Hey Big Brother
Come dine with me
I want you to be a Survivor
On a poets reality show.
The poems won’t use
The 'F' Word
employ master chefs
or be made in Hell’s Kitchen.
These poems will be written by
poets who invent the muse.
Then given 60 minute make overs
Make us feel 10 years younger
And end up flying over Project Runaway.
Poetry written to ridicule the Jackass
Giving it a most extreme make over
No weakest link here .
We are better than The apprentice
My toupee left inside changing rooms
Man vs wild
Always dancing with the stars.
So hear me reality TV
Come join the amazing race
poetry is not scared
Fear factored to laugh at you
While everyone is mucking in
On the Treasure Island
Of a Poets Reality show

© Greg Brimblecombe


'Dancing with the Stars' leaderboard topped by Chelsea Kane
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Greg is currently residing in New Zealand. He has not escaped yet. He has been writing poetry for over 20 years and at present co ordinates a Poetry group on a beautiful bush clad Penisula.

(After conversations with William Blake, Lord George Byron & Samuel T Coleridge)

Dear Friends
From Azabikhan to Islamabad
Foot soldiers track north to take flight
Under cloudless skies, soon humid night.
Men in charge, stand back to back
Cowardly fear seen through eyes
Deceitful thought on tender light
Oh Nirvana! Power lost to deny.
Missiles rain down upon
Mankind on scud parched land
Where sometime terror brings incense
Forbidden now in the bleary sky
Warring faction destroy pleasant scenery.
Terror, Terror burning bright
Stalked freedom innocence, who is right?
Impossible hand or eyes doth see
Night vision frames two centuries of lies.
Once lived in history now past
Dust from distant ships survive
Burnt offering fire in enemy eyes.
Black hawk lands will a Judas aspire
Focus on truth somehow no ceasefire
So friend shadows cross pleasure dome
Life just a shell above Frozen waves.
There I see no truth, stolen treasure
Taken from walkways inside caves
Miracle now rare device
Under pleasure dome, they never saw twice.
From Islamabad to Azabikhan
Political Tyranny died for all to see
Echoed across land untracked by man
Afghans worship Allah, my friend
100 miles above the fertile ground
Listen Mr. President, hear the screams
Crumbling walls coveted, lost and found


Gregory Brimblecombe © 2011


Bin Laden's death brings up questions on interrogations

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Greg Brimblecombe currently resides in New Zealand. He has not escaped yet. He has been writing poetry for over 20 years and co-ordinates a Poetry group on a beautiful bush clad Peninsula.