North

 

 

Let Yorkshire and Lancashire bicker and wail;

Their rosy conflicts all do pale

Against the county oh so grand:

The edge of England. Northumberland.

 

Southeners poke at each other in jest and fun,

These cockney rebels and Sarf London.

But the Thames can’t compare to the mighty Tyne’s span;

And my one and only: Northumberland.

 

If Scotland were to go it’s own way,

Would Geordie and Makem people stay?

Or would they too become an independent land?

An angel of Europe: Northumberland.

 

Watch the North Sea swell and crest.

See the Stadium of Light, where football’s the best.

I want to escape to Berwick, at least that’s my plan.

And shine like my sparkling star: Northumberland.

 

 

Photo: wikipedia

Bible bashing

 

 

Placard reads “Thank God for Bisexuals”

Ignore eating food like pork and shellfish.
Ignore your tattoos because you love getting inked.
Ignore wearing clothes made with two different fibres;
Just misquote the Bible, and then call me a liar.

Ignore keeping prisoners as your slaves.
Ignore all the things you don’t like on the scripture’s page.
Ignore cutting off your right hand if it offends you.
Just misquote the Bible, then behave far worse than I do.

Conveniently forget to love your neighbour.
Forget the might of God’s great power.
Forget that he forgives us all.
Forget the hurt behind the names you call,
When you’re cussing me straight to hell.
I hope your memory serves you well.
All those things you haven’t said – The love you’ve failed to mention.
It’s available to all, no matter the sexual orientation.

I’m out and proud as a bisexual.
I guess that’s enough to make you so hostile.
If you love the Bible so much, and want me to heed it.
You best take some time out of your day to actually read it.
Because David loved Jonathan, he told him when they kissed.
And Ruth and Naomi’s love for each other was well and truly epic.
But your passages are select I see.
You’d rather ignore bisexuals in the Bible,
Than have love set anyone free.

Remember Jesus healed the Centurion’s beloved slave.
Remember it was Jesus, whose life for us he gave.
Remember God made us all, the queer folks too.
We are his children. He loves us.
Just as much as you.

I Am Not An English Rose

 

English rose

As a flower I grew thorns to protect

All the years that I have spent

Waiting for a dream man to appear;

A perfect man with sweet blond hair.

Would he even want a flower so dark?

Would he deign to seek me in my corner of the park?

Or would he run to the greenhouse bright,

Where English roses are always white?

These thorns of mine are a defence from thieves:

One unwanted touch, and I  make them bleed.

Those racist men who once forced me to fight,

Are the ones who now say I don’t look right.

But my roots are black, my foundations are strong.

So I stopped waiting for the perfect man. I’d got it all wrong.

And when my petals fell out, my head was bare.

The cold revealed how the men just didn’t care.

I grew wild and free, with roots so deep;

My tendrils stretched out.  I increased my reach.

The White roses shook when they at last could see

This dark, bald flower had grown into a tree.

I am an English Oak, magical and brown.

No racist man can cut me down.

I shelter the other flowers in the park:

The beautiful blooms that grow around my bark.

I don’t know how this overlooked dark flower

Became a sturdy tree with so much power.

I have not forgotten my  lowly birth,

As a mighty Oak, I tower upon the Earth.

The White roses have faded, some of my sisters have died.

This Oak reigns queen in the forest.

From the humble earth, to the endless sky.

 

A love poem in a time of sadness

By Jacq Applebee

 

So jealousy is a fungus; spores infecting all in sight.

It blooms and blows in grey dust places,

Grey and green and black and white.

Possessiveness is a living trap that shoves me up against a wall.

The silence of shame is like a shroud outlining my living form.

But love will make my heart beat strong

When all I want is to disappear.

I’ll take step after step in a world full of thorns

To a woman in the North with warm red hair.

Writing and Depression 2

Read warnings before ingestion

Do not operate machinery

Until two hours after writing poetry.

Do not wander lonely as a cloud;

Take your frustrations

And write something down.

Poetry won’t stop your delusions.

It won’t fix your disturbed brain.

If you need a hospital admission,

Poems won’t stop the mental pain.

But poetry is sometimes therapy to me;

It helps me get things out.

And sometimes anxiety is turned into words

That I write, instead of shout.

Still it often makes me wonder;

Writing under the influence of medication.

Are these words mine or the pills?

Or are my poems a collaboration?