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Duncan Brown Sep 22
Not long after the beginning, and a bit before the end, the Almighty said to Noah: “Is that your real name?” “Yeah”, said Noah: “you gave it to me, your ever generousness. I was hoping for something a bit more romantic, maybe even an extra syllable or two, or become all psychedelic and have a hyphen and a double barrel, but Noah is functional. I’m not complaining, a lot. After all what’s in a name? Wouldn’t a cactus be just as uninteresting if it was called something else? Why am I and my not very exciting name so humbly in your almighty and quite tedious presence?” asked Noah. “I’ve had a great idea”, said ***: “and I want you with the very boring name to be the first to hear it.” “Can’t wait to hear it your Denseness, even if it is only half as brilliant as the square wheeled chariot and deep-fried ice cube you nearly invented for us last week; and as for the three-armed jacket, well what can I say? Jacob wears his every day and I won’t tell you what he does with it at night, as it involves folk music. And didn’t the Paisley patterned boulder illuminate the landscape?” said Noah “Oh good”, said ***: “I do so enjoy it when the minions are attentive to my every word and trembling syllable, What’s the point of being an Almighty if you can’t Almighty it over the lower orders from time to time?” “I couldn’t agree more, your Bampotness. Even if you do appear to be a few slices short of a full loaf on occasions. So, what’s this big idea you’ve had?” said Noah. “I want you to build a boat, the biggest and bestest boat there’s ever been” said ***. “Why”, said Noah, “we live in a desert, we don’t do boats; never have done, don’t get a lot of call for them in these parts, your Obliqueness. Ordinarily you’re every utterance is a symphony of sound and beauty to the sticky out bits on the abstract countenance you have so generously created for me, O Guano features. Couldn’t you do another plague of frogs and locusts? We loved those. Your subjects haven’t eaten so well since. Very tasty they were indeed, and so much more nourishing than the daily fare of cactus bark and centipede you dish up to us as we go about our increasingly diminishing mortal trespass. I hope you weren’t baffled by the paradoxical construction of that sentence. One Almighty’s punishment is another lowly minion’s business opportunity. I was running a fast food joint while it lasted. Made a change from the normal feast, where you have to catch your dinner before it catches you. Eat before your eaten that’s the Law ‘round here. It makes you feel more like a recipe than a person on occasions, your Compostness.” “Be that as it may, said ***: “I’ve got some drawings which Eve helped me to make” “Eve?”  said Noah: “did you say Eve?” “Yes” said ***: “Eve”, that’s what I said, she likes me more than all the rest of you put together and that’s why she’s my favourite” “This will be good” said Noah: “let’s be having it. Let’s see the cosmic blueprint of a less than useless boat that Eve devised” “I helped to devise it as well”, said ***: “In fact I done all the pencil sharpening, and here it is.” Noah sniggered and said: “That’s not a boat it’s a camel!” “Brilliant, isn’t it?”, said ***: “you’ve got to hand it to Eve; she’s a genius at this kind of stuff, and she says it will make me look jolly clever as well. And that will stop all you ungrateful and wretched minions from smirking and sniggering every time I have a wonderful idea.” “This is even better than the ten commandments, three dos six don’ts and a maybe” said Noah. “My Ten commandments were wonderful” said ***: “even Moses said so.” “The only reason you have ten commandments”, said Noah: “is because you have ten fingers. If you had seventeen fingers we would have seventeen commandments; one for each digit. People who use their toes to count their fingers should avoid life’s mathematical complexities. And as for Moses ‘The Born Leader’ he’s a party hack. He’ll agree with anything you say as long as he gets his name on the tablet. He’s publicity mad. When he grows up he wants to chisel the definitive text on cactus attraction, for the benefit of future desert wanderers. Eve says he a bit of a Freudian fruitcake on the quiet, whatever that is. She also says, his mother told him he was adopted, and he’s never quite got over it.” “Why would Moses want to get over a cactus, seems jolly silly to me” said ***: “He’s a complete basket case, according to the local grapevine. Never mind all that, let’s see the blueprint.” said Noah: “A wooden camel, only a cosmic idiot could imagine it. If it was a wooden horse it could have been sold to the Trojans, or a wooden cat to the Pharoahs, and I’m told the antipodeans go a bundle on timber budgies, but camels; nobody wants one, not even other camels. How did someone as colossally dense and as infinitely thick as your self acquire the surreallness of thought to imagine it in the first place?” said Noah. “You’re a bright little chappie for a minion”, said ***: “Eve told me about the Greeks and their wooden gee-gee and I suggested a boat, then Eve pointed out that this was a desert, and consequently we need a desert boat. ‘One that floats on sand’, I said. ‘Not quite El Plonkero’ she said. Then Eve said we have to adopt and then apply some lateral thinking to the problem. She pointed out that we live in a desert and that we need a boat that sails in the desert. And then I had the mostest cleverest thought I’ve had in ages. We need a ‘desert boat’ I exclaimed. And Eve said I was a true plankton eater. She says the nicest things to me. A ‘ship of the desert,’ she says, ‘and what’s a ship of the desert?’  Quick as a flasher in the rush hour, I said ‘a camel’, and Eve replied that I was quite bright for a log, and that camel plus ship equalled wooden camel to sail away from here to some other paradise she called Hollywood, ‘Land of heavenly bodies and the drop dead gorgeous Brad Pitt.’” “And you believed her?” said Noah. “Of course I believed her”, said ***: “she’s Eve and if you can’t believe in Eve what else is there to believe in?” “There’s an answer to that”, said Noah: “but you’d toast me like a heretic on the happy juice if I repeated it, your Doorknobness.”
HTR Stevens Aug 21
How cool and sweet the air I drank,
Standing beneath the starry sky;
As I stroll’d the starlit bank,
I saw my Fairy Queen float nigh.

