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Joanna May 16
Monarchs only live a day, yet the joy and the beauty given is left to stay.

Donkeys kick and make a lot of noise, reminding me of the need for poise. 

Snakes slither to make their mark and yet when confronted, they have a bite that is sharp.

Lions roar and roam about, while little lambs seek to take a different route.

Restless winds take down the one with no root; while at the same time a tornado can destroy hidden fruit.

Seaweed and ocean waves can create stress and a lot of fear. While sunsets and sunrises draw us to stop, and draw near.
I love nature!
if he were not
the president of a superpower
     that claims to be the beacon of democracy
we all could laugh more easily
     and openly

about the way he lies with almost every utterance
uses foul language, insults & invective
openly shares his racist views
lowers the level of accepted public speech
     like no U.S. president before
snuggles up to monarchs and dictators
and does not understand
     they play him for a fool

antiquated ideas of trickle-down economy
add nothing to his silly promises
of making his country great again
     (no real need, has never been small)

after two years in office it is clear
his retrograde policy
leads what once used to be
a democratic nation of great promise
    quite independent will
    and vital multicultural diversity
into a world of yesterday
    not to a better future

all it does is make him
     and the whole nation
the **** of wary global laughter
the kind usually given to the joker
in superman movies
I promise not to write about (U.S.) politics for at least a month ...8-(
Tatiana Dec 2018
Two monarchs cross paths
dancing around eachother.
With words so airy,
one should know to be wary
of what will be said next.

"How does your son fair?"
"Fairs as well as yours I presume."
"Yours always had a knack for flair."
"Yours always could wow a room."

Disguised insults spoken.
Each compliment flapped away with wings
that carry the monarch to their next test.
Where they'll see which flowers they like best.
To gather in support of their queens.

"You know what would be tragic?"
"Why do you continue to speak?"
"If a son were to fall to magic,
before his heart could take a beat."

The two monarchs parted ways.
Promises rolling off their tongues
as sweet as the nectar they drank.
But were designed to attack the other's rank.
Their success depends on the other's defeat.

Conversation stalls as the monarchs fly home.
On wings decorated so finely.
Each of their thoughts seem to turn towards their sons
Just caterpillars before their transformations.
Weaving their chrysalis with determination.

Though they're far apart
the monarchs speak the same words

"I fear for you, my son, in this great world,
Our reign can never last for long.
But I wish for you to have your chance
To encapture the world in a trance
With a grace bestowed upon your wings
I wish for you to make others sing.
For I've seen the tragedy of the other king
Just before transformation
I saw a caterpillar die in its chrysalis."

"I saw a caterpillar die in its chrysalis,"

"I saw a caterpillar die..."

"My son, that has made all the difference."
© Tatiana
My healing began
Six months into my recovery
When I tattooed a monarch on my arm
And tried to ignore the irony
That what I had chosen to protect myself
Was something so laughably fragile
But what people don't understand
Is that monarchs  are migrational
They may only live six months
But they travel over 3,000 miles
All the way from Canada to Mexico
And back again
They see more in those six months of life
Then most humans do in a lifetime
They live

So maybe my butterfly
Wasn't about protection at all
Maybe it was just my decision to live.
Liam C Calhoun Mar 2016
Dandelion dreams wisped from
The lips of summers past,
Lips tasted
And gilded became the cage,
So to, ushered,
My sense of belonging.
I tried to move on,
An couldn’t
And she knew it;
She knew that I couldn’t
The moment –
I’d fallen upon her lap
As she grabbed one more
Dandelion
And took one more breath
And blew the dead petals
Whilst making the wind somehow
Dance, and I,
The fool once more –
In love and unable to flee.
She asked me to "stay in her bowl," and I did; I'm still there and I'm a-o-k with that.
Peter Watkins Nov 2014
She looks at him,
decisive in stare.
Her fiery red hair,
hot as the blood in her chalice.
I watch her take a sip.
Lips tainted with crimson,
spurting words of malice.
The man is sent away...
To be slowly executed.

I'm the slave, her slave.
The Queen of crimson, as she's known.
Though she has many more,
I obey to her personally.
Taken as a child I know little,
she may as well be my mother.
Yet this queen remains strange
and as unpredictable and random
as ever...

I always thought her different.
Her blue eyes used to be brighter.
When I first met her, kidnap wasn't her intent.
I thought I knew her when I was far freer.
Yet, she grew dark and distant.
Before she arrived, with soldiers, invoking fear.
Broke into my parents house, took me away.
Killed my parents herself anyway.
She wasn't the woman she used to be that day.

A slap from her tough hand
dismisses the memory strand.
Like some hair stroked away,
from a shining brow.
Hot pain, bursting,
through my face like before.
I hardly react to it,
like there's no pain any more.
She says she felt like hurting something.

I cry no more, not for her.
Emotion numbed and slurred.
Feelings of resilience deterred.
I am hers, not my own person.
I do what she wants of me and
she does what she wants with me.
There's no free will no more.
Emotions no longer able to thaw;
they're forever harsh and coarse as her skin.

Oh and I've felt her skin.
It never feels right, when I touch her.
Having known her since childhood.
But she asks me to hold her,
please and punish her...
I have to let her do the same to me.
It's painful and makes me feel so *****.
Then that's before her love for blood.
A crimson heat she bathes in; freshly collected.

Human blood of course,
some even from myself.
But, I can't help but be driven,
driven to the brink of madness.
For in my life's confines
I'm beginning to find pleasure.
The way she has such control,
it gives me ultimate trust in her.
For, I know she'll never **** me.

I can't seem to deny it.
I'm beginning to like it.
The more she makes me hurt her.
The more she makes me take.
Just makes me shake
under the sheer anticipation.
What's she going to do next?
What will she ask me to do next?
It's all out of my control now...

Oh, my Queen of crimson.
I fear not the heat any more.
I want to be soaked through
with the blood of your enemies.
Just like you, your majesty.
Allow me the pain
that uncomfortable feeling;
the one you give daily
yet limit me from, my darling.

You turn more monster the faster the days.
Like the devil incarnate your power grows.
Your insanity is only beauty in my eyes.
Now feed me the crimson heat not in orderly rows;
but all at once in a medley of maddening gore.
Hurt me and make the pain oh so sharp and hot.
Take away the sheer numbness of the situation.
Bring me to the brink of life and death.
Assert your authority and give me the trust I need.
My beating heart on a silver platter for your feed.
A rough poem that's very dark and depicts the insane. Hmm, see what you think.

— The End —