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On a front-row-center throne
The Would-be King relaxes.
             Besides him rests his Lady-Queen
             In tsunamis of green satin.

He’s enjoying all the accolades
In the Hallowed Halls of drama
Surrounding their appearance,
                         Where the monkey trio entertains
    And fashion marches to and fro
    Clutching heavy bits of tinsel.

All is merriment and joy
Until the Jester makes a jape
   That earns a queenly frown
   Which stirs the King to wipe his smile
And stalk onto the dais
         Where he
   the Jester on his cheek,
  And wearing traces of a smirk
Marches back down to his throne.

The Jester lofts a lame response
Into a sea of stunning silence
      Then the air turns shades of Royal blue
                              And American TVs go deaf
                                               For thirty-seven                                                 ­                                     seconds
While across the seas the
  Audience enjoys the
    Braying of a *******.

Believing he’s impervious
Or maybe he is Sampson
         The King pulls down the ancient walls
                   Of cherished film tradition
Reducing what was dignified
           To a rank back alley rumble
Then later makes a fake obeisance
Awash with phony tears and snot.

                   All hail the King of Hollywood
   They should take back his golden prize
        To penalize his hubris -
                And let him know rules still apply.
And cause some real tears in his eyes.
What do you say to such monumental arrogance?

(Why didn't this post day before yesterday when I first put it up?)
Word Hobo Mar 2022
Innumerable . . . stars are
countless joys so immeasurably far
laughter . . . shimmering silently
or lamenting twinkling tears

mysterious messengers fluoresce
what wonders are wrought . . . so wordless
in spiral formulae undiscovered
inscribed by ancient seers

a murmuring quiescence pulsates
to a childlike sorrowful  plea
eternity pauses to listen
to a prayer . . . from Gethsemane

wh gv Mar.16.2007
Word Hobo Dec 2018
Selah    babes Reborn
Inhumed    in His bed of straw
Golgotha’s manger

gv 12.26.18
Form: Senryu
Word Hobo Nov 2018
now they sleep      bloodless warriors
pandemonium stilled      agony slain tranquil
death sanctified in rigid cartesian rows
honored for their sacrifice and selfless valiance
laid to rest beneath mourning grasses

where was the higher honor due them      before war
are sacred vows      to be profaned      to be misemployed
do once verdurous lives lay cold and pulseless
as spatters of red petals      tearfully fall
families breathing wistful flowers
distilling rue      with lulling scents

all men      who enact lies
dishonoring crossed graves
greed calibrating scales of injustice
bodies tilted high by tonnages of gold
Aurelian kisses      vaulting wars riches

Do Not!
dishonor a warrior’s willingness to die
for bravados mouth is a soldier’s tomb
do not forsake truth and honor    our only faithful ally
ask ten-thousand whys      before one soldier dies
before the bugler's breath      sounds death's lamenting cries

Contemplate war’s fiery womb
hatred    born inextinguishable
good & evil     indistinguishable

Look, what stillborn bones lie locked in battle
this fleshless monster      we mis-named peace        


Matthew 6:13 . . . deliver us from “evil”
Evil as translated in 6:13 is "Poneros" A name also attributed to Satan
Which means:  "he is not content unless drawing others into the same destruction as himself"
(From Lexicon to the New Testament by Spiros Zodhiates, TH.D

the world
won’t have a rib intact.
And its soul will be pulled out."

A line from Vladimir Mayakovsky's 1917 poem , Call To Account

“They made a wasteland and called it peace” Publius Cornelius Tacitus
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