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A beautiful lullaby

I was walking on a road , i saw a bird a bird who was finding someplace to hide his head in the stormy rain he was all alone looking for a shelter and a home A bird who don"t  know how to fly he is standing here , in a rainy night sky he saw a tree nearby asked that tree can i ? Tree replied in sweetest voice i am the shelter i am the home for millions who are new to this world world where birds like u always finding place in Que But here there is no Que u can rest your head till i am with you. the night passed by the bird took the shelter by the tree he knew this time will pass by the morning came with the new light though it was still raining outside there was no sign of sunshine the bird hear a beautiful voice oh it was a nightingale singing a beautiful lullaby the bird asked the tree is she one of us who got no place to hide ? the tree said we are all the same Just the same the bird went to the nightingale on the top of the tree he saw the world from different eyes rain fallin
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halfway house

What’s the good of rhyme or near rhyme when there’s emptiness.   I’ve tried to, hard, nail in a botched shack on a hill in my head, meaning. Net whatever specimens to fill – a bowl, an aquarium – with.   What can rhythm do to tell you that I’m falling into. I draw nice pictures of you with your hair pulled tight & your face plastered to the wall.   When you wet yourself my first instinct is to mop the floor. Is this idea right or wrong?   I’m turning in like I’m at the azimuth of understanding nothing. Which is wise, probably.         http://bit.ly/2LJ2pvX Poetry posted here was originally posted on New Zealand Poetry
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the hard yards

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  the hard yards to William ‘Pop’ Rumble  my grandfather on my mother"s side had the kind of look in his blue eye that put the wind up me, a sharpness that seemed to me, in my heedless and running years, said he saw to the bottom of me and what i was up to, and who knows, perhaps what i would and wouldn"t become. he"d done the hard, the rotten yards between trenches and from the merry-go- round of machine-gun fire at passchendale* carried his life back in one piece to drive his locomotives up and down the hard-won track our towns were stitched together with. his mates from old war days no doubt said he was strict, a sour bugger for on anzac day he"d walk in no dawn parade to let the chill of bugle call unhinge him, he"d enter no pub and no drop of beer would touch his lip that day lest in a moment"s foolishness, a careless bloody laugh, he might be seen to betray the catalogue of horrors he kept back in mind and nightmare, and even more, lest anyone think
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