Wednesday, 15 April 2015

Poetry Thursday 156 - Forgiveness, Green and Limericks

Have you ever done anything wrong? Of course you have and the chances are you felt bad about whatever it was and perhaps you needed to apologise. However, there is often a punchline that is a greater burden than the feelings of guilt surrounding your original error and it is what all good Christians would exercise - forgiveness! That in itself can be a heavy burden.

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A slip of the tongue,
an apologetic look,
kindly forgiveness from the recipient.
A burden forgotten when brought to book.

An unfortunate glance,
a gesture of contrition,
kindly forgiveness from the recipient.
It saves the guilty from perdition.

A hateful text,
a tweeted apology,
kindly forgiveness from the recipient.
The burden of guilt is hefty.

A moment’s pause!
Consider the forgiveness.
That behemoth of other’s kindness weighs heavy,
you may consider engineered forgetfulness.

The slip, the glance, the text,
collective apologies leave one perplexed.
The kindly, silently critical forgiveness of the recipient.
The sad, mistaken, ill-intended sinning – vexed.
© David L Atkinson April 2015

The following poem is whatever Green is to you. It could be mother nature, Ireland, the lawn, almost anything of that shade; but whatever, it will not be dominated.

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The green covers earth’s bed,
human cells may puncture it.
leave their detritus to make homes,
but the green is never far away.

Cells of brown unnaturalness give
illusion of permanence – it’s a mirage!
Time is relative and infinite,
humans are brief and finite.

Materials seem hard, unyielding,
but the green will seep through,
and work their way towards the blue.
No matter, so unfeeling.

Life dances over the cells and land,
scared to touch, scarcely touching,
for the green lurks beneath – waiting,
to enclose life in the brown stuff.

It was here first and will be last
when the last one stops its walk.
Having knitted together a version of past,
the green will return and stop all the talk.
© David L Atkinson April 2015

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Limericks are a strange beast. 
They control words usage at least.
You need to use rhyme,
and mete out the time,
to create an amusing feast!
© David L Atkinson April 2015

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Yorkshire Limerick

There was a young man of Yorkshire
who married a farmer’s daughter.
When she cooked his breakfast,
the ham was the palest,
and the builder’s tea tasted like water.
© David L Atkinson April 2015

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Writer Limerick

There lived a chap, an old blighter,
who longed to be known as a writer.
He scribed hard and long,
using words he spelt wrong,
and was last seen crawling the gutter.
© David L Atkinson April 2015

God Bless