Friday, 15 February 2013

Hey Fatso! - New Poem of a personal nature for you to read.

This is about me as I was growing up and the fears that we harbour and that make us who we are as we age. kids can be crule and my life growing up was nop exception.

Hey Fatso!
Is what I hear in my dreams
My twilight nightmares
When I awaken with screams

Hey Fatso!
You can’t be part of our team
Coz you’re too disgusting
And your pants bulge at the seam

Hey Fatso!
Why don’t you just go and die!
My tormentors did say
As I tried to smile and live a lie

Hey Fatso!
You’re never ever going to get laid
They screamed at me from afar
So home I went and my room I stayed

Hey Fatso!
Are you looking at me!
I am far too pretty.
For your eyes to see!

Hey Fatso!
Is that you hanging from a tree?
So you found a rope
To hold your weight I see.

Hey where is Fatso?
Who? Oh you mean what’s his name
He hung himself yesterday
Took himself out of the game.

Hey where is Graeme?
He passed the other day
Sick of the taunts and jibes
He could no longer stay

That’s so sad I will shed a tear
He had so much to say
But now no-one will ever hear

Copyright - Graeme Hawke

Thursday, 7 February 2013

Battles Past - New Poem for today I love an epic battle

This is my latest poem and it literally jumped out of me and on teh page within minutes. it was like I had to write this and I think I love it, tell me what you think.

Battles Past

The ground I see as I peer over the craggy cliff
Is covered with blood and viscera of war
With no clear winner except the blacksmith

They came in suits of mail and reflective sun
With plumes like the phoenix upon their helm
The metallic beasts slaughtered and blood run.

Giant steeds snorting fire from nostrils flared
Caused ground to quake and shudder as thunder
With dark dead eyes that their masters shared

Limbs hacked and sliced from torsos unbound
Men like rag dolls thrown and diced in the air
Body parts met each other again upon the ground

The fetid breath of the reaper as he arrived to reap
Was to overpowering to some as they fled
But only into the wrath of a waiting traitors heap

Heads like overripe melons discarded by a grocer
As he inspects the contents within to ensure ripeness
Only to find the insides rotten as he looks closer

The stench of death and blood spilled copper
Is fast on the wind as it dances around the living
Giving the air thickness and oppression improper

Then as if by gods own will the noise of battle stops
The blanket of dead an eerie non living reminder
Bellow was a field of flowers with bright yellow tops

A silence descends and the wounded put to rest
The moans of men replaced by returning birds
Their whistles from on high as they return to the nest

To the victor, another day to die is granted to thee
To regroup, love and feed before the next push
They pray to a God for the ability of his wisdom to see

But what they hear a litany of verse and begotten lies
A story told to keep them on the front lines
As a little bit of their humanity each time dies

The metal warrior cleans and is tended to by serf
Knowing one day his time will be up at last
And he can finally with honour lie upon the earth

Copyright - Graeme Hawke