-
Rate this poem
User Review
( votes)The Piccolo Man
written by: Martina Lynch
The piccolo echoed down the street
in a city where only the tired sleep
passers by morning rush fast paced
reaching destinations post haste...late
cannot consume enough coffee, XL cup
never mind the sleeping rough, homeless
man sits, head drooped against a wall
nobody paying attention at all, drunk
they think, maybe so... but he is very cold
ya know, he never asked for anything
just played his flute to the tiresome fruit
of a working day that doesn't pay, relentless
and nobody knows he won't play anymore
they don'y care, he was just as before
asleep in a world that pays no attention
to the man and his piccolo tunes
just thought I'd mention.
Martina Lynch
Writer of poetry for a few years now, often submitting work online through poetry sites, competitions etc. Lived and worked in the Uk all my life. Left school at sixteen began work on the very day I left. I am a Black Country maiden, heart and soul. Born in 1968 aged 49 years my life began a rollercoaster from the age of four. I am a wanderlust and my work reflects who I am. The poetry I write comes from my heart the very roots of me. I am inspired by so many poets, so many favourites, and not all well known if known at all.
Latest posts by Martina Lynch (see all)
- The Piccolo Man - January 16, 2018
- Where I learned To Dance - December 9, 2017
