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Cultura Documentos
A Dream.
A New Start.
A Name.
A Poem A Day.
AN EVENING OUT.
Atomic Split.
What a terrible thing to do,
Man has split the atom in two.
For peaceful purposes so we are told,
Medical wonders to unfold.
Then came the war in thirty-nine,
Man committed a terrible crime.
He built a bomb, of course Atomic,
Man's love for man, is ironic.
Two Cities, Hiroshima and Nagasaki by name,
Were obliterated much to man's shame.
This was the war to end all wars.
What a terrible thing to do,
We have built a laser or two.
For peaceful purposes so we are told,
Medical wonders to unfold.
We now have nineteen hundred and eighty-five,
Are we lucky to be alive.
The next war will be in space,
What will become of the Human race.
What a terrible thing do to,
We have built a space ship or two.
For peaceful purposes so we are told,
Man's old dream will now unfold.
We have met some aliens from outer space,
What a terrible thing to do,
Now we have killed an alien or two.
Human Race let me say Adieu,
For now I know what will become of you.
Back Kitchen.
In my back kitchen all is quite still,
I have cooked my food and ate my fill.
Then the dishes in the sink had their say,
He always eats here but he does not pay.
The empty bottle of fresh brewed beer,
Said, 'He drained me dry without a tear.'
Then of course the mess he makes,
To cook a meal the time he takes.
Could he not eat in the restaurant next door?
They need the money because the Boss is poor.
The only thing that had nothing to say,
Was the frying pan it was not its day.
The knives and forks were filled with rage,
He is a messy eater he should act his age.
Picking out bits here and there indeed,
No wonder he takes so long to have his feed.
Have you ever listened to your kitchen tools?
Mine complain I am the king of fools.
They say I should go out to eat,
Order fresh vegetables with plenty of meat.
Not to come home and start to cook,
I should be relaxing with a good book.
They have no respect for me you know,
Just because I am old and getting slow.
I wash the pots and pans clean each day,
Then I carefully put them all away.
I think I will throw them away onto the rubbish heap,
Except for the sugar bowl that I will keep.
Child Play.
Aged.
Anamnesis.
Baby Eyes.
Broken Spirit.
Childish Memories.
It all comes back to me down the ages,
A child awake listening to the tick of a clock.
My troubled mind my fitful rages,
The sound of a key turning in a lock.
Twenty boys in a dormitory large,
Beds neatly arranged in rows.
A woman vicious and in charge,
Dealing out deftly savage blows.
Tears running silently down my cheeks,
No peace for an unhappy mind.
Terror that lasted unending weeks,
With never a word that was kind.
From the age of three until I was eight,
Violence ruled my unhappy days.
I was ever in a stage of hate,
With my mind turning in a terrible craze.
I was classified as a troublemaker,
Me a child mental grim and upset.
Some one to love me there was no taker,
I was not the young boy to pet.
At the age of nine war was declared,
I was evacuated to a peaceful town.
For a family life I was not prepared,
And my hatred let me once more down.
I was placed with families that were kind,