The generation gap is sometimes wider than we think.
When it comes to use of language, I've oft had cause to blink.
Each and every era has its own ideology,
and a result is a change in the meaning of words. Take today's technology.

The word at one time long ago, was something sung, said or writ.
Now it's a whole damn program that, on our computers, fits.
And terms we find defined one thing, back then when my dad was a lad,
mean something totally different these days. For example, 'sick's' no longer 'bad'.

In the dark
a wash of fear
chills
Sounds of voices
doors shutting..
cars turning over

Hush hush
return to sleep

The moons eye
falls in the black
never go back
shadows of bed
Everyone else
sound asleep

Years later then
can sleep through
the greatest of
bombardments
and Wolves in the storm
at the forest edges
We Have to cross
the fields

Looking through the old album,
I revived memories of my childhood,
moments shared with the best of friends
who formed the strong ties of brotherhood

I won't forget the day
we found a discarded mirror,
we made funny faces and did some poses,
pretending to be muscular bodybuilders

We had our fun, playing silly games
and gave one another nicknames.
Mine was " Short Alid" which sounds better
than "Little Grandfather"

Slayer

Blood is dark by pale moonlight
and pours without control
like sacrificial rain of night
draining from a soul

air is heavy, foul with death,
aching for a breeze
silence hangs like dragon breath
corrupted by disease

give it for the kiss of a rose,
does it stain the lips of red-
early-birds basks in open sunshine,
people and places, spaces waited to be filled
and a man of which flax retiree's adjourn;
the basic journey is doomed by yesterday:
the biggest jackpot is cut trees.Garnerer

yup.
that's the whole poem.

at his tomb,there was ointment of savour, beryl's
at his feet, stencils, another babe at tears from the loss
in memorial for a passage of three days

on blooming hills, has the mariner seen Poseidon
the erasure of time dumbfounded , Greece
and his confidant, that wrests the heart , free from captive
hearts into the sea, from a thrift
the winds are poor to the anchor scrambled
dark, cut across the pages of gateway

Lying on my bed,
the silence
is too loud,
ringing
in my head

Anger fades
out of sight
but in my heart
a stubborn pride
resides

Rising restlessness
my mind aches
from solace denied
by the sting of
malice

My soul is
a cracked mirror,
a distorted
self reflection
of self-loathing ,
blooming in colour