She shew’d me petals for my bed,
A long grass for my easy-chair;
Mushrooms for umbrella or shade
Should rain pelt down from Anywhere.

She gave me May dew for my thirst,
Nectar sips to sweeten my lips;
She shew’d me jasmines, bloom’d and burst,
Whilst light-foot’d fairies round us tripp’d.

Not until I heard the church-bell
Strike with delight the morning hour,
Did I hear a thud as I fell
Off the red petals of a flower.

None was in sight when I came round;
A small red flower stood by my side.
Not a stir was heard, not a sound;
My Fairy Queen had gone to hide.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 17
The history told is full of lies
for it's molded, muddled,
told by the victors.
As much as I love history, I know that it has its untruths.
Lyn ***
MicMag Aug 17
The moon's not a crescent
It doesn't glow
It doesn't shine
It doesn't hang in the air
It doesn't show your love
Or mine

Blood moons? Not ******
Blue moons? Not blue
Super moons? Not so super
New moons? Anything but new

Superstitious? Full moons
Don't fill the earth with fright
Don't induce labor
Nor raise werewolves
In the night

No man in the moon
Hate to break it to you
Moon's mysterious myths
Mere legends
All untrue


These unscientific lyrics
Carelessly thrown around
What a load of crock!

The moon is nothing more
Than a cold empty sphere
A pale lifeless rock

And this just in
From all the moonlight lovers:
So is my soul, what a shock!
PS Aug 8
I sit here.
I fall prey to your charms, harms and weaknesses.
I see you in my mind with glasses, Onassis.
Your brother flying across the Atlantic
And you are Atlas holding the world up.
I feel the old pang.
I fall prey- that’s me, Persephone.
I’ve had my time in Tartarus
And you were my Spring. My Astonishing Adonis,
Sunglasses, Onassis. All second chances.
The night I met a Greek hero disguised as a man
Who turned out to be a man disguised as a Greek hero.
And I miss you, as you go off.
I’m not Persephone, I’m Penelope.
I was unsure I’d wait for you
And now I don’t want to.
But still, part of me does.
Everyone is like a Greek *** in some ways.
I’ve had my fun with Apollo and Hades and Zeus-
Who I’m still holding out for. But aren’t we all?
And you, born on the same day as my Pallas.
My palace in the future, my ramshackled past.
You know a surface, you weren’t meant to stay in my world.
And I prayed and prayed to let you stay.
But as always it was up in the air.
So I sit there.
I fall prey to your harms, charms and weaknesses.
Mine is weak ankles, yours is your weak spine.
And I wonder,
Did love ever make you blind?
This goes in about five different directions.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 7
'Oh, when will you return, my love?' wondered Kourê,
   as she lays on the daybed, in the cradle of                        
          Spring's clime; how the nights and days make                        
her so weary, as the yellowed flames sway idle              
So many flowers sent,                                            
each rich with memory.      
Violets coiling around the triumphal arch;              
His smile after their first kiss under
the flushing dawn.
Starlings who sing ever so sweet;                              
the song of him preaching of her being
                       a bright glory before others.
Crystal chandeliar that hangs from the ceiling;
                            Her on a small bench, his hands massaging
                              warm oils between her fae-sculpted
      feet and toes.
The roses; a rouge kiss in the light of the shade
          The harp; a white daybed draped
                            with a scarlet sheet.
She yearns for a hug from him, bathing ****
          in light, as their hearts beat in sync
                              and reach the sky.
All she wants is a sweet rest, his hand on her
fine head;                                                
            stroking, sighing, eyes shining,              
                  water that trembles between fingers,
happiness linger!
A feather drifts earnest, the glittering of stars,
And now she cools, recalling their sweet        
