Who is Mark Burrell

Mark Burrell (b. 1957) is a British Artist, born and resident in Lowestoft, Suffolk, UK. He spent a year during his childhood in Libya. Returning to Lowestoft he studied art at Lowestoft College but considers himself self-taught. Portrait of the artist Mark Burrell 2014 Burrell has won numerous prizes for his art including winning the Lucy Morrison Memorial Prize. His work has also featured in books and in magazines, including illustrations for 'The Iron Bridge' by J...
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Mark Burrell Poems

  • " Open Your Eyes "
    Look! Open your eyes. In life you of to compromise, whether liberally or unintentionally another's hand is used to actualise.

    Chit chat, belittling, slandering and degrading may creases his heart, but in his mind he smiles for he knows that the block buildeth the house.
  • " Loved "
    We are loved.
    We want to be loved.
    We try to be loved.
  • " Enslaved "
    The lashes stained deep beneath his melanin, tears incubates, but pours without. Led by chains for he was manly built, intimidating appearance, on his face there weren't a grin.

    The ships came in minutes they were filled, off to the North with gracious wind, many die of hunger, some from lashes, thrown overboard big creatures feasted.
  • " Life "
    Never forget it only comes once as in the beginning.
    Accept it, cherish it, love, care and give glory for it.
    Let it be shone positively in every quantum.
    Be mentors, role modules for the next to follow. ...
  • " We "
    Sometimes we are faced with lives hurdles, it towers so high we never ever take a stride.

    Humbled by the challenges, our goals we compromise.
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Top 10 most used topics by Mark Burrell

I Love You 7 Love 7 Never 5 High 5 Heart 4 Hear 4 Comfort 4 Mind 4 Life 4 Sky 3

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Poem of the day

Carl Sandburg Poem
 by Carl Sandburg

TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe.
Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and his two daughters in Missouri and Texas don't want him around.
The boys and Uncle Joe crack walnuts with a hammer on the bottom of a flatiron while the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
Joe tells the Swede boys all about Chickamauga and Chattanooga, how the Union soldiers crept in rain somewhere a dark night and ran forward and killed many Rebels, took flags, held a hill, and won a victory told about in the histories in school.
Joe takes a piece of carpenter's chalk, draws lines on the floor and piles stove wood to show where six regiments were slaughtered climbing a slope.
'Here they went' and 'Here they went,' says Joe, and the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
The two Swede boys go downstairs with a big blur of guns, men, and hills in their heads. They eat herring and potatoes and tell the family war is a wonder and soldiers are a wonder.
One breaks out with a cry at supper: I wish we had a war now and I could be a soldier.

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