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MARK RIORDAN Aug 2017
HER MAJESTY LOVES A TIBBLE
AND A LITTLE NIP OF GIN
SHE IS AT AN AGE NOW
WHEN THE PARTY WILL BEGIN



LEAVE HER MAJESTY ALONE
A LITTLE TIBBLE IS NOT BAD
FOR AT PARTIES AT THE PALACE
SHE PARTIES LIKE MAD



I HAVE JUST RECEIVED THE ILLUSTRATIONS FOR THE TRUMP CHRONICLES THEY ARE OUTSTANDING THIS BOOK WILL BE THE MOST INCREDIBLE PORTRAYAL OF PRESIDENT TRUMP ANY WHERE IN THE WORLD.  

RELEASE END OF AUGUST.
I AM THE POET TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO A LITTLE TIBBLE OF GIN.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2017
.
Statue comes to life
Suddenly wings breaking free
Great blue heron flies

.
V Anne Apr 2017
I am a part of a
tiny yet large
silence yet surfacing
community.

We feel the same pain.
We feel the same anger.

It bubbles and bursts
an overflow.
We ask
“What is wrong with us?”
“What did we do to make this happen?”

And the answer
is nothing.

We are brave souls
seeking a glimpse
of shinning light

In an electric storm.
a commotion so wild
it makes us shiver.
It makes us burn.

Conflicted.
Confused.
We are utterly conflicted
and utterly confused

But we are making noise.
Titans fighting angst
our own mythological *******.

But these monsters are real
and they are among us

So we cannot remain silent.
We must find our own unique
glowing
effervescent
voice.

And that voice will swell
and soar
and climb to new heights.

We are eagles.

Furiously screaming
across the sky.

And you should bow
in awe of our
majesty.
MARK RIORDAN Apr 2017
HER MAJESTY LOVES HER CHOCOLATE BISCUIT CAKE
SHE TAKES IT EVERY WHERE
PEOPLE LOVE TIM TAMS AND CHOCOLATE
WITH SWEETS YOU REALLY CARE


IT DOESN'T HURT TO HAVE A NIBBLE
ON THE SWEETS YOU LOVE THE MOST
HER MAJESTY LOVES HER CHOCOLATE BISCUIT CAKE
LET'S ALL JUST RAISE A TOAST
HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN LOVES HER SWEETS HER CHOCOLATE BISCUIT CAKE GOES EVERY WHERE WITH HER. WITH A BIT OF CREAM YUM YUM
MARK RIORDAN Mar 2017
THE COMMONWEALTH GAMES
THE QUEEN'S BATON RELAY
THE POETRY OF QUEENSLAND
IN BUCKINGHAM PALACE TODAY


MY BOOK IS IN THE PALACE
MY LETTER FROM THE QUEEN
PROMOTING OUR BEAUTIFUL STATE
LIKE NEVER EVER SEEN


I AM A BRISBANE POET
THE QUEEN HAS MY BOOK
THE BATON RELAY HAS STARTED
BY HOOK OR BY CROOK
THE POETRY OF QUEENSLAND HAS BEEN IN BUCKINGHAM PALACE SINCE MAY 2016. THE COMMONWEALTH GAMES GOLD COAST. THE QUEEN'S BATON RELAY HAS COMMENCED. THIS BOOK IS A BEAUTIFUL GIFT OF THE GAMES IN AUSTRALIA IN 2018.
MARK RIORDAN Mar 2017
THERE WAS A LITTLE BOY IN LONDON
WHO WAS VISITING THE QUEEN
A POSY HE WAS GIVING
BUT HIS TANTRUM WAS THE SCENE


AS A YOUNG CHILD
WHAT COULD YOU DO
WHEN THE QUEEN IS APPROACHING
AND WILL SAY HELLO TO YOU
A YOUNG BOY WAS GOING TO GIVE A POSY OF FLOWERS TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN BUT A TANTRUM FOLLOWED.
MARK RIORDAN Mar 2017
THE QUEENS BATON RELAY
STARTS FOR THE COMMONWEALTH GAMES
THE TORCH IS NEALY READY TO GO
THE MESSAGE WILL REMAIN THE SAME


ATHLETES HAVE COMPASSION AND SKILL
AND WILL COMPETE ON THE GOLD COAST
THEY ALL HAVE DEDICATION AND PASSION
BUT TEAM SPIRIT IS THE MOST


THE GAMES REPRESENT
THE BEST OF THE BEST
COMPETING WITH EACH OTHER
THERE IS NO OTHER CONTEST


THE TORCH NOW STARTS
SUCH AN INCREDIBLE JOURNEY
CROSSING OUR GREAT PLANET TO SEE
THE TORCH YOU MUST GET UP EARLY
COMMONWEALTH GAMES GOLD COAST 2018. I ALWAYS FEEL HONOURED WHEN COMPOSING A POEM ABOUT HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN.
MARK RIORDAN Feb 2017
I HAVE A CONNECTION TO
HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN
MY POEM FOR HER 90TH
IN HER REPLY SHE HAS SEEN

MY POETRY BOOK OF
QUEENSLAND OUR BEAUTIFUL STATE
IS GRACING THE HALLS
OF BUCKINGHAM PLACE


SO I DO BELIEVE I NOW
CAN DEDICATE THIS RHYME
TO A BEAUTIFUL LADY
WITHIN THIS MOMENT IN TIME
I HAVE A RESPONSE BACK FROM HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN ON MY POEM I DEDICATED TO HER ON HER 90TH BIRTHDAY.
DEW Nov 2016
Golden coin gleaming in hand.
All his hopes took refuge in that vestige of conjured worth.
The man with no name would buy his name this day...

