Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Steve Page Jul 2019
The Statesman and the Showman
were nervous, but unbowed.
The Statesman spoke of pride
while the Showman played the crowd.

The Statesman and the Showman:
'a can-do revolution,'
but the Statesman was a feint,
the Showman a distraction.

The Statesman and the Showman
both soon ran out of steam.
The Statesman was a fraud,
the Showman a bad dream.
23 July 2019.  And then there was Boris.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
†           †           †    

A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.

A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.

A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.

A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)

A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.

A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.

A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.

A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
What's wrong? Too hard to LIKE me ?
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha  

         †           †           †
Paul Butters Mar 2017
They’ll be rockin’ in Heaven
Down St. Peter’s Gate Way.
Chuck Berry passed over,
But he still can play.

True King of Rock,
He’ll live for evermore.
And he’ll keep duck walking,
Along that golden shore.

His guitar keeps twanging,
Wah wah tlang tang tang.
Ya want a Showman?
Chuck’s still yer man.

He died at ninety.
It was very sad.
But now he’s up there,
I’m sure that God is glad.

He’ll love that Rock N Roll Music,
Chuck’s sense of humour too.
A touch of Devil also,
When he sings the blues.

So all you Saints and Angels,
You better move and hurry,
For they all want to dance with
That amazing Chuck Berry.

Paul Butters
For my greatest musical Hero. With echoes of "Sweet Little Sixteen"......
For me, the naked and the ****
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.

Lovers without reproach will gaze
On bodies naked and ablaze;
The Hippocratic eye will see
In nakedness, anatomy;
And naked shines the Goddess when
She mounts her lion among men.

The **** are bold, the **** are sly
To hold each treasonable eye.
While draping by a showman's trick
Their dishabille in rhetoric,
They grin a mock-religious grin
Of scorn at those of naked skin.

The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the **** may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometime ****!
Lost for words Dec 2009
At a Parisean restaurant
In a quarter undisclosed
Unaware of everything
The diners sat exposed

As Clara and the Prince sat down
And prepared to eat their meal
Backstage the musician equipped himself
The theft who had yet to steal

As menus and music case opened
The scene was set for all
And as Rigo Jancsi took the stage
The crowd fell quiet, enthralled

The gyspy was a showman
His weapon a violin
A tune danced out across the room
As the strings began to sing

Playing notes of tales untold
His melody charmed her soul
The music pulled her heart to his
Over her husband's buttered roll

Captivated, entranced and mesmerised
Seduced by another life
And when the gypsy left that night
He took the Prince's wife

They ran away and married
A scandalous affair
Society was most surprised
But our story does not end there...

Hungarian tales tell of the man
Whose music stole a heart
Remembered in a chocolate cake
And puppets, songs and art

One hundred long years later
The guitar boy from the band
Strummed his notes and stole the girl
Heartstrings were played by hand

Two stories a century apart
What makes these stories the same?
Because the boy's band of musicians
Used the Hungarian gypsy's name
Tamara Fraser Oct 2016
Tensions high,
like broken kite strings,
reaching further away,
escaping the empty earth
in your arms.

Creeping chatter,
pouring inky letters,
in runny messes
all over my hands,
feeling bruised by you;
the sting, the slap
as leaking words
drip drip drip
from your mouth,
the broken tap.

I’m tired.
I’m so tired of hearing
soft
whispered yearnings
scratching the back of your throat.
Desperation, loneliness?
You beg with the croon in your tone,
you play along like the gentle little
sweetling,
a songful, humming love,
all warm in cupped hands.

In all this time,
this achingly long time
I’ve played as your neat little trick;
the showman’s trusty pet,
small dove flying
as soon and only when you release me.
String caught up around my waist,
I’ll never fly too far.

As I walked away,
that night with the moon trailing my form,
and pooling in pillows cradled in my soft footsteps,
you watched my back
stretch lean and tall and
stand
away from you.
You looked back,
it was the moon shifting through my hair,
when I turned to notice
a head shake,
a blink in the empty settling air you left behind.

….Drip….drip….drip,
you leak all those notions I wished you
would one day say,
those heart-melting flatteries,
desirable admissions,
I’m the only one you want,
to keep you satisfied,
keep you going and touching and loving
and exploring and breaking,
until your other girl comes home.
You ask and plead and return,
lapping and licking in my arms,
wanting my form so bad again;
you cry for all the fun in the world,
but this time, it just can’t.

