Poetry
2011
Don't judge harshly
that which the soul
pours forth in its own discovery!
by year
2011
Stand Beside Me
You still stand
Upon the sands of my mind
Time thinks that you might be
Better off left behind
But I knowthat straight as the heart flies
As the sun bleeds in blue skies
You’ll come back to me
To stand beside me, stand beside me.
If one thought could trace
The miles between us then I could
Taste the smile upon your
Face again, and
Know that straight as the heart flies
As the sun bleeds in western skies
You’ll come back to me
To stand beside me, stand beside me
Left alone I finally found
Where you stop and I begin o
Let the tears fall down
Let the wheel turn back around
So that what I’ve found I might find again
Why did circumstance take you away from me
Leavin’ me to wonder why
But I know that straight as the heart flies
As the sun bleeds into blue western skies
You’ll come back to me
To stand beside me, stand beside me
April 24 1999
Little Bad Brood
Tears from the invisible choir fill the cup of anguish-
Dear Angels, our little ones walk with the Brothers of Darkness!
Our children brandish the sword of environmental oppression,
And they drink as if from the breast of evil.
Black wings seem to coddle the infant that nests in darker thoughts.
Once innocent fledgling, now fiendish changeling.
Tied to the apron strings of the devil,
Weaned by the hounds of hell
Where our Light and love meet such adverse forces.
Who are these demons who trespass through our world
And into the hearts of our unsuspecting children?
Not even a mother’s love can put a healing finger to the lips
That pass the chilling breath of corruption in their words.
Abcess of society and malevolent visitation.
The wind whispers and sighs of decaying youth,
And when the Evil One exhales our young fruit dies on the vine.
Young blood, cold blood and skeleton heart
The little bad brood tear each other apart.
God bless the toddler’s toddler victims...
Forgive us Lord, for we may love,
Yet know not what we breed.
Lisa Swarbrick, 1999
In memory of little James Bulger, age three, killed by two other children.
...I can't find anymore poems than this for this year......