Sad kings would have themselves
Be known as Bard, tho without music
They sing, song, clang along, bleeding
Ears in their sycophantic, bull kingdoms,
The horns, hardly trumpet in the barnyards,
For it is writ, because they have so inscribed,
All must now be audience, and used witness,
The spotted fawn, is all their sorrowed brilliance,
Yet, the tower raven mocks these kings crowing,
How they vainly display their sorry proclamations
On flea broken, loosed, rusted, disused abacus,
Their tabulations of worths non are mounted
In a mirror by their chambers and hands,
But all the knowledge of fallen Rome
Are simply pleasures to dream,
As their dim wordy dreams
Know praises so hollow,
As fools on a throne.
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
In mid airs, dimly,
The tawdry birds cluck,
Only flutter useless wings
For they are grounded,
Nor are they beautiful,
O how they feign singing,
Gutteral cluckings only fit
For predators to stalk,
Lame ugly birds prefer
The company of other
Lame, ugly, groundy birds,
With no things, ever, to sing,
Only to preen and beak
For scraps under trees,
Where winged songbirds
Lit by the flighty sun
Do truly sing.
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
There are jackasses near,
Who fain love yet disappear
When cool sun is a light.
Hello Poetry, mediocre
Is their way, do not play,
Let posers hang each other.
Weakly poets pretend to be
Relevant, yet, never amend
Spend days saying me, ME!
See the fiefdoms offered
Yet, held close to shames,
Let awful set each to flame,
In hollow, with an empty page,
So many useless words dredged,
Wounded egos pathetically end.
HATERS on HP !!
Less than poetasters:
Beryl Dov spew, ( aka 'the Weekly Poet ) the presser of 'like me on HP' buttons, and all the other myriad POSERS on HP, would they all simply READ something anything, but I AM ME !!!