This is 2018 – time to demolish society, start at Year 1, by Andy Brown

I am not a silent poet

I have seen a picture of a homeless person, sleeping bag
snuggled into the doorway of a shop that sells beds. The
one on display looks pristine, well-cared for, well-tended;
one can only hope the homeless person is being treated
likewise, but this is Leeds, this is Britain 2018 where
ministers lie knowing there will be no discipline from
a weak ‘leader’ anticipating a ‘Brexit Dividend’ she
wilfully allocates to her friends and Tory supporters.
But it does not need to be this way, it is not just or fair;
foreign-owned British press perpetuating lies about alter-
native opportunities that might allow a better life for the
majority and not increase slavery to an exclusive minority.
I have seen a picture of a homeless person, sleeping bag
snuggled into the doorway of a shop that sells beds.

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via ‘icarus breathes’ by Reuben Woolley

On And Other Poems two years ago.

songs I not sing, by Darius Molark

I am not a silent poet

today i write of distant songs
of songs across the lands and the seas
of songs held with eyes languid,
searing voices lashed across the towns and the grief
that have have received the bombs, the planes
and the feet that have march for days through
ungodly insanes, why so pliant the woman
and children that they cannot be moved
but burnt to the ground songs of
sweeping throats through horrid pain

songs that probably cannot be song
today i write of distant songs
songs that garble like ocean crossing sea birds
that grip the skies in the morning and
that feast on what is left of the ravaged earth

songs that do not tell time
songs that merely go away
dreaded songs despair
songs songs that

i have forgotten
songs so far
so far

darius molark, poet writer in chicago

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Warming, by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

I am not a silent poet

They say a storm is building,

thunder and lightning, a downpour,

the whole works. Bring it on, please.

 ..

Everyone waits, people pace

around the floor and sweat. Eyes sting,

search for clouds that don’t appear.

Weeks of heat bring out quirks

in staid and steady folk. Hidden

tendencies revealed, misanthropic

words mis-spoke. Lovers quarrel,

rent asunder by stickiness and lack of air.

..
Damp sheets tangle, cling, wrapped

round writhing bodies. Daytime workers

unable to sleep. Frantic. Each night,

bare bottoms bitten by flying insects

whining in through flung wide-open windows.

 ..

A storm is building, so they said,

five years ago. Today, the ground’s too hard
to care, to live, or bury our miscarried dead.

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Goosebumps and Jam Sandwiches, by Roehn Brind

I am not a silent poet

My interests are feeling and living. If you can get past a northern accent…just keep listening.
#fgwpoetry

My Youtube channel:
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCS0FwW_7_hcWXECAUkbvJzQ
Name: Freegreenwanderer

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Shadows of Nuremberg, by Terrence Sykes

I am not a silent poet

longing to return upon
gentle waters of the Pegnitz
skip stones shore to shore
my voice zealously silenced
words exiled into isolation
where no one even spoke
my language of dissent

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A Tale of No City, by Kushal Poddar

I am not a silent poet

You began feeding them,
thrice a day at first,
and they had their wilderness,
tiny nails, teeth more or less. 

Once a day then. Boredom
caught the morning sun.
The flooded streets laid eggs of dry patch.
Sam’s mom complained
about the animals living in your yard.

You began fading,
and they did not comprehend
the magic that spells waning away.
As if to be God one must
appear to disappear, build
someone’s fortune and draw a circle of fate. 

They begged, meowed,
crawled and leapt inside your house.
You shooed them, told them
not to make love or even if they did
not to birth rights. 

And one day you found kittens,
eyes still unopened,
under your bed, your old shirt
forging their camp.
They cheered at you, wondered 

why you would not wave happy hands,
after all you gave them once,
but because you…

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there must be some what outta here…, by Darius Molark

I am not a silent poet

there will be nobody waiting inside

so you don’t have to worry about stuff

just remove your clothes, feel good, just abide

to the shower like it will clean you up

,,

but marcel didn’t trust any of this

how was this women and men children clique

could walk in and then out in a clean wash bliss?

no, he wasn’t having any of it

,,

he pushed the guard down, but hey, it was too late

showers were pouring, people were coughing

marcel’s eyes were beginning to dilate

was there a pillar to make this offering?

,,

god came down, he didn’t do anything

the mist proved bile, marcel could not refrain

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In his own words, by Simon Collings

I am not a silent poet

A major trade, they with that, is a very nice deal. Takes the news end nicely. I actually told her I would listen. When would I say that ‘that is too bad’? To me that would end it. I would have done it very nicely. That is what is going on differently with news. It is too bad she didn’t say that, when a deal takes so long. Probably they never do work out much. I would have done it, actually. She is a person I think I get along with, but listen, it is too bad. What is going on when a deal takes so long, that would probably end very nicely. I told her I would say that. Trade that much major how to. That is, a fake relationship with the United States news. A fake United States news relationship, with a very nice person I get along…

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Another poem on Stride, by Reuben Woolley

Stride has published another poem of mine; & flowers fly they do you know

http://stridemagazine.blogspot.com/2018/07/make-those-notes-smooth.html