A Book Review of Kindness Revolution by Vanessa Hill Millvele

A short book of 12 equally short poems

I may not be the most gifted and rhythmically inclined

Not saying they are Haiku, each of these poems are thought provoking, and dare I say, causes you to think. I know it’s odd that a book of poetry does that but Kindness Revolution actually succeeds.

Each little poem has it’s own thought and meaning.

They are very deep, and can recommend it to those who maybe are into poetry but is open to alternate views.

It’s gets a very solid 10 in my book, and best of all it’s free and can be found HERE

THE MENDER By Chris Smith

Angel with the broken wings,
You’d fallen into earthly things;
You faced the demons dancing ’round,
Mocking you with laughter’s sound.

You then felt hollow in your soul,
And let a darkness make you whole;
You had lost the Glory’s light,
And all was then eternal night.

God’s praises then you did not sing,
Your voice to heaven did not ring.
But now a hope within does rise,
And, again, you lift your eyes.

Free your heart once more, my friend,
And with care your wings I’ll mend;
Let His Peace pervade your soul,
and let His Light now make you whole.

Angel with the mended wings,
you’ve turned your back on earthly things;
now left alone I sit and cry,
and with my wounds I wait to die.

Valley of the Wolf by anon

A Dark Form Looms By
A Glinting Streak of Black
The Silence of the Night
By a Howl
The Light Crunching
Of Paw Steps in the Snow
He Climbs the Ridge
and Stands Proudly Over his Valley
The Gleam of the Moon
Exposing Clearly
The Ripples of Muscles Highly Used
Underneath his Fur
A Tree Stirs Below Him
He Flicks His Ears
The Wind Beginning to Blow
His Tail Wafting in the Breeze
He looks About
The Moon Lit Forest
Trees Become Still
He Lowers Himself
Against the Rock
His Muzzle On His Paws
Eyes Closing
All Is Quiet
In The Valley of the Wolf

I think my cats a brat by Travis Brown

I think my cats a brat
I hate that stupid cat.
Its name is cricket
And I think of which at least
It isn’t scat.

I think my cats a brat
And I have a problem with that.
Cause it meows and meows
And I wish that how I could shut up that darn cat.

I think my cats a brat,
And I think I’m cool with that.
And I wish that I could at least tell a lie
But I like my bratty cat.

Dedicated to cricket, who Is a really old cat of mine who has been around almost as long as I have.

A Wretch like Me by Kane-Blackthorn

The literal monsters chance our blood-lines,
We are doomed to be hunted and haunted by Hell-Hounds,
A young girl has a tragic heart failure,
A young man has a painful, cancer induced suicide,
I listen to the winds and I fear that these hounds,
These hounds are on my forest trail.

‘Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me.’

I’m a lyrical master – my words have lifted crowds,
My words are buried in that cross road ground,
Hellish fingers gripping that dark contract,
The leverage to steal my very soul,
I listen to the water and have a great fear –
That my blood and my blood’s blood are paying for it.

‘Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me.’

I hold no knowledge of why or who,
Why should my family take the pain I have induced,
The water is salted in secret lies and misunderstandings,
Cascading and suffocating those in a vicious vice,
A dark bestial spirit caught in a frenzy wants to –
it wants to tear my soul apart.

‘Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
that saved a wretch like me.’

I have dreamt of running, a cold misty morning – alone,
The shredded autumn leaves litter the slick pavement,
The downpour from the rain floods the gutters,
The water is stained red with blood and organs,
I can see a beating heart clogging a drain,
I can taste the iron in my mouth when I awaken,
The cold sweat pours down my neck, I wept.

‘That saved a wretch like me…’

I have dreamt of an old movie in the autumn woods,
It was shown on a white cotton sheet that hung there,
Strapped down by two massive thick cords of rope,
Black and white memories flicker rapidly through the show,
The coloured heart-felt moments make me feel sick,
A heaviness of a revolver is felt in my hand,
The cold steel snarling at me as I snap the trigger back;
I blew my brains out.

‘That saved a wretch like me…’

I am responsible for this movement against my kingdom,
Doomed and chained my execution date is set,
The blood is upon my hands and the crown I wear has fallen,
It’s unshakeable and trapping to know that I am fated to die,
I scream – “What is my crime? What is my crime?”

‘A wretch like me…’

To see more of Kane-Blackthorn works click here

Dear Soul, Yours Truthfully by Kane-Blackthorn

My Dear Soul I write to you with a heavy heart,
I have words that needs to be shared with you,
Written in these verses and stanzas written for you,
I asked for guidance by some high above power;
I find myself neglected and needing your advice.

How can I be a man without support or strength,
My enemies are willing to strike for my knees brutally,
They want to take me out and crush my very soul,
Willing me to become the gravel of the old dirt road,
I wonder what I have done? God, oh why? Why?

Your voice has never neglected me or guided me wrong!
Give me your wisdom and pull the strings for a while,
Get me out of this war-zone that threatens to consume me,
I have done whatever I needed to say but that doesn’t seem enough;
How long am I expected to smile with such a frown?

I know in you that it’s almost over now,
Friendship is so brittle that the storm carries away,
I can’t take the pain that they have caused me,
I suppose that your voice is quiet and broken,
Goodbye being the only thing left to bring.

I need your wisdom,
I need your advice,
Can you carry me on?

Love Truthfully,

To see more of Kane-Blackthorn works click here

My Nocturnal Visitor by Kane Blackthorn

A Dark scorn ripples down the translucent meadow,
Rolling up and over itself again and again,
Senseless blathering buffoons watch on,
Mocking me, always do they mock my judgement,
Whilst eating crumpets or drinking cups of tea,
They exist to be more like parasites then useful opinion.

