hello all here at the dverse poetry pub again a wonderfull place of words and connection,

Babies lying dead,

In burned out apartments,

Mother’s hearts rupturing,

In empty streets,

Soldiers pillaging,

Innocent lives.


no war please.

Tyrannical dictators,

Demanding power,

Silencing opponents,

Voices with fear,

Belligerence and offensive,



Spreading Love and peace,  

Supporting our neighbours,

Encouraging lasting friendship,

Sharing our homes,

Teaching our children,

How-to live-in peace and harmony,

Coherence with each other, And our world,


© 03/03/2022 rog leach

Xmas table #hobgoblinpoet

I am the hobgoblin poet.

I was once a hobblede boy.

Hiding hiding under your xmas table.

Living off scraps dropped.

By messy eaters.

I was that awkward youth.

Hobbled by the must haves.

Hobbled by bullying knaves.

Hobbled by FOMO

Hobbled by family

This hobblede boy grew.

Grew on the scraps gleaned.

From the christmas table.

Forcing his very sinew to triumph

Over those who made dreams their master.

I grew into the Hobgoblin poet.

Only scavenging a feast of food once a year.

Under you xmas table.

Feeding on your social unease.

For the years remaining days.

This hobblede boy now grown.

Still dwells under your xmas table

Feeding the feuds of the Hu-mans.

For the thirteenth day of xmas.

The day of misrule still my favourite.

I am the hobgoblin poet.

Loving the fun of being.

The lord of misrule on twelve night

Causing havoc for the knaves

Leaving you Hu-mans ill on thirteenth night.

This hobblede boy must now sign of.

Leaving the rule of undertable.

To the next generation.

Of misfits and out casts.tO

Keeping the Hu-man knaves.

In their bigoted and opressive place.


The rioters and I. we go in different directions down the imperturbable street.

but we want the same things peace,calm and love .

The rioters and I ,we agree that the old ways are wrong and no longer fit. They want to smash, break and burn. Me a hater of violence does not want the old ways turned into martyrs but into lessons on how not to from history.

The rioters and I we agree that we are of one spiecies. We have diferent ways and diferent backgrounds. But one day we will find one calm, one love and one peace. where we can all live in peace as one down this imperturbable street.

The street will never be the same ,only better I hope! No more the rioters and I just love and peace.

when the old ways are no more, relegated into history.

written for the dverse prose prompt using

strawberry patch

tonight Frank is hosting at #dversepoetspub and he has asked us to write a haibun about memory Strawberry patch. The strawberry patch of my younger years held joy. Those little white flowers low to the ground as it warms up in May. A prelude to bowlfuls of juicy red fruit for topping breakfast cereal. For…

midnight shift

#tiki’sguild. 27th may 2023. Midnight at the, makers of boing, quiet rumble, of extrusion. The winding machines, Whisper to the night, Twang, twang, twang, As they drop, Into barrels. Rattle, rattle, rattle, Of the trollies, Moving materials, From extrusion, To Winder wrapping to Tight. Midnight shift,  at the leapfrog factory tedious, dull, monotonous. Midnight in…


hello all at #dversepoetspub. Here is my quadrille for Merrill’s mirror prompt. Mirrored! #quadrille, #reflections, #dversepoetspub.  Am I dreaming, Am I witnessing, Russet red sunset over, Autumn coloured trees,  Strikingly Reflected in, Unrippled water, Beautiful nature’s bounty. Mirrored. Mirrored, Beautiful nature’s bounty, Unrippled water, Strikingly reflected in, Autumn coloured trees, Russet red sunset over, Am…

CHAPTER 1. Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.



The politician’s catalogue of errors is such,

That a lie is not a lie if the fools you tell believe,

The police are told that murders are suicide,

Your nurses /doctors are the bad guys,

 Overworked/under paid and treated as fools,

Idiots to panda to your ego and line your purse,

Government agents watch from behind dark glass,

In red corduroy jackets and green velvet suits,

Treating soldiers and bakers like throw away plates,

These stupid jealous pricks are hating all those,

 Rewarded with love for their hard work,

To the phone shop god of sales masters of bullshit, To the believers of the hype who the F**K IS RIGHT.