Heath Gunn Poems

The cool and chilling winter winds,
that whistle round my mind.
Are oh so unforgiving,
as my thoughts start to unwind.
...

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.
...

4 bombs explode, inside Iraq,
39 are dead.
Planted by extremists,
is what the papers said.
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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.
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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.
...

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.
...

Oh how we try to figure out,
this struggle to be read.
As we sit and scribble down,
the thoughts from out' our heads.
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A flightless bird, a prisoner,
a runner with no shoes.
A hundred thousand miles to walk,
on feet all burned and bruised.
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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.
...