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. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~ Shadow World ~

Always lost, and all alone,

in a shadow world, of your own:

Demons douse you with despair,

make you manic, lose all care.

Tortured, tied, in a twilight zone,

no Samaritans, for you to phone.

Hateful Havoc, heinous Hell,

your soul sedated, no soul to sell.

Sadness, sorrow, unsafe solitude,

self-starvation,  no thought of food.

Waging war within those walls,

caged canary, in miners halls.

Dreams desert you, nightmares reign,

once, where trust lay, now is feign.

The tower’s fallen, a hermit state;

why this path? Why this fate?

© Liola Lee 2007

This was written when someone close to me was going through dark times, though it could apply to anyone at such times. I am pleased to say though, that he found his way and turned his life around, and all is well…

 

 

Resigned

Resigned

I’ve given up my job,

No thought to loss of wage;

I’ve given up on Dimland Bank,

They make me feel enraged.

For several years I really tried

To give them all I’d got;

From nine to five or six or more,

They took from me the lot.

Just another number,

Not a person, not a name;

Just another pawn,

In their monopolising game.

They call themselves

The Listening Bank;

This must be a farce;

Surely, this cannot be,

When their ears are in their arse.

© Liola Lee 1991

I wrote this verse shortly after handing in my resignation at the Bank where I had worked for 11 years after leaving school. 

Old Souls

Old Souls

Have you ever seen a baby,

When it first comes to this world?

All wizened, wrinkled, wonderful,

An Old Soul promptly hurled.

Not all of them are Old Souls though,

But there are some and many,

Who chose their parents this time,

Where before, they had not any.

They travel through a tunnel,

From a warm place called a womb;

This is just the physical,

Sensation – we assume.

Yet, there is so much more,

To this process of creation:

Revelations do unveil a plan,

Mankind’s celebration.

Old Souls travel daily,

Back, from whence they came;

Sometimes, the same circle,

Sometimes, familiar names.

More often than not they come,

Memory wiped and quite erased;

To recommence the lessons,

They got wrong, in the last phase.

They come back from the afterlife,

Life infused, re-polished,

They come back for redemption, some –

Some all their sins abolished.

The circle thus continues,

Goes round and round again

Until Sin is thus relinquished and

Goodness is maintained.

If you believe in Karma,

You know this could be true

That our children we give birth to,

Could be our parents too.

Not in this life ,I grant you,

But maybe once some other,

We choose our pathways, in advance

Choose who’ll be our Others.

© Liola Lee

The image is a scan image of one of my granddaughters (she is 13 now). I have used the image previously but thought to use it again. I wrote this poem in 2007. I post it here today as was pondering on the meaning of life this morning…