goodbye as he rides his mare,
            snow cloak shines eternally.
'Yours is a beauty that will never wilt,' he cooes,
placing a rose in her hair.                  
A rose.                      
A rose...        
Her eyes falls on the white rose in the vase,
              lonesome, thornless proud...                  
We marvel its beauty, its earthbound performance                       
 She holds the rose in her hand, staring at its                    
its crowning glory; petalled virtue
By her ivory velveteen fingers                                          
long finger,
               slim thumb-
She plucks petal by petal by petal by petal
as she looks to the day-sky
                      with a dreaming mind
And when the crown is gone,                            
                       her face is touched by a frown                        
                and the ***** stem,
                                    marred by her sensitivity-
                                            ***** of its own beauty-
                                                    for her hand's sake,
her yearning for her lionesque lover,              
                                         and aurorian prayers?          
The stem falls, ***** and bald on the ground
    as she closes her eyes, saddened...
She cannot bear the sight of snow-kissed            
flowered bays without the sun,
                   her hymn-
                                  her shield-
Know the true secret behind the red, red rose  
As none know of its venomous mantle    
this Rose lingered in the vase only to be
defiled.
Taken advantage of only to
                            be dumped-
A laughing stock as another more beautiful
                            flower will take its place
Boiling with vengeance, the stem is hale,
jade with envy-
                                               barbed with thorns, a poisoned desire
                      to shield its body,
Its pride, its crown stolen-
                                     From snow to blood-
                                                    its pain turned crimson,
No longer will tears of dew fall!
'It matters not,' Kourê thinks, 'another rose will bud.'
For they, like many perennials and sentient life,
                          are conscious of its limited beauty!
'Mine own beauty and his will last forever.'
From the light beyond,
she sees him.
                                       Her sun that rides the mare!
She runs into his embrace- a pair of happy doves
Her fingers in his gold curls
as he bends the knee,
The air lovingly cold at this display!                  
Ever so content!
                                          Blessings upon the lily in the snow!
Upon her hands, the blood of a rose,
that swears vengeance upon her
for it will be the catalyst!
Blood for blood!
                                  The rose will rise and curse
them with pain ten-fold...
Final part of the free-verse!
Hope you enjoyed it!
I came up with a little sad myth behind why the rose has thorns. Why the white roses are truly red. What did you think? I have roses in my garden but I don't pick the petals, they're too pretty!
What did you think of Kourê? Do let me know!
Love you guys! Thanks so much!
Lyn ***'
What if the Sphinx ran out of riddles?
Or more pointedly put
Grew resigned of the many that stood before it
Those stuttering in fear
Or those too clever to stick around and converse
What if the Sphinx
Finally shifted its gilded gaze
Unto itself, realizing
Its vast intellect was stifled and stuffed
Into the gaudy an unappealing role
Of an obstacle
Stagnant
How its glittering streams of bright consciousness
Would twist downward into the deepest drain
And the Sphinx thus thoroughly empty
May content itself
To pick up a phone
And shuffle in silence
Searching in-between buffers
Alone
Like the rest of us
Rosa Jul 9
sailors lay at the mermaid motel
kiss the ocean, wash away her ****
drifting with beauty by her side
compelling the admirers in the sky
gazing upon their fear that reflects in her eyes
as she chants her swan song into the night
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