I often ponder the relationship between greatness and average,
My thoughts can shift and morph like an insane man’s dream,
My dreams come in the form of Dumas an excitable chap,
He brought me Justice and Revenge, True love and destiny;
I become an automaton that scans bar-codes of chocolate,
To the rhythm of boredom that makes me so ashamed.

A shadow spreads down me with a thieving cry,
It’s blacken hands uncaring and cold freezing me up,
it leaves a taste of tar and nicotine though I never smoked,
The raw after taste feels like it’s discouraging me,
Lining me up that blood splatter wall to finish me in a blow,
Pooling and pooling of blood on the floor – cats used to clean me up.

Oh! How my dark passenger rides me so,
it’s harsh black cane whipping at my flanks,
The desire to curl up on myself is there always,
Lingering in the backgrounds laughing diabolically,
Till that swishing slash from my rider beckons me;
I feel like cattle just splurging my dignity for others benefits.

Blacken my heart and close my eyes,
Just draw that blade and end me now,
I can hear no song about dreaming,
Take me now for I have no pressing engagement,
Come nocturnal visitor take me now.
I’m ready to die.

To see more of Kane Blackthorns work on Deviant Art

Poem by Kane Blackthron: Then and Again it Comes

Like old hooves of shire horses,
That echo through the night-time,
Rapid and powerfully you break the quiet,
On your tale of important,
Fast like the Wind you come;
And in your shadow your love is less,
A more and distant coldness for me.

Through the old woods that hold mystery,
Chased done by pale riders,
Creatures that are not like men,
Their shadow bodies that once were whole – are not,
Casted away through the centuries;
Empty shells but with malicious contempt,
We are not so uncommon those pale riders,
Neglect has become us and vengeance is ours to take.

Hollow trees that whisper tales to me,
As the November breeze takes over me,
Like Fairies and Spirits of the Woods,
You guild me onwards to capture you,
There is no evidence of my existence;
In the waking of the dawn – I am gone,
Undone from the stories, forgotten.

My god from the bitter frost lands,
He who guides my blade in the darkness,
But that lights my lantern when I am lost,
Brings me back to what I use to call home;
his reminder is wise and knowing,
For secretly my desire to to return here.

For when I am done I wish to rest,
To be placed to sleep in the tomb of my fathers,
My ancestors that might seem lost in time rest here,
They welcome my pale body with glee and excitement,
Words are whispered to me to tell my tale;
They wish to know my store as it was.

Once upon a time…

More works of Kane Blackthorn

Poem by Kane Blackthorn – The Sonnet of Desire

The Sonnet of Desire
Written by Kane Blackthorn

We call upon the moments,
Those silent wishing moments,
That hold within our heads,
and that hold within our souls;
these seconds that tick by are ours.

Like storm clouds over head,
I feel you coming for me,
Like a tornado on the path of destruction,
Clearing through my life;
Taking from me what is mine.

You believe I am yours,
You believe that you own me,
You believe that you can take me,
I believe you are wrong;
But at the same time – right.

I hope that these desires,
This need that you have,
Is just that – a need,
A silently lethal need;
Stabbing me slowly in my sleep.

More poems by Kane Blackthorn

Poem by Kane Blackthorn – The Sonnet of the Autumn Court

The Sonnet of the Autumn Court by Kane-Blackthorn

In the dawn we come after a long wait,

Our bones stiff and sore from waiting,

As summers last mists cover the ground,

Its heat haze slowly fade we march to war,

Our war drums beat a rhythm;


We step in time our kin in arms.

As September fades and comes to past,

We remember our brothers as they step down,

Their long march back to their halls of mead and wine,

We watch their slumber come as we step towards the hall,

Mar a dtosaíonn na duilleoga ag titim muid múscail.

We fear not for ourselves because this is our time,

No mortal man, or Immortal women shall strike us down,

Our leaves are golden, our leaves are blood red,

You can see our warning as we come to our hall,

Our banners warning that something wicked this way comes,

Is é ár armúr cnámh, is iad ár claimhte amach fola,

ní mór dúinn troid a mheabhrú i gcónaí cogaidh,

ach an chuid is mó de seo go léir go bhfuil ár gcuid ama sa Chathaoir.

Our breath is a venomous poison,

Sickish and vile enough to destroy a man,

But yet we use it to help the trees,

To shed the memories of the year and die,

A sleep that has by far been neglected,

But well earned after the passing of the year,

Táimid fuaim na drumaí chogaidh ag luas contúirteacha,

mall cosúil leis an mórshiúl a dhéanann bháis,
ach go tapa agus go mear dhéanaimid stailc.

Codladh a thagann chun linn ar fad,

crawling trí na duilleoga marbha mar Dragon,

tá ár lasracha na duilleoga agus an salachar,
an Maple go bhfuil seeps as an adhmad ár gcuimhne;

an rud amháin chun fanacht.

As the leaves begin to fall we wake up.

Our armour is bone, our swords are out blood,

we fight to be remembered in times of war but most of all this is our time in the Chair.

We sound the war drums at a dangerous pace,

slow like the march that death makes,

but fast and rapid do we strike.
Sleep comes to us all,

crawling through the dead leaves like a dragon,

our flames are the leaves and the dirt, the maple that seeps from the wood is our memory – the only thing to remain.
(Translation of the Irish words, in descending order.)