Great Collection of Poems

My life is not supposed to be like this.
The air strike
lights up the night sky as bright as day.

Mother puts my head in her lap,
I feel her stroking my hair.
Pain rises in waves,
crashing into me.
My eyes, unable to focus,
my hearing capable only
of taking rhythm and cadence.
Slowly words begin to take
on discrete sounds,
then come meaning
and comprehension.
Mother tells me
I will be saved.

When a person dies, the people cry.
I can see mother crying.
Dream fragments
float past behind my eyes.
Life hasn’t been fair to me.

© Amy Barry

Israeli aircraft strike crowded Gaza areas, civilian death toll climbs 

Amy Barry has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in Ireland and abroad. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

An ancient oak crooked countless gnarled quivering fingers,
beckoned to a child to explore the wildwood.

Inquisitive, the child proffered a few tentative steps, was awestruck
by a pedunculate oak's huge gaping hollowed mouth screaming age;
maybe it sang songs of joy,
or ululated howls of grief for owlets
having fledged or perished there,
its fallen leaves, tears shed.

Empathy with avian misfortune was overtaken by admiration
for this mighty symbol of England,
an affection born of a child's curiosity,
his love of Nature's gifts,
his respect for its occasional brutality.

He has seen those gifts of elm, oak and ash,
some of our Nation's most stalwart sentinels
stand steadfast against gale
and the blight of disease and decay,
has observed the transient seasons defined
by landscape's changing face,
bare and stern in Winter, become Summer's smile in May;
but this smile, no longer a child's, grimaces,
for our trees, Nature's treasures and our National heritage
face the grimmest of fates.

I, who was that child welcomed to the wildwood,
whom Nature beguiled,
who railed against Man's intrusiveness,
see Man, now, as the saviour, the benefactor
who can save our trees under assault from Nature itself,
from deadlier weapons, fungal infections,
that if left untreated,
portend a sadder fate,
though too late,
much too late
for our stately elms
and scattered ash.

©  James Gordon

Now oaks at risk: The symbol of England is hit by two killer diseases

I have been writing poetry most of my life. I have always been interested in Nature and many of my poems reflect this as well as my art.

Pure high school drama at its worst.
Immature school girls whine, argue, and bitch.
“I don’t care” vibes dwell in my headaches.

Taylor Swift, Adele, Ellie Goulding pop era.
Clique time, social status, most racist in history.
Stop trying to make YOLO fetch -
it’s never going to happen.

At school we learn everything
needed to be successful at breathing.
Teachers are so insightful, almost genius.
Feeling that I belong, never listen to the past.
At least they give us a clean environment.

Indie style clothes only,
Hollywood breathes cigarettes,
fashion trends of the old ages.

The apocalypse is coming soon,
I can feel in the heat of debate,
we never realize the best times,
the level of the absurd world.


© Samantha Seto

English 'YOLO' voted top German youth word
What is YOLO? Only teenagers know for sure


Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, Soul Fountain, Carcinogenic Poetry, and Black Magnolias Journal. She is a third prize poetry winner of the Whispering Prairie Press contest. (@samantha36seto)