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Ar Bazian Feb 2016
The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt.2*

And so it goes...
The good mandelver, was given two,
caskets to measure his feelings to...
the undertaker sat, while the artist was gone...
pulled a flask of whiskey out.. and,
sang himself a song.

When he stood up,
to look 'pon the corpses
he found his flask missing...
he fussed and cursed, what's worse is;
that there stood a man, in such deathly groom,
he stood in the corner-centre, of the prepping the room...

There stood a man who'd sung along,
whose eyes indeed were really on...

"Off with the willows and off with the bloom,"
he said..
off with the cherry too, and off with the tune...
Come ol' Merry merry mate, come and sing along,
for when you bring the caskets make,
sure to sing a song.
One for the lock-it ring,
one for the key.
Another song to whistle to,
and a song to rid of me...
What's wrong you old drunken ****?
All pale and wet! O' gee...
the cat's gotten your tongue, I hope!
You dare not mess with me!"

A.r. Bazian
Feb 19th, 2016
Fictional "The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary" is a series poem written by A.r. Bazian.
Ar Bazian Jan 2016
The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt. 1*

The nights were longer, as though at bay...
It's time for the artist to make his way.

"It's a mighty profitable business,
isn't it Hugh?"

Said the mortician to his dog.

"These ones are old...
Almost as old as you"

As he worked up his corpse,
for its last and lonesome grog.

"Off to burial, this would see,
off with the other one,
whom ever was he...
Off with you too sir; old wasted chap...
Make for the wedding soon,
of woods and crap;
I shall expect a clean and smoothly slit,
to slip here this trap.. and finish it quick!
his final dance; adieu.. farewell..
Soon riddance will follow,
of you as well."

Yelled the mortician to the delving man,
To take over from here while still he can...

A.r. Bazian
Jan 26th, 2016
Fictional "The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary" is a series poem written by A.r. Bazian.
andrew juma Jan 2016
There were nights when the wind blew hard
The earth was a cold world
The godess of art was cruel

She'd **** all of earth's melodies up in her
It was empty and  quiet below
Echoes reverberated in the caves of the earth

Man was lonely
In a lonesome world
Looking up the stary sky
Left without a sound

Dreaming.
Every one was dreaming
Mountains and hills were sleeping
Life without music

man below
Listened to the bellowing of  emptiness
Every activity was boring

The earth was life without poetry
The world knew no music
The birds composed no tweets

Life without inspiration
Man lived in desparation
Man lacked a sound

There was a time
The wind felt for the  earth
And conspired with the moon
To steal some notes and stanzas from the Sun

To create a sound for lovers at night
And encourage despairing soldiers
So birds can praise their creator

But the sun was guarded by the cruel godess
The wind blew over the moon
And polished its surface

The moon shone the sun's art
The wind blew over the moon in delight
Taking the music with it

It blew among trees and whistled
The birds got the jingles
They looked up to the sky
And sang

The wind blew over the oceans
The waters composed melodious waves

The sleeping earth woke
The dreaming man sang
The power of art possesed him

Lovers found an afrodisiac
Worriors remembered a song of victory
Life returned to earth

The angry godess got jealous
She began to corrupt music with hatred
Breaking the heavenly laws

So she was thrown down
by the Mighty One
And lost her music.
Damian Murphy Jan 2016
I am extremely saddened by the death
Of David Bowie, whom I never met,
But who has been part of my life for years;
Who stood head and shoulders above his peers.

A man whose music to many did speak,
Always different, forever unique.
Who was true to his art right to the end;
Who rightly deserves the title Legend.

So farewell David, and though you have gone,
Know that you and your music will live on.
For your innovation, your genius
Have become very much a part of us.
We have lost a true genius, a Legend
Paul Butters Dec 2015
Skipper Kevin Sinfield
Rugby League man who’d never yield.
Inspiration to his team,
Leeds Rhinos: Living the Dream.

Paul Butters
Kevin came a creditable 2nd in 2015 BBC Sports Personality of the Year Awards. He was the first Rugby League player ever to be nominated, after captaining Leeds Rhinos to a glorious treble.
andrew juma Dec 2015
the sun burns red in the west
The  lovers meet in secret
Following their hearts
in the cropping darkness

It is big and brave
For the passionate lover
He would hand it to her love tonight
Hoping that she would cherish it

Even  when he will be away
She gives him hers
Tells him "be strong and intact
Return safe my love
I will be waiting for you"

The heart,
That little body part
habouring all issues
Makes all decisions

The heart,
it strengthens the soldier
in the battle front
Singing to him songs of courage
Reminding him of his sweet love at home

Love from the heart is true  and  passionate
Its different from lust
and  is bound to last

The battle is love
Even though the war is different
He kills for love
she is the only thing in mind

