I am grateful,
To all Neopoet’s,
Who have broken the shell of
Mundane poetry…
As most now emerge,
From the cocoon of a stereotyped
Archaic and ancient design of
Poetry, of the ab, ab, cd, cd, etc kind
And
Project, their very own,
Extraordinarily creative personality,

Oh, great
Another political scandal
Let me guess
She’s sixteen

how in the world
will he explain
this mess

the details are getting vivid
empty bottles, condoms
and cheerleader pompoms

wait, it might not be him
there goes wishful thinking
the mastermind
made reservations
with his own credit card

thanks for watching
breaking news at ten
don’t miss out tomorrow
when we finally find
who killed the missing hen

come
let this fire speak truths
let us feast and not forget the dead
we are whats left
this old gaurd
hunters with our runes
and bones that spill their ache
like hungry winds
against our rooves

did we not follow hooves
worried with wolves
we are warmed with charity
of good women and dulcet
songs so let this moon
still seek our souls come
dawn alive with light
as this night
of winter long

...

There he sits in hunting camp
in the background in a folding chair
while younger men stand all around.
His attention wanders off elsewhere

They all talk of this day's stalk
whether turkey,deer or hurtling duck.
He sits with hardly one spare word
thinking about his former luck.

'Cause in his mind he's far away
gone back to his younger days
watching squirrels as they'd play
stealing down a game trail's maze.

I long to set myself free
push the boundaries.
Open my mind,,gain knowledge
Expand my point of view 

Internal versus external satisfaction
Why not strive to be
Well informed, well read,  set for adventure  
With a healthy dose of pop culture.

I have achieved a mere suggestion
the tip of the ice burg,
of what i can achieve.
need to reach my potential.

I finally told him,
sitting in
inevitable bar,
noisome with the
ever-present stinks
of spilled beer
and cigarettes,
the stale musky scent
of listless dancing women
thick upon the air.

He sneered at me,
eyes vacant,
mind stained black
by decades
of drink and hate
and said
“You can use her,
you can fuck her,
hell, you can
even love her,
but don’t you ever
bring that nigger
to my home.”

Our land is plague by violence
Insensitive to sanctity of human life
We grieve and suffer in silence

From bloody coups to civil war
Robbery movies enacted in real life
Road carnage tripled by broken tar

Political and religious riots take turns
Bomb blasts by Boko Haram exact fear
Senseless bangs, the nation helplessly burns

It was out in Venezuela when I ran into this sailor
He was sitting at the bar, right next to me
He was rugged he was mean and he wasn’t very clean
But I listened when he spoke about the sea

There were stories there were tales, of the hunt for killer whales
When his leg was bitten off below the knee
How en route to Senegal they were shipwrecked in squall
He survived for sixteen weeks, tied to a tree

We are the peoples' nation of Zrcheckslovanounious.
No one is able to pronounce us.
Our citizens therefore denounce us.
We're a proud population of three.

Our emperor he is a llama.
Who has his very own song-a.
He wrote it whilst hitting a bong-a.
He'll 'maaaaah' at you for free.

So welcome to the Republic.
Don't drink our water - you'll get sick.
Our Emperor Mo Mao Mick
says: 'mahh mahh mahh merr meer meee'

"Shadows Creep"
4th January 2012

Night,
shadows creep,
clocks watching,
still,
breath its strange dance,
currents moving
slow,
window cracks open,
frost dried leaf,
twig,
breezes a lullaby
sleeping head;

when all falls, falling,
deep,
black,
great heaps of earth, mountains,
silent,
speechless,
dead,

no movement
seeming set,
such weight
not sinking, rising up
wedges,
ice on lakes, disturbed;