Tower of Souls – Mr Robert Green

This is a series of five poems. Read more about Mr. Robert Green Poetry at and here at Paintedwords1.wordpress.comTower of Souls

Tower of Souls

How tall is this tower
Filled to the brim
More and more each hour
Every new soul, Each grim.

I stand outside looking in
How soon before I’m inside looking out
No soul as I, full of sin
Wants to shout.

Does this tower expand
To allow others in
No room to stand
Like waste into a bin

Dark clouds overhead
Thunder rolls, lightening strikes
No rest, or sweet dreams in bed
Toss and turn, the devil likes.

‘Roll up, roll up’ the devil cries
‘Something for everyone’
He shouts with no shame for his lies
So many souls, but you’r still alone.

Driving rain and tempest
Do you shelter at the tower?
When your mind is weakest
He calls every hour.


A Green Willow Grows In My Heart – by Mr. Altair Laahad

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the  willow

I feel its roots stretching deep
and stirring old memories
calling my eyes of a boy to sleep
on the callous skin of manhood
forged by hard rough rocks

A green willow sleeps in my heart and weeps
the tough rocks squeeze the roots,
as I stretch and tend a crystal glass to the tears of the spirit
wherefrom distillation of the story does the best
and the droplets wriggle through,
they gather in the bottom of my heart;

fermentation over,
time for delivery
from the bottom of my heart to the tip of the tongue
there the tear of the willow leaves the somber part
of my little heart and drowns my endless universe

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A Chemical Marriage – By Mr. Stan Petrovich


We were once the torrid lovers,
Don’t get me wrong:
Slobbering kissses the afternoon long;
And nightly penetrating like shovels.

But soon enough, too soo enough,
Entered the scourge of alcohol between her lips,
Floating fat and curling cheese around her once-shapely hips.
My reaction was astoundment, and my heart pounded rough.

Tonight with alprazolam coursing through her passed-out form,
I sit & curse my fate;
For I will not don the weight
Of those stupifying pills as any norm.

You see, with me, it all terminated at Kent State, back in ’72 or ’73;
When we lost our longsuffering position;
The rifles came and shot dead several along with me;
Clearly we had lost our situation.

But my wife’s 700 million braindead cells.
All alcohol related,
Turned her into a fuming gel,
That only remains abated.

These newfangled drugs I think do even worse harms;
These newfangled pharmaceuticals boom onto her vacated brain;
Where there was a glimmer of hope has faded again.
I want to send out signal, issue alarms.

But no one believes that such a normal-seeming spouse
Can be engaged in such a zone of harpy-dropping terror;
That any marriage can have its strife,
Without this unseen force bottled on the floor.

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Don’t Fear The Reaper!!!! By Mr. Robert Green

The Reaper!

Don’t fear the Reaper
Another sleep only deeper
Your toil is done
No more midday sun.

Laid to rest
With the worst and the best
Some may say good riddance
I shrug with indifference.

My headstone epitaph written
Of times when I was love smitten
Once youthful as a kitten
Now just dust and hidden.

Don’t fear the Reaper
He’s just your last mortality taker
I still toss and I turn
Maybe it would have been better to burn.

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Bay of Dismay – By Midnights Voices

~Mr. Thomas Robinson ~ Buzios Bay

Always was always so certain in it’s way.
Never could you change it’s mind or
How it would have it’s say.

Her eyes are made up of sunsets.
But she holds the moon at bay.
Her eyes are watered
But the sea is receding now today
Her eyes are shadows, shadows
She questions everything I say.

The gemini was born three days past the bull.
In a land full of richness and
Illusions are cut and pressed down at the mill.

Her hands are empty and the wind begins to blow.
Her hands are fingered but I see no rings aglow.
Her hands are waving but I am so far and so…
Her hands have faltered over a heart so full of grief.
Her hands are longing for touching and some pure belief.
Her hands are lingering, lingering…

The ships they come into the safety of the harbor.
Then dock and they rope onto the wharf.
The gangplank unloads it’s cargo of remorse.

But this widow stands not among the chorus.
She twists and turns in a blacklaced chiffon party dress.
And the bayed back moon is peeping through the clouds
Humming a song of freedom before
The clouds get it going and move it on along.
Oh…..oh her eyes are sunsets, sunsets!


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