She  gets broken a few times
taunted  by sociopaths
Telling her  'they will never come back"
She has waited for times and times

But the heart stands all the tests
Most of the times

The heart that
lordship of mind and body
Guides everyody

Decisions of the heart
You can trust

He thinks with the mind for tact
but nomatter what
He follows  his heart;
even though he is bruised and hurt

The mind fills him with doubt
but the heart tells him  to fight
Reminds him of heroes
and sweet love-making
Turns him to a matador

the eyes give him sight
but the heart fills him with insight
Hugging him tight
it neutralises his fright
He marches right

Into enemy territory
She is barely making through
They think she should remarry
News of fallen soldiers  devastates her heart

Man's strength is from within the heart
Courage is not from spears
Not arrows and swords...
That small body part!

Emperors and conquerors
Lovers and soldiers listen
Fathers and Mothers
They listen to the heart

He creates  devastation
Wrecking the enemy camp
As his battalion joins in
His heart moulding him
Into a hero

That small body part
Endures all in patience
As she waits
Saying its never late

...a  time of jubilation
Victory cries are heard
Those back are few
But they removed the enemy
By conviction of their hearts

He is a legend
The man after everyone's hearts
She is joyous
As she runs into his embrace

The heart
That small body part
Endured it all

A soldier's heart...
Listen to the heart.It speaks in that small voice within.
Julie Grenness Nov 2015
It was only a legend, my dears,
A normal town, living in fear,
There were fat feral urban virgins here,
Hell bent on their pleasures, cheers!
"Down with boys' daks, get here!"
A whole town living in fear,
Was it all an urban myth, my dears?
Urban virgins strolling the streets,
Battleships waiting for boys to meet,
Immaculate conception, each miss,
Having divine parthogenesis,
Yes, real fat funster chicks,
It was all about *******,
For each little Horatio,
Or was it a fantasy of bliss,
From an  urban ****** miss?
Did urban virgins wander away?
Normal town, not a normal day,
A normal town, living in fear...
It was an urban legend, my dears.
Bit of an urban myth, harmless fun. Feedback welcome.
Stanley Wilkin Nov 2015
Intense and distant, the sun
Slid imperceptibly upward through the yellowing sky
As the ships powered across the water
Oars cutting into the waves.
Like a crumbling sentinel, on the cragged promontory
The temple observed the sea. Within
Sat Poseidon, golden trident in hand, his
Features frozen into gleaming marble. Around
Him, murmuring incantations, marched
His priests.
Time has dismantled it all, except
For the pillars that poke upward, jagged
Snapped-off fingers of stone clothed
In moist, inch-thick moss. The ships
Have long disappeared. The crews dead.
Beneath the waves the turbulent god
Waits, his muscular invisible arms
Shaking the ground, as he roars out
His discontent. Reduced to bedtime stories,
Beautiful Technicolor films, the old gods
Drift hopelessly through the memory
Desperately trying to be noticed again.
Madness Viarti Oct 2015
She stands the one that runs from reality,
From its open brutality,
She fell back to the delusions of legendary,
To the tales of gods, demons, and speaking weaponry.

To the others, this is all there is to find,
A mad woman, with half a mind.

To the man at her side, there was more to see,
Her eyes as clear as the raging sea.

You owe me the world, she would accuse,
Her words never once found a thoughtful muse,
Before they flew into the air,
Twisting and winding as a snare.
No one could recall, to this day,
What she had once forgotten to say.

You owe me the world, she would assure,
The question of her past, a tempting lure,
Never would it be told, she promised,
For it is beyond my fading knowledge.
No one could guess, to this day,
Her story untold, and she rather liked it this way.

You owe me the world, she would add,
Her hair oddly clad,
Twisted and wound with the braids of a child,
With every movement, the jewels woven within smiled.
No one imagined, to this day,
Why white decorated her young head, and this way, it would stay.

You owe me the world, she reminds,
Her thoughts the most figetting of minds,
Eyes ever watching,
Her guard ever plotting,
Hunting or fleeing, who was to know?
Even to him, such was never to be made a show.

The man, aware of his ignorance,
Stood his ground, and demanded the many answer’s appearance,
For I, he had claimed,
Have stood by you always, asked no questions, he proclaimed.
Answer me now, everything that you have hid,
Without pause or lid.

I am owed such things, he continued direly,
For I have loved you always and entirely.

If you have ever felt this love’s return,
Answer me now, or to you, my back will forever turn.

Turn from me, then, she had thrown,
I have never known you to wail and moan!
If by my side you have stood,
For answers, no one else could,
Then return to me never again,
You traitorous, wretched man!

After the man was good and gone,
The woman numbly whispered some old song,
Its lyrics worn and old,
Quiet upon a voice once so bold.

You owe me the world, she sang with a voice of fine,
Because, you stole mine.
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