The empire's burgeoning halls pressed in around him as he strode.
They would devour him in this moment if they had not done so already.
Yet, why the empire? There are more docile things to tame.
Everything is the same for the man with no name.

"People would apologize for stepping on me, but they knew not what to call me, so they went somnolently on their way."
I try to imagine these are the things he'd say,
instead these are the words of those I know,
those that I can hear, see, smell, touch... taste.
The man with no name's words are a waste.
He leaves no footprints wherever he may go.

The steps to the Hand of the Empire are steep.
Some will climb it, some will weep.
Yet, the man with no name will not turn back this day;
he takes a moment to fill and a moment to pray.

His memories are so vibrant, so full of clarity,
like crystals in the light, banishing insanity;
his tales will evoke the highest majesty,
entrance the gluttonous, deprave with vanity,
they'll bite the snake and poison its legacy,
they'll quietly rake the fields of the mind,
yet each soul is weary, cold and blind,
when he is gone, they pay no mind.

His steps are strong, hard, fast
throughout the night, will he last?
This is no simple, boring task,
the steps to the Hand do more than ask.
They take from you and more than due,
they make you fight,
they run through you.
When the night is cold and breezy,
you'll find the steps are dark and creepy...

Of course, the man with no name bears on.
What has he to fear, you can't hunt what you don't want,
for the hunt is a thrill, and trash is pleasureless.
The steps are perilous,
they hunger for blood,
his steps are thunderous,
nailing thud after thud.

Dawn peeks over the distant horizon,
and what a sight to see: the man is still rising.
In tandem the sky and he play their parts,
so does the Empire, putting bodies in carts,
for the night brings the dead, so many have tried,
to climb up the steps and in doing so, died.

The man with no name treads a feat all his own,
but see? A trembling hand. The ache of bone.
For the man with no name is tiring, tiring,
even in the face of his glory aspiring.

He would tend to the sick and defend the weak,
danger and challenge and evil he'd seek,
to vanquish the rotten
and save the damsel,
but he's always forgotten,
that he couldn't handle.

So this lead him to this fateful day,
to this fateful place.

Just look at the sweat cascading his face.
Look at his knees, how they groan and slow pace,
his legs seem to jostle and wobble out of place.
Where is his strong stride? It almost seems funny.
Many would do this sort of thing for money.
Yet, he does this for his own pride,
and that grim determination, from his face,
seems to slide.

He collapses and the jut of a step knocks his face,
for the steps are at his throat,
trying to crush his ebbing life.

I've known better men
to have fared far worse,
but this man looks on his life,
not as gift,
as curse.

Who is more deserving?
More than he?
Cowards! Be gone!
Pretenders, flee!

What's this?
He props himself up with ease,
the fire in his eyes would startle a lion.
The steps tremble with fury,
they quiver with disgust,
they lust for his end,
he must die, he must!

"No."
He speaks!
"Not today."
The gall!
Don't tempt these steps,
the Empire's nigh trekable wall!
"What I want more than anything,
is to be myself,
whoever I am,
so let me pass, you glorified shelf!"

How strange it would be, to be there that day,
for the steps let him pass, without delay.

He stood in the face of the Hand of the Empire.
Glistening in his palm, the token to buy his face:
his full life's earnings, polished, just in case.

He sighed, "All I've ever wanted is to be respected."
At the cusp of his one goal, the man defected.

One day, he told me this tale.
This he said, into my conscience: burned.
"If you fight death for a name,
you'll lose all you've earned."
It's a rare thing these days for me to feel puckered out after writing a poem, but this one had me panting... metaphorically... maybe a "little" bit literally, LOL.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this!
Let me know if/how much, you liked it :)

DEW
Zack Phillips Nov 2016
The Journey winds down the lonely Road
Flanked on the sides by Spirits
Recognizing the faces nearest
They stuff my backpack, add to my Load
In their countenance is where their fear is

Starting out, weak dumb and small
With no mind for allegory
See the winding Road before me
In this beginning, I have to crawl
In this humble beginning, I begin to see

Standing now on my own two feet
Toddling down the road
Now I'm in exploring mode
Hoping for someone nice to meet
Hoping for a special Someone nice to know

Getting stronger, day-by-day
Trying to conceive the end of it all
Hoping my missteps don't make me fall
Wondering what Price I'll pay
Lost deep in introspective thought; my mind's enthralled

Now I pause along my path
Knowing I'd have to find some meat
Seeking this one special treat
Sneak away to divert His wrath
I look eagerly for a baker to entreat

The glowing Angels guard the sacred Ground
Forcing me to cut short my break
Showing, not telling, my mind to stay
A breathless whisper without a sound
That breathless whisper said all they needed to say

Now strong and tall and unperturbed
I wonder what lies beneath
The Road spans o'er what's underneath
I let my mind wander, undisturbed
And wonder about the secret hidden heath

Wiser now but youthful still
Talk and research of subjects profound
None of which fail to confound
Waiting patiently, I walk with Time to ****
While words of thoughts buzz lazily around

No longer Young but I am not old
My appetite for destruction, curbed
My longing now for just a Word
The One that can be forever untold
But only Once does It need to be heard

I am old now and growing weary
I see now the end of the Road before me
Winding up to those Benevolent Three
As I draw closer, my eyes with old age, bleary
I heard them say 'I love you dearly'
And slipped into Their Grace.
Thank you for the inspiration Dr. Lewis!
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