty, my brow is damp My butterflies have turned to cramp. Bare moments since I rang the bell
They stand upon the platform Bleak weather (bleaker faces), Bodies in the rush hour Minds on warmer places. They face the morning ritual The same old dull routine, Of all the faces present
Across the south, in private clubs In downbeat dives, in rundown pubs, The stripper plys her nightly trade Undressing for lechers who cannot get laid. With thrusting breasts and grinding hips
THE STORY OF SHARON AND SEAN (Two shaves, a shower, a shit and a shag) Welcome first to Sharon A "worldly-wise" sixteen, By day a shop assistant At night a dancing queen.
A hand that rocks a baby's cot A hand that saves the goal bound shot A hand with the answer, held high in the air Two hands pressed together in dutiful prayer.
In dungeon dank A prisoner moans, Around his feet Lie scattered bones. A feeble light Drips past the bars, Upon his back Are ugly scars. His wrists are gripped By rusting chains,
A rocket flies out of the darkness Then crashes to earth with a thud, Shattering all that's before it It smashes down deep through the mud, A fury that gouges a crater
Sunday trading? Some are for, some against; this poem speaks for the latter (although it doesn't necessarily speak for me).
The watcher sits in a darkened room He stares into the growing gloom, A yellow glow winks into sight As she turns on her bedroom light. So many nights he's spent this way
An old New York apartment block - face besmirched by time Its grandeur long diminished by - a mask of age and grime, Shipwrecked in a neighbourhood - now hard beset by crime
This New York block - we've seen it before Floors one through six - we 've yet to explore, So welcome back - let's even the score Come on inside - we'll go see some more.
The lighting flashed, the thunder roared Stinging rain from black skies poured, The ship was tossed by wind and wave The crew fought hard, their lives to save.
She shuts her eyes, an image comes An image comes unbidden, Pictures play inside her mind Of things she's long kept hidden. He shuts his eyes, no image comes No visions plague his mind,
A very old man, he sits in a chair His stubble is white, so too his hair He looks straight ahead with an unseeing stare He fears when he passes that no one will care.
I wrote this poem in response to this weeks inspiration point. Thank you to everyone here for this and all the inspiration you have given me.
The road is ripe with traffic She crosses at the lights, There's a smudge in her mascara A hole torn in her tights. I wonder at her story It is the poet's curse,
They buried me today at last I fell in war nine decades past, So proud I was to have my chance To stem the German tide in France. Two years in I joined the war
I entered a story in "100 stories for Haiti", I didn't get in, I got upset, I thought what was really important, I laughed at myself, I wrote this poem
When I was a little kid I ate "Pink Panther" bars; Ken Dodd and his Diddy Men My favourite TV stars. A plank across the barber's chair 'Short back and sides' Mum said;
I have used the IP to write a poem in memory of Nodar Kumaritashvili. I sincerely hope it is suitable and respectful.
A poem against stereotypical views DISCLAIMER: The narrator of this poem is purely fictional. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is completely coincidental
In the stillness of the night He cannot sleep though try he might, Lying wide awake in bed A thousand thoughts course through his head. How he wishes he could sleep
If I were of female persuasion And perchance at some occasion, Johnny Depp should grace the room Would I stumble, would I swoon? Would a blush creep up my face? Would my pulse begin to race?
Scutari, November 4th Eighteen fifty-four, The day when Florence Nightingale Arrived to fight her war. On the 5th at Inkerman A battle fierce took place, Act three of the Crimean
The recent tragic death of Natasha Paton reminded me of another tragedy in November. I didn't post at the time as I was wary of causing offence.
The barman hears all takes on life The guy who just can't trust his wife, The middle aged Joe who's lost his job The big "I am" with a great big gob. The barmaid hears all kinds of yap
A young internet friend of mine recently lost a childhood friend to cancer - i was moved to write this poem in response.
The yellow sun candescent Illumes a church crowned hill, A white clad bride approaches She shines yet brighter still. She glides into the churchyard Passed graves in ordered rows,
In response to Danrama's forum topic on censorship I raised the issue of self-censorship and the fear of writing in the first person. This is another poem is one I was previously loath to post.
I saw an ad for Sandals Not those which grace one's feet But resorts in sunny climes With sea and sand replete. As I sat there watching I thought "that looks quite nice",
The look in her eyes told me everything. From the instant I’d walked into the living room and seen them on the sofa. The distance between them was perfect, a perfect seven inches.
As Tony said, here's one I prepared earlier. It is a reworking of my submission for the original I.P. "Urge to Splurge".
This is a companion peace to "The Watcher" - previously unposted for fear of causing offence.
The eyes which once would wink at me Stare sightless into space, The lips which once would smile at me Sit slack upon her face; The voice which whispered love to me Sleeps silent in her throat,
An old folks' home, the lined up chairs Yesterday there were no spares, Today there is one empty space Dot's moved on to a "better place". An infant's school, the lined up hooks
How can the eyes that shone with love Now darken in contempt? How did the voice that spoke support Become so tact exempt? How can the smile that flowered for me Alas no longer bloom?
Free of mind and free of speech Free to learn and free to teach. Free to prosper, free to build Free to seek a life fulfilled. Free from loss and free from doubt Free to let emotion out.
Tarnished tombstone tower blocks Stand stark against the sky, Tags tattooed on cold grey walls Invasive to the eye; A weed-grown, worn-down walkway To a door directs my feet,
In the shadows of an alley Lurked that wastrel Bill McNally A cigarette cupped in one tar stained hand, In the other was a knife He'd come to take a life
Tell me please who wrote the book? Who penned the rules on how we look? Who set in stone how we should act? Who made opinion speak as fact? Who decreed what we should wear?
Having just read MistakenMagic's excellent "On Leaving", it dawned on me that in the dim amd distant past I had written this poem but had not thought it good enough to submit - but what the hey!
Both day and night he bore the sight Of a wife trapped in her bed; He'd never tell her rancid smell Upon his stomach fed. He never heard each...