Biography of Heath Gunn
Born in Sheffield England in 1971, now living in Portsmouth.
I have been writing for as long as I can remember.
Since starting to keep my scribblings a few years ago I have written over 100 poems...so far, a selection of which I will load onto Poemhunter.
I have a completed crime thriller novel and 3 childrens stories which I am trying to get an agent or publisher for at the moment, I have started 4 more novels, each at different stages of planning or writing.
I try to write poems as and when they appear/pop into my head, even if it's only a couple of lines, that later develop into full blown poems.
I hope you enjoy the poems I've put on Poemhunter so far.
I've recently had 3 of my poems including 'The Fate of Man' showcased by American Poet Yolanda Jackson on her website, as a guest poet on her 3 of her True-Dat-Thursday;
which Yolanda posts on the 3rd Thursday every month.
Heath Gunn Poems
Winds Of My Mind
The cool and chilling winter winds, that whistle round my mind. Are oh so unforgiving, as my thoughts start to unwind.
The Fate Of Man
A child is born into this world, it's body bloodied, features knurled. Unclothed, yet warm, he's wrapped in love, from parents praying to God above.
39 Are Dead
4 bombs explode, inside Iraq, 39 are dead. Planted by extremists, is what the papers said.
A Baby Born To A Teenage Mum
A baby born to a teenage mum, a fashion accesory like a ring on her thumb. She thinks it's cool, and he's so sweet. with his tiny pink fingers, and his perfect little feet.
A Parents Fear
A parents fear, their worst nightmare. Is sitting alone, in a Police-room chair. Being interviewed by P.C Plod, About the child you've fed and shod.
Classic poets have much in common, except they're often dead. Like the amazing lyrical, spontaneous ways, thoughts dance around their heads.
Struggle To Be Read
Oh how we try to figure out, this struggle to be read. As we sit and scribble down, the thoughts from out' our heads.
Michael Jackson's Gone
All hark the bell that tolls so clear, the King of pop is dead. His image flashed on evening news, a heart-attack they said.
A War On Tv
He's off to fight a war, we'll see it on T.V. He's off to fight a war, him, not you or me.
A Hundred Thousand Miles To Walk
A flightless bird, a prisoner, a runner with no shoes. A hundred thousand miles to walk, on feet all burned and bruised.
A Million Lives In Parallel
Wide awake yet unaware, Of all that lies around, Stumble fall and tumble, And lie there on the ground.
Childhood -Vs- Dark Adulthood
Children play in mid-day sun, Thugs conspire to trade drugs and guns. Innocence borne from lack of knowing, Evil spreads and keeps on growing.
Venting Through My Pen
I'm here again and pondering, venting through my pen. Inside my head is jumbled, and my world is crashing in.
The Wall Has No Voice
Alone i sit, isolated, staring at the wall. Yet i'm sure that if it had a voice it would tell me all.
Slipping On A-Murkily
I’m slipping, slowly slipping,
Towards a life filled with despair.
Where a thousand memories gather round,
And I don’t even care.
Neither an image nor a miracle,
Of times which now have passed.
Can break through the cloud gathering,
On this misty looking glass.