When I was a little girl I wanted to be a princess, parade around my castle all day in pretty clothes and tiaras on my head.

When I was a teenager I wanted to be a mummy, my very own tiny baby that would sleep all night and be kitted out in only designer gear, we'd  have everything.

When I was becoming a adult I wanted the big white wedding, the fancy ring and husband who would stand by me through anything.

Now I'm a woman the wanting has left my head, life is not a fairy tale and designer clothes ha! Only if you're rich, beware of the husbands you choose two for they can turn out to be just pigs.

Now older and wiser still I really must say, the only thing you should be wanting is happiness and peace for each and everyone.

(SW)

I strap my blades on my legs
three guns I love, my 22, 33 and 45
are snug against my chest
next to my kevlar armour and carbon mask

I am kitted for this fight
death is on my murderous mind
my blades are lined to my refined stats
like I was trained to do, a long long time ago

They wanted me to be a killing machine
but they never gave me a off switch
did they think I could just turn it off
did they think, that I can't turn it off

I would be so angry
if I was not controlled
yet,if I go blitz I go blitz
for I am armed and kitted

They made me
they trained me
they programmed me
they destroyed me

I am just a kitted war machine
a ****** kitted cold killing machine


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

As we start this solemn slalom towards a day that ends engorged,
with stomachs bloated whilst we gloated and toasted a perfect day,
let us remember that December has more days than the 25th.

Mass consumerism has voided homemade, love made gifts.
Orange? In a stocking? That is shocking,
the kid asked for an X-box bundle.

Now, I'm not from the distant past, just the 1970's/80's
Where Christmas carols played alongside a Wham's 'last Christmas'
as we ate our immense repast and pulled a sad ******* or two.

Now, gifts are tiny (but show immense expense)
Most perplexing is this new time of year that Kris Kringle
Would undoubtedly mingle slamming a tequila or two!

Now, kitted out in new underwear
(Ironically cherubic rhymes with *****!)
it's time to offer salutations to the incoming year
with no backward glance or hindrance
We say "Happy New Year"

Topics Two!

Of milkshakes and muppets.
And tragedy puppets.

Of flowers and showers.
And wiled away hours.

Of words of cruel tongues.
Obscuring our sons.

Of beer and fear.
And crazy rein deer.

Of Christmas gifts.
And crazy rifts.

Usually start at Christmas time.
Christmas spirits or maybe wine.

Of kings and queens.
And stupid scenes.

In Shakespear to endear.
Of drama.

And armour.
The knight's kitted out.


Of nightmares and scares.
And one who cares.

But noticed never not!
Of fears and tears.

And dogs and cats.
Wearing floppy hats.

Of nature.
And bees

And maturities kisses.
We hope no-one misses our words.

Always read.
Occasionally heard!

We pen another scatty ditty.
Because we live in fantasy.
A world of Walter Mitty!

That's a poet 's point of view.
Penned on here.
Just for you!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Leaving the camp behind, we sped along the road, in a cloud of choking red dust, proceeding towards an area known as The South Australian Dessert. Barren, almost featureless country where the daytime heat was almost unbearable and night time temperatures were close to freezing.
During the journey, my thoughts drifted back to the time of my call up.
I was one of the last to be drafted into The Royal Air Force
My dad needed me desperately in the shop, he was working too hard. I resented the fact that a certain second rate comedian was excused because he claimed it would damage his career, what about my career, and my family? I was chosen-along with six hundred plus airmen, to be a part of Task Force Antler, of which you will hear later, In the mean time, we were waiting in transit in a camp in Glostershire, ROYAL AIR FORCE INNSWORTH.  There was nothing to do on camp really, except clean latrines that had been cleaned thoroughly already, I was bored, and my dad needed me. I soon discovered a gap in the system, which allowed me to go home every Wednesday afternoon, and return on Sunday evening. My dad was very pleased with my help, and it became a regular routine, until one Wednesday evening. I had just walked into the shop when the phone rang. It was my friend Harry who had been covering for me. "Bernard, get back to camp, we are being kitted out in the morning!  I was very tired, after spending the afternoon hitch hiking approximately one hundred miles, much of which I had covered on foot! I had a quick cup of tea, kissed my mum goodbye, and left holding a sandwich in one hand and my holdall in the other. I was going to need a miracle  to get me back on time, it was a notoriously bad route for hitch hiking!  more to come.

