I am the Judge, the flower of the law,
Bolstered in, privileged, all men’s awe;
When I am pleased to display my wit
The court is a-cackle with joy of it;
When my liver is slightly out of order
Woe to who crosses me—barrister, warder!
How do I rule the obsequious gang?
The secret is simple—I always hang!
One plant in my legal garden grows:
The mandrake’s shriek is the solace I chose;
And I water my treasure whenever I can
With the blood that drips from a gibbeted man.
Justice? Fiddlesticks! Mercy? Fudge!
I am the Judge!
I am the Judge. I like to dine
Before I charge: then, flushed with wine,
I bully the jury into submission
And rise to the height of judicial ambition.
O how I thrill deliciously
At the wretch in his anguish under me!
I gather my brows in a terrible frown,
The slow beads drop from his forehead down;
I lower my voice, and my eyes I roll:
“The Lord have mercy upon your soul!”
He lifts his hands; but—“Sheriff!” I shout,
And his knees give way as they drag him out.
Into eternity he shall trudge.
I am the Judge!
I am the Judge. A Judge should be
A pattern of humble piety.
A week well spent brings Sabbath content:
To church my steps are piously bent.
When the holy man reads the holy book
I grieve for the god, by gods forsook,
So clumsily crucified: pity rises
He was not a remanet to My assizes!
But when at the door they stand aside
To watch me pass, how I swell with pride
To hear them say, “That’s Him all right!
He hanged another one yesterday night!
The jury cried mercy, he wouldn’t budge,
He is the Judge!”
I am the Judge. When at Michael’s trump
The dead from their mouldering sepulchres jump,
And the Great Judge sits on his jewelled throne
To give each man the crop he has sown,
Up I’ll come with my little lot
Taut in the loop of a hangman’s knot!
I will bring them trooping, trooping in
With my quaint black halter-mark under each chin:
“Sweet Lord! the fruit of my gallows tree;
The images I have made of Thee!”…
Lo, he doffs his robes and his golden crown;
He kneels at my feet in obeisance down—
“Make me your servant, usher, drudge:
You are the Judge!”
I shall be Judge. And O, ’t will be merry
With Space one vast gaol cemetery!
For I’ll choke the choir at their morning hymn
And I’ll stifle the star-eyed seraphim:
I will hang the gods, I will hang the devils,
I’ll throttle the imps in the midst of their revels;
And when remains of all Creation,
But one alive from strangulation,
To my own soul’s throat a garrote I’ll fit
With a long drop into the bottomless Pit:
I’ll leap from the dais exultingly,
And while I smother in agony
Of the whole hushed Universe I will swear
I am the Executioner.

My baby daughter pats my face
and the joy within me flows

Unafraid to show her love
At least until she grows.

Why do cease to demonstrate
our love for one another?

The pureness of a childs love..
A pat on the cheek for Mother.

I live through music
I am the rhythm
I am the beat
I am my heart-beat
I am the vibration
The sound that moves your soul
The tones that colour the sky
The tempo that guides the sun
The moon and the stars
Are in tune with me
The wind and the rain
Harmonise with me
The earth
Resonates with me
Come by my side and join
Me in my symphony
For without music
Life is nothing to me

The days will soon end
The nighttime will be coming soon
Weary heads will rest.

A poem a day takes the pain away.
"It could always be worse"
That's what they all would say.

If it could always be worse,
Then why don't your words make it better?
Don't diminish what I'm feeling,
Simply bc someone's circumstances were harder.

A town was destroyed,
Lives stripped away.
My family and home still in tact,
But I too felt the wrath of that 22nd May.

The ****** and the bruised,
Don't forget the whaling sirens,
Continually speeding by for the first 48 hours.

Anything to help,
Water to the families
Prayers for the refugees.

Thank goodness it wasn't destroyed,
That football field.
What else would have sufficed?
To house the bodies,
In number, nearly 165.

Prayer and tears cannot rectify,
The pain and the hurt evident in mine eye.

Grasp hold of
The friends you were able to get ahold of.

Proud of this town I call home,
Banded together.
But my school, a whole other story on it's own,

I lived, breathed, what was just a building.
My faith in a structure,
Security and normality soon ripped from feelings.

The boxcar children?
The boxed mall children.
Diploma in a shopping bag,
Earned through PowerPoint presentations and 9GAG.

Thank goodness for glassed in boxes,
How else would I have been able to think?
Those tanks have awesome acoustics,
And hey couples can use them for **** tricks.

Build a fort of cardboard,
Film a music video that'll win zero awards!

Throw ping pong ***** over the walls,
Practice ACT while you hear the drama kids doing bird calls.

Can't use photoshop?
There's a class for that.
"Teacher" can't help with trig?
Here's an F for that.

Grief counselors available 24/7.
Doors are also always open,
So go get some lunch at the 7/11.

Took advantage of naïveté,
Skipped school to deal with that 22nd May.

But hey! Prom was still awesome,
And the seniors got scholarships,
So it's alright that my gpa was messed with.
Heck, I was a junior, easily forgotten.

Off to bigger, better things!
Forget the past,
Endure the change.

Hello MSSU or Crowder.
Community college "fo dayz"

This is how we deal with windstorms, in the little old land of Jomo.
The town banded together, but school....
It's more broken than ever.

They turn ya loose and you'll move on,
Cuz for a few years ya had a laptop,
And hey that's enough to build your future upon!

You fade...
Like a bruise.

Like the ones your mouth left on my neck and shoulders with its lustful pressure.
Your teeth, which brought moments of bright pain/pleasure,
Are now bared in an artificial, animal smile.

Your lips, which parted to ******* skin like it was salvation,
Barely part now to speak to me.
You whispered my name like a prayer.
You screamed it like a curse.
You sighed it in contentment,
And now you won't even speak it in passing.

Your hands, which half-playfully pulled my hair...
Now won't pause to brush it from my face.

All these parts of you,
None more telling than your eyes.
Those new windows, which once let me pry...
Now have blinds drawn tight behind them,
Leaving only a pretty, shiny reflection-
A passing, glancing imitation-
Of the passion they once held
When they beheld
Me.

No color left to them but the muddy colors of
Boredom,
And possibly mistrust.

You fade...
Like a bruise.
Like the one you left on my mind with your brilliant conversation
And beautiful, rusty prose.
Like the many you left on my tongue...
Which now can speak nothing but trite and meaningless words,
Which now can barely remember the shapes
Of all the shimmering, liquid phrases it spoke to you
That seemed so important at the time.

You fade...
Like a bruise.
Once lover and friend,
Now barely one
And never the other again.

Screech.
Ropes attached to my back are pulled tight.
Screech. Screech.Higher and Higher I am pulled.

I know I'm a symbol.

A symbol for *hope.
A symbol for love.
A symbol for pride.

I know all this.

But still I droop.
All that I stand for seems to disappear the higher I go.

Tossed and torn by a vicious wind from the East,
I stand strong.
But each and every gust cuts me deeper and deeper.

Battle wounds cover my spirit.
I cry as long as this is war.