May 21, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

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Lianne Kamp







When our children die –

every vacant chair echoes their absence – each

empty bed fills the dark hours with nightmares

every room is hostile


When our children are slaughtered –

they exit through howling wounds in the earth

leaving land mines of pain to navigate in our path

every journey is treacherous


When our school children are gunned down –

walls crumble in bleeding hallways – every

excuse is a bullet to the heart of their silence

every breath is blasphemous






Lianne Kamp

I came to Boston many years ago to write poetry.  Although I never abandoned poetry altogether, life had different plans for me. I have rediscovered the importance of writing and over the last year have been published in a number of Prolific Press journals. Mainly, I write poetry to make my world more panoramic by watching it more closely.

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