In a perfect world ~

In a perfect world, there’d be no wars,

famine, poverty, no settling of scores.

In a perfect world, there’d be contentment,

smiles, goodwill, no resentment.

In a perfect world, there’d be love and laughter,

stories would end happy ever after.

In a perfect world, boys become men,

don’t go to war wondering when

they’re likely to die, shot through the head;

blood spattered youths,  wasted, now dead.

In a perfect world, there’d be no politicians,

men in suits, no opposition.

In a perfect world, there’d be no mental illness,

plagues or disease, just a sense of well – ’ wellness’

but the World is not perfect, no Utopia, hence,

nothing is certain, little makes sense.

© Liola Lee 2010

So little makes sense in a warring world!

 

 

 

 

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Gangs

gangs glamorised on the street

youths hooded with designer feet

blades set to cut human meat

loaded weapons no thought to heat

a child murdered in his bed

bastard bullet through the head

why

just because someone said

one kid’s glory leaves another dead 

long ago they were innocent

life so sweet a luring scent

inbred badness or badness lent

by need greed or lack of rent

© Liola Lee 2007

I wrote this poem some 12 years ago when a 15 year old boy was shot dead in his bedroom in an apparently gangland-style killing in Peckham, South East London. There have been numerous stabbings and gang related incidences in recent times, and they are on the increase. We as a society need to sort this out. These senseless killings need to be stopped. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Words to find~

Words To Find

Sitting here, 

Pen in hand,

A room in a house,

In no-man’s land.

Thoughts to mind,

Unleash, unwind,

Pen to paper, 

Words to find.

There’s food in the cupboard,

Even more in the drawer;

There’s stock in abundance:

Write notes, score.

Letters flying around in my head,

Jumbled confusion,

Lines left unsaid.

Ideas I now beckon,

Forth from the depths:

Subconscious creations,

Unchained loose kept.

The way now is open,

Quite tidy, quite clear:

March onward and forward,

Success, sweet and sincere.

© Liola Lee 2007

 

 

 

 

Through the snow…

Through The Snow

‘Straight’ A student once,

A girl with dreams, girl with chance;

Chance of doing something great

Then a puppet with puppet’s fate.

Once in charge, once in control,

A girl with heart, girl with soul.

Sold herself to get a fix,

For something instant, something quick.

Started off with just a puff,

Then she knew she’d had enough.

A little later she met someone,

Made her laugh, have some fun.

He was on the trip before;

Now he had someone to soar

With open arms and dreams ahead,

Joined together, their habits fed.

They took a journey, rode together,

Through the snow for hell and leather;

They skied the slopes, down they went,

Destination not heaven bent.

For many seasons, the snow went on,

They wished so hard it would be gone.

They tried in vein to clear the snow,

Did not work – on with the show.

What started out, just as fun,

Soon took hold, now number one.

The blizzard blew, was blowing strong,

The journey hardened, miles were long.

They both knew, that change must come,

Or forever, they’d be undone.

It was hard, they missed their kicks,

Missed their snowman, missed their fix.

As time went by, they stayed together,

Bonds so strong, unbroken, never.

Against all odds, they stood the test

Of time immortal, deprived of rest –

Until such time as they had learnt

Lessons well, flames unburnt.

Universally sanctioned, arm in arm,

Gods did soften and free from harm.

It did not matter, had to be,

Star crossed lovers destiny;

But unlike Romeo, and Juliet

It was good that these two met.

Grim Reaper met the Cobra Queen,

She knew him, had known he’d been,

Her Karmic Prince for all of time,

Her main player, in her cosmic mime.

Lives interwoven, eternally linked,

Chained in melody, not chains that chinked.

United in a timeless love,

Gods just playing them, from above.

Before the end, the slope got steeper

For Cobra Queen and Grim Reaper,

But now they’re sorted, squeaky clean

Only God knows, what might have been.

© Liola Lee 2007