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  • Tony Grannell
    commented on 's reply
    Dire indeed, Alexandra - all the warning signs in the world, ignored. The complete and utter inanity of it is hard to comprehend.

    All the best.
    Tony.

  • Tony Grannell
    commented on 's reply
    Sadly, too, true - the path to disaster. Thank you ever so much.
    Kind regards,
    Tony.

  • Tony Grannell
    commented on 's reply
    Always great to hear from you, my friend and as always thank you very much.
    Kind regards,
    Tony.

  • Tony Grannell
    commented on 's reply
    Hello Johntee,
    GDP per poetry - just excellent.
    Kind regards, Tony.

  • AlexandratheLate
    replied
    Another wonderful poem written of all too real dire situations.

    Leave a comment:


  • RhymeLovingWriter
    replied
    Fire in the sky...relocated.

    We are not there yet...but have been in the past - then reprieve - now heading in that direction again.

    Leave a comment:


  • The second
    replied
    my friend tony good to see your gilded lines of expression once again

    Leave a comment:


  • Johntee
    replied
    GDP

    No longer tigers
    burning bright,
    Now all nature's
    Being set alight.
    It's hell on earth
    Still there can be
    No end to Growth.
    Civilization
    rests
    On Productivity

    Leave a comment:


  • Tony Grannell
    commented on 's reply
    Hello Parkinsonspoet,
    Great to hear from you again and thank you very much.
    Kind regards,
    Tony.

  • Parkinsonspoet
    replied
    As usual Tony a well writen poem that paints a picture. A point well made

    Leave a comment:


  • Tony Grannell
    started a topic Drought

    Drought

    Abandoned hopes to die and rot;
    to each their own deserted plot.
    Where pastures once to caking mud
    and souls who cursed the promised flood.

    Of burning huts and blistered skin,
    machetes, screams and godless din.
    Of men gone mad out of the dust,
    out of the cracks in wrinkled crust.

    Old vultures squabbling over bones
    from charcoaled trees and scorching stones.
    Their nights as cold as are the dead,
    the light of day hung, dried and bled.

    In life as those who in their graves,
    like mounds of flesh in hollow caves.
    Leave flies to reap the salt from tears
    ’till brined in grief and hard borne fears.

    And all the while the flaming sun;
    who’d gasp for death, thy kingdom come.
    Who’d pray, who’d beg, who’d hope for rain
    and all who would, they would in vain.
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