Think about the innocent and Lockerbie

Bathing like Elizabeth Bathory
Or washing your hands like Lady MacBeth
Recall the innocents in Lockerbie
You may as well have taken Crystal-meth

Still be damaging to those around you
Apart from the members in the party
Because you are all the same shade of blue
Smoking contemporary politics how arty

You didn’t have a clue
It was an accident
Too late the party flew
And caused another dent

Intention was the same
But more were meant to-do
And not to be left lame
With the party you slew

Until all viscera were in two
Still you’re all the same damn shade of blue
And you still caused damn burning murder
As the party intended to do

© Jenna Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Narrative Poetry

The Tale of Constace
© Jenna Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

The Tale of Constance
An Extract


In the tower
A Prince resides
The one that will save her
To rectify his sins.
The voracious dragon will be defeated
Its fire crumbling at his shield
Then the princess will see stars
That break the bars of time.
… Restricted
… Silenced
Flashes of hope dash through her veins and thoughts
She does not know that her logic has
led and
Their bourbon eyes interlock
At first sight.


© Jenna Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.


Guilt that was Born in the Wasteland of Trust

Guilt that was born in the Wasteland of Trust

Within a desolate wasteland
Trust drowns  in quick sand
Trees stand, leafless lifeless twisted
But, there is one white rose, wilted
On this monotonous grey plane
Where colour has fallen down a drain,
This place it is dark, lonely and cold
For any wandering soul,
And harsh winds stream across the plain
As blood falls from the sky like rain
Though this place feels right to peer,
Another presence is drawing near
On this wasteland where there’s no trust
Blood rain falls heavy and gets coated in dust
This old presence does not trust this rose
Her ideology is what and all she knows
A cry is screeched from her side from a black crow
The rose fears she’s its foe and fills up in woe
And the white rose becomes slightly tainted
A thousand questions poured which are hated
And the white rose pleads to self to emblanch
As lightning hits a tree and snaps a branch
And crushes the tainted rose,
At the roots a pool quickly grows
Of bloody tears, pools of self-hate
And leads to opening another metaphorical gate,
As a blizzard of guilt fights through wind and rain
One can only hope to remain sane
Now what’s left is a girl – chocking, bleeding swallowing anger,
All for guilt, that was born, within, the wasteland of trust.

© Jenna Leanne Grabey, 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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