Poetry (Day 338): Obituary

 

Obituary

 

A teenage boy,
unsure of life.
Could not be convinced
that he was not
alone, no matter what
they said. Died
from a severe
case of bully.

 

 

 

A thirteen-year-old boy named Tyrone Unsworth committed suicide recently because of bullying about his sexuality. And there are people arguing that Safe Schools, a program implemented in parts of Australia, to teach kids about homosexuality (and sexuality in general) is not needed. A lot of people are actually saying that it promotes homosexuality. Because obviously, with just a bit of a push, kids will wake up one morning and think, “Hey, I’d like to be teased and bullied and ridiculed and hated by a large part of the community, possibly for the rest of my life.”

I’ve said it a couple of times recently, I think. The world sucks.

Poetry (Day 280): Prank Call

 

Prank Call

 

Online conversations
like phone calls
on TV.

Half an hour later
you realize
the other person
is playing Candy Crush
or has gone to sleep,
without saying goodbye.

But tomorrow,
they will reply
as if they’d been there
all along.

Poetry (Day 264): Fairy Tale

Fairy Tale

 

I was asleep
in the wilderness,
but she woke me
with a gentle goodnight kiss
that lingered on my lips,
like a smile,
even after she had gone.

Poetry (Day 234): Alone

Alone

The world has taken
a step back,
leaving me on my own
with the quiet
of my thoughts.

I breathe
and wait
as long as I can
before I hit
refresh and wait
for the internet
to reconnect.

Poetry (Day 132): XXXV

   XXXV

 

He did not lead.
He did not follow.
He wished the others well
and went his own way.

 

Don’t forget the competition. Comment, Share (Twitter or Facebook) and reblog for you chance to win an autographed copy of the poetry book when it comes out early next year.

Poetry (Day 123): The End

     The End

I didn’t know them,
the old couple
who walked
along the street every day.

Faded jeans, sandals.
Sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
Floral dress and a blue straw hat.
Always. Different but the same.

The didn’t speak. They just
walked together and enjoyed
the morning air.

They had a dog, almost
as old as they were.
It wasn’t immediately obvious
who dictated the slow pace.

Then one day,
they weren’t there
and it saddened me.

I sat and sipped my coffee
and read my newspaper
and wondered
what had happened.

It saddened me more,
when the old man,
and the dog, returned.

I drink my coffee inside now
because I don’t want to know
how the story ends.

Poetry (Day 101): Before Dawn

       Before Dawn

 

He rises early and dresses
in the dark, letting her sleep
for just a while longer. The kids
will wake her soon enough.

The light from the fridge
spills across the white
tiles of the kitchen floor like milk.
Lunch already packed. He eats cereal
leaning against the bench.
The boiling kettle and the traffic
on the distant road are the only noise.

Pull the front door quietly closed.
The security light illuminates the path;
a strip of glare amidst the shadows.
The car is a beast, crouched
on the driveway, wet with dew.
Waiting. Possum in the tree,
eyes wide.

Nobody else is out but lights
in windows, here and there, show
the early shift is starting to rise.
He turns out onto the street.
The coffee is back inside, steam
glistening in the first touches
of dawn light. He keeps driving.

Bach is on the radio;
the first Brandenburg Concerto,
playing for the gathering day.