Sprawling, this planet's skin
Dotted on the view, clouds, never ending sky
Birds don't reach these limits, a land of pilots flying high
It's a massive wonder to God's and the like
The aeroplanes engine, a miracle in itself 
I don't think an all powerful being ever imagined us taking this crazy hike
Yet here we fly above any bird in the sky
Wondrous, even plain mad, what we can put our minds too
As we do have the power, the incredulous nerve to even question some of God's will
Bring us the minds, the ticking over of this might work and we will foot this bill
Flight is not just for the now dead dinosaurs of a million years ago
It's for the now, it's time in motion, adapt and overcome 
Just give us the those dice, hey presto, what next in this unforseen century's throw 
Other planets still await our touch
Lets draw up a plan, we'll talk and comprise, we could do it over lunch
As nothing is impossible when you put your mind to it
There will be time travel next
Once the Delorean is kitted out
Don't tell me that the odds are low as we conjure these numbers and wipe our brow
For we must move onto the future of even the past once this machine is ready to roll
We will meet the kings, the queens, and even ourselves then God I'm afraid will finish this perilous, unwanted travelling soul

JJB

last night i thought my hell was alive and very well
parked in a place that really really smelled
but as I sat there eatin pies and peas
I lokked over me shoulder and changed my very grief

soilders sitting ...having just a brew
no doubting about what they must do
all kitted out in sand style so hostile grounds to be
we pray and wish a safe and happy return

So next time i feel so hard done
so grief and derg inside
i,ll stare out to the sunlight and veiw the other side
be safe my friends be safe
as we stand by your side

To Our Commander-in-Chief
                       and Manque Leader of the Free World
                       And All His Old Men Golfing Buddies
                Scheduling Their Tee-Times Around Missile Launches

A dying nineteen-year-old can’t even scream
When half his face has been blown away
He can only gurgle, his remaining eye
Staring wildly in agony and fear

Your man-child plays soldier on guided hunts
Kitted out like Rambo, and KA-BLAMMING
A bighorn sheep the guide spotted for him
Taking he-man selfies while yelping “OOOOH-RAH!”

A dying nineteen-year-old can’t even scream
When half his face has been blown away

"I don't know how many times I have survived myself, without telling anyone else."

I lied awake in endless painful thoughts
my urge to cut
my urge to purge
my urge to run away from them and hide inside a world of darkness.

I lied awake in death-awakening questions
Why must i exist through the pain kitted inside my bones?
Why do i write?
Why do i write.

'Him?'
and yet no.
People like you and I fight a battle no one can ever fathom because it's a battle no one can see. And we don't let them.

I write for myself
I write to remind myself that i am a warrior.
that in this battle there were nights I use to lose. But some how still came out alive.
You fight yourself and beat yourself up for so long that eventually you become a master of surviving a war.

It is not you.
It is me.
I write for myself.

For,  against; for, against; for, against,
The tension in the air is thick with anxiety,
A date with destiny, set in palpable angst,
Many people with reasons as diverse as society;

To some it is time to pay back the man,
The very same one that did the same,
A decade back when things were much better,
That same oogle-eyed, bespectacled quiet gangster;

To others a means to let off steam,
In the direction of everything, anything,
Not awake, not even in a trance,
Just flowing with tide of vociferous war chanting,

And yet some others just belong one team,
Having a singular motive to cause disruption,
Believing in no other way to realise the dream,
Of a a group of people united by a decent nation;

In response, the government of the day,
Seem to have dropped their breaches to ankle,
Stumbling along with weird interventions without delay,
Ambling this way, that way, like a lost and drunken uncle;

Every where there are armed, cutely kitted security forces,
Many of whom were previously missing where the action is loudest,
You wonder whether these ones live a different reality?
Perhaps in an alternate universe where costs are cheapest?

It is barely twenty-four hours to march off,
The government side-eyeing a list of demands,
Drawn by a determined cross-section of delinquents,
It is all, now, or nothing, forever!

There are no records left; I asked them.

The probation officer arranged it, he was helping my brother. My trip may have been unofficially organised.

I was taken to meet the lady, I remember her name, her home clearly. Mum kitted me out in hand knitteds, summer and lace up shoes. I was shocked by the latter; I aways had straps.

I may have been 6 years old; there is no record.

We went on the bus , cook and I, to the small cottage hotel, Lelant by the sea. A bus ride from St. Ives, a short walk down the hill to the beach to play.

