Nature Greed Death (Remove filter)
Poet Tree.
Sat under the poet tree
Whose branches reach out words
That have inspired local writer's for centuries
Classic songs are sung by birds
As I finish my final verse
The last poet under the poet tree
Tomorrow comes the concrete roads
And the concrete homes
Bye to the green land
Bye to the fresh land
So generic Jonny 2.0 can save ten minutes driving
Getting to work
While investment jerk...
Friday 16th May 2014 4:30 pm
Recent Comments
Nigel Astell on August 2025 Collage Poem: A Cut Above
2 hours ago
John Coopey on I SHAN’T ALWAYS BE LOVELY
4 hours ago
John F Keane on August 2025 Collage Poem: A Cut Above
5 hours ago
John F Keane on A Cut Above
5 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on I SHAN’T ALWAYS BE LOVELY
7 hours ago
Mike McPeek on Fallen Leaf
11 hours ago
Graham Sherwood on The Forgotten
13 hours ago
Rolph David on Sonnet: Imigh Hotovely, Imigh Smál Damnaithe! Imigh is Póg mo Thóin! [Out Hotovely, Out Damned Spot! Out and Kiss my Arse!]
13 hours ago
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh on His Majesty’s Stay Out of Hell Cards: “Divine Right” and “Convention”
14 hours ago
Hélène on Elementary
15 hours ago