Anthony Di'anno Poems
- Ode To A Blade Of Grass Oh! whispering blade, ever hath your ...
- Her I stand naked though I am fully dressed, Her bright ...
- It Haunts Me Still Many years have passed yet diminished not,...
- A Day At The Coast (Painted) A golden orb floats up from the ...
- One Simple Question. Where are your indignant and outraged ...
- People Come People come people go, every one, Trespassing...
- Absent Friend Teardrop beads curve along a cold wet cheek, ...
Anthony Di'anno was born in Bradford, West Yorkshire into a run down one up one down terraced house with an outside toilet, two impoverished parents, a shivering sister and a bucket already waiting. He lived and played there among bright multicultured cobblestones through the sixties.
Through the seventies he lived in a three bedroomed semi detached council house on an estate that backed onto woods and a working quarry. His parents were hard working and his sister had stopped shivering. By the end of that decade another sister and brother had been added to the mix. Not only did Anthony have a garden, streets, woods and a quarry to explore there were also girls, two paper rounds, a... more »
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Quotationsmore quotations »
''Humans are odd,Building in National Parks
some of us destroy nature, we kill all the flora and fauna then we cover it with tarmac and concrete so that we can live in the countryside.''
Humans are odd,Sunday walks
Some of us walk in the woods and fields cooing at the beauty of nature then go home to feast upon the sliced breasts and severed limbs of slaughtered animals.
Humans are odd,
we are curious tactile often lonely beings flowing from anxiety to contentment,
thanking strangers for pressing images of buttons labeled 'like'.
Ode To A Blade Of Grass
Oh! whispering blade, ever hath your kin,
Swung and danced over grabbled graves of mine,
Where nightingales are oft enticed to sing,
To those mown down in regimented line,
Who once as barefoot lovers trod you well,
Then swore allegiance to a sovereign lie,
To fall in foreign fields where poppies swell,
Coffers in answer to a bankers cry,
'Tis true the sons of man can ill afford,
The blood they spill upon your verdant sword,
Still you embrace them all both friend and foe,
Line the verges that mark their pathways home,
From mist strewn glens ...