My host went shopping, introducing me to her friends, and worrying over my hair. The hairdresser suggested that cutting was not the answer and I was provided with a dark green ribbon, shiny, wide and expensive. I imagined the cost.

The food was unlike any I had known, just tomato soup, scones with cream that left my tastebuds traumatised. I liked the boiled eggs; I was used to them. Cook looked after me kindly and understood, told me to say. The gardener suggested that as I must pass through the kitchen garden to school, I may eat as much fruit as I liked. I did.

I liked the little school, made friends. The laceups were a great succes as I could walk on my toes, like a ballet dancer. The soles were thick. Friends were made and one girl lent me her woollen bathing costume to bathe in the estuary. It sagged when wet; my self esteem lowered.

Adding here that at that age who knew of self esteem? We just felt bad.

I was given the sweetest little bedroom in the roof, all dolls and dormers. They took away my comforter, and it seems then I walked in my sleep. Moved downstairs to the piano room where no stairs could harm me, I felt unsettled.

Yet the days moved nicely. There were little troubles, nothing to diminish the beauty of it all.

The day came when I was sent home, I guess it was agreed; there are no records. I had wanted to stay, and I still feel guily for that.

My family met me from the bus, laughed at my accent and threw the ribbon away.

Weeks later I found it ***** in the lane, and kept it, hid it.

Years later I went back. In the museum, met a man who recognised me. We were then in our fifties, and he said I looked the same.

I am not the same. There are no records.

I never was a ballet dancer.

sbm.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­      My Bourgeois Leanings

          One day, at a meeting of the Komsomol…he was accused
          of bourgeois leanings just because he happened to wear a tie.

                          -Yevtushenko, A Precocious Autobiography,
                                    recounting an anecdote by his father

I am the only man who wears a tie
With proper coat and trousers (inspection pass)
Properly kitted like a proper guy
To weddings, funerals, dinners, and Sunday Mass

I am the only man who does not wear
Sneakers or baseball caps, gas-station shades
Knee pants, tee shirts, jeans with a built-in tear
Or plastic jackets shaped like hand grenades

If we are facing civilization’s end -
One’s trousers touch one’s oxfords with a quarter-inch bend

As the light creeps through the soft, stained glass,
Marking the coming end of cindered days,
We roamed like Roman pilgrims,
Able to preach salvation only to a wooden audience
Of Turbo Peter Rabbit and company.

A leisurely loiter later led us to
The girls’ hostel,
Fully-kitted with a Telkom payphone.
Pick up, push buttons, pout lips.
Waves of rings stopped with an answer.
“Yes, operator. Reverse charge, please. To myself.”

“Hello?” pulsed the less than gingerly
Grown up greeting his shed self.
“Hello, you – me. You see, we are one,
Grafted together to the vile vine
Of man’s megalomaniac enslaving of mind and meaning.
You’re an adult now – be free, unlike me.
Remain ruled and you will pay a far greater price than this call.”
Drop down, dig deep, don’t discuss.

Wearing dishonor proudly
embracing ignorance and illiteracy lovingly
confirming dishonesty and criminality as vogue
teaching young minds to hate and resent successes and drive
eschewing injustices, racism, foul-play, chicanery and psychopathy
spreading disharmony and divisiveness in praise of sick vapid anarchy

Broken mercenaries of the broken society
disconnected and disengaged in swirls of languid aims
zombies bereft in screen lives and push buttons expenditures
fully cargo-ed empties sipping hot hedonistic escapism fully brewed
doyens of the blame-games and cultural Heads of Pass-the-buck clubs
contemporary modern Barbarians activists molding our brave New world

Waring on a bellyful of bacon, chips and eggs
adequately equipped  with gallons of ales, beers and lagers
kitted out at the pubs at the knees of the Pints Politicians in-experts
barrack-room lawyers at your service freshly from the Tuft Accountants
fully loaded blunderbuss and muskets ready and aimed dear masses
victory is ours for in solidarity we stand against the air and the Black Knight

have scrubbed this twice
knowing the words don’t
come easy this morning

knowing I too slip up
occasionally

slate slides
mud slips
rain falls

seems higher this time

water expands to where i see
the edge

she showed us how to make a drive
with less flood risk

it was kitted out lovely

we live in the country and have gravel
where water runs through nicely
then down the hill

you should have heard the stories told
me before we moved here

now

I have my own tales to tell