You’re just my broken tap.
You’d need to stop dripping ***** water one day.
You’d need to stop echoing around me at night,
cradling myself to keep my strength enough
to say no to what I wanted and got for so long.

But you’re just my delicate and lovely broken tap.
I’ll always love you somehow, and feel so dangerous,
intoxicating and breathtaking
as you made me so.
You showed me so.
But I can’t wait for you to cease on your own.
Pull me round with you, wait for you,
tossed like an empty drink because of you.

Maybe
I just need to let you
let me go.
Like I cried to let you go first.
Realeboga M Apr 2020
You’re the one the I need.
You’re the one that I wanted.
You’re the one I get hurt for
You’re the one that I lean on.

I sit outside contemplating if I’ll ever have the right words to fully orchestrate the greatest love song.
Pondering on the ideology behind each symphony and melody.
Trying to figure out if I can truly compensate for each octave. After all I’m no singer.

I stand before a very large crowd. All eyes on me. I hear each murmur from the background. It would seem they are all waiting on me.
Dressed and draped in black, my hands begin to shiver, sweat trickling down my forehead.
I don’t have the voice for this. How on earth do I put on the greatest show.

Deep breath, inhale, exhale. I tell myself. If it’s all for a love like no other.
Surely I can make this work. Somehow I can. Because if it’s for her. Then I need to become the greatest showman to date.

I want to say things like “I’ve never believed in fate and that every fibre in me believes there’s no destiny. That I always sought love to be superficial or more of a fantasy.”
However I’ve always been a sucker for romance.
And I always believed that love could enhance every bit of our surrounding. And in saying so. I am stating to you that you’re my comfort in ending. And I hope that having a knowledge of this is profound. Because at the end of the day, you’re the only love I need and have found.

I stare in awe at the crowd. At first lost for words. But to the thought of you, I’ve found inspiration. At the sight of you, my confidence sky rockets. I don’t know if you know but you’re my motivation. And for as long as I can imagine, all that I want and need is within you.

I’m a victim of love.
I have stood before Cupid and allowed for him to take a mugshot of me love drunk.
I’ve been in a position whereby I fought love and thought it was love.
But my reality always pulled me out of this dream. Dragged by gravity. I realised it was all idealised, conceptualised misunderstandings of what I thought was what my heart needed.
Because at the end of the day. The love I had given out was never reciprocated. It made me feel as if I was doomed.
As if I was to be consumed by the world and to be hastily chewed up and spit by the people that took my heart only to decide that it wasn’t good enough.

Feeling like you’re not good enough and being put in that situation is painful. I remember fully telling myself that I cannot be that again. I need love that is not only healthy but will help me grow and become better and be in a case of “Finally, I feel at home”

When you walked and came into my life. I never expected that.
I know I was wholly curious about you.
I know I wanted to know more, I wanted to know what makes you smile, what makes you laugh, what makes you happy, sad, confused, confident, what ticks you off, what angers you, what makes you. So you.
And how can I be apart of your life. How can I see that smile everyday and make you laugh and make you see the world the way I see it in your eyes.

And it’s weird. I know.
But when i heard your name for the first time.
It felt like my heart finally found its other half.
I love you.
Shawn  Oct 2011
circus
Shawn Oct 2011
i never pegged you for someone
swept up by razzle dazzle,
infatuated with muscle men,
acrobats, and stars.
your view on animal rights,
seemingly discarded,
for an elephant's tricks,
the lion tamer's whip,
the tent apparently blocking out
harsh judging light.

i viewed you as critical,
skeptical of spectacle,
squinting unsure,
behind those black wayfarers,
the image constructed in my mind,
supported by that vintage dress,
the style of your hair,
the music you listened to
on the car ride over,
how can you be satisfied
with this carnival fare?

frivolous displays favoured
over subtle gestures,
superficial appearances favoured
over chemistry,
hollow showman dialogue
echoing over loudspeakers
favoured over a conversation,

perhaps i'm a hypocrite,
your attributes simply skewed,
by my being swept up in the
razzle dazzle spectacle
of you.

(i'll be in the hall of mirrors)
phil roberts Jun 2016
She was our first grandchild
And naturally
We loved her dearly
And I adored her
As only grand-dads can
And she latched onto me

She used to come to us every Tuesday
At a time when kids are most interesting
She was fully conversational
(Didn't we all know it)
Her personality was emerging
And she was still young enough
To have her originality and imagination
My little gold mine of joy

And this is how it would go

"Grand-dad, you be the shop keeper
And I'll bring my dollies in for clothes."
So she would lay out her doll's outfits
And bring her dolls forward to buy clothes
She would haggle over the price (and win)
And pay me in cardboard coins

"Let's watch a video, Grand-dad!
Let's watch Barny!" (Again)
I hate that ****** purple dinosaur
And Katie thinks he's wonderful
That smarmy voice of his
"I love you and you love me,"
I bleeding don't you know
I wouldn't let him within a hundred miles
Of any kids of mine.

In the course of the day
I would be called upon
To play multiple parts in
Everything from The Three Bears
To Little Red Riding Hood
In which I memorably became
Big Bad Wolf and Grandma
And presumably ate myself

But the highlight of the day
Was the last thing before she went home
The weekly show
"Introduce me, Grand-dad!"
In my best showman's voice
"Ladies and gentlemen...!"
To my wife and dog
"...The moment you've been waiting for.
Fresh from her recent tour
Of our back garden.....
Miss Katie......."
"Katie Spice, Grand-dad."
"Miss Katie SPICE!"

Into some popular ditty of the day
Issuing from her at full volume
Then she would stop mid-line
While she did a little dance step
All greeted by thunderous applause
In her head it was Carnegie Hall
Rather than my wife, my dog and me
So, a happy end to a happy day
Then Katie went home
And I slipped into an exhausted coma

                                           By Phil Roberts
628

They called me to the Window, for
” ’Twas Sunset”—Some one said—
I only saw a Sapphire Farm—
And just a Single Herd—

Of Opal Cattle—feeding far
Upon so vain a Hill—
As even while I looked—dissolved—
Nor Cattle were—nor Soil—

But in their stead—a Sea—displayed—
And Ships—of such a size
As Crew of Mountains—could afford—
And Decks—to seat the skies—

This—too—the Showman rubbed away—
And when I looked again—
Nor Farm—nor Opal Herd—was there—
Nor Mediterranean—
Flipflop  Jun 2016
The Showman
Flipflop Jun 2016
"Oh how wonderful it is
                                     to wake up
                                      everyday
                                         and
                                           be
                                     someone
                                        else?"
ioan pearce Mar 2010
babbling bard's borrowed blabberpolished performers jibber jabberpinching published stolen cultureverse of a cuckoo, parrot, or vulture thespian thrush corally crowspilfered produce of past masters proseperfect posture, prancing croondotty damsels sigh and swoon shakespearian showman strutting stagesobtaining material from dead poets pagesstudious stealer's theatrical thirstrapturous robber, magpie of verse wisely walter mundane mittypoetical poacher prancing prettyempty shallow pretentious crookcrafty criminal compiling book robber of rhyme from archival shelfcopy-cat crooner can't do it himselfrouted teeth spout from mouth like a troutaudience wonder, what is he on  about any question's? the laurete quizzedyes said one,...do you know where the bog is? this is a true story, i was there. and the **** concerned is the editor of poetry wales magazine. who told me that i should study other peoples work for at least five years before i put pen to paper. i promptly answered, .... too late butty, i've already published 3 books, and sold the lot (only locally mind, but did'nt tell him that). he read other peoples poems that night, that were converted from english to welsh, and no one round here speaks or understands welsh.  
DT Brewer  Mar 2019
Patrick
DT Brewer Mar 2019
Come as you are
You are my bright, shining star
Am I really up to par?
Do you want to take this far?

He’s as cute as a button
Always dresses in blue cotton
Love how he is funny and sarcastic
Gets a kick out of my being dramatic
Voice like an angel, body like the devil
You really get me.  Want to take it to the next level?

He calms my panic
Makes my heart feel gigantic
He points me left or right
when I lose direction
He is my dreamy knight
and always showers me with affection

Sweet puppy dog eyes
An adorably perfect smile
You can easily melt me and hypnotize
While  sipping your chamomile
It was kind of love at first sight
Didn’t really know what was wrong and how to feel right
Until I met you and now I finally know what to do
You are my absolute dream come true

You are my best friend and lover
You make me feel like no other
You are certainly nobody’s pushover
That conflict with Ronnie should blow over
The truth is that you mean the world to me
You are the showman and the Cabaret’s Emcee
And for your next role as future husband to me
Oh how very happy we will be!
If Schitt’s Creek’s David’s longing gazes could talk.

— The End —