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Nico Reznick Jun 3
Clearing ivy,
pulling up handfuls of
choking bindweed,
uncovering delicate
wildflowers in
neglected garden corners,
and there’s this
tiny bird
lying in the dirt.
Feathers sparkle
pretty and golden,
as fairytale light
falls through
parted vines.
Surely dead,
but then
- like Snow White
surfacing from
magic apple-induced
dormancy -
the bird moves,
woken by the kiss
of sunlight and
being witnessed,
and seems to breathe.
A gloved finger’s
exploratory, leathery ****,
a moment to realise,
then disgust,
sharp recoil.
A wing lifts;
gleaming feathers
parting reveal the
crawling mechanics inside,
the writhing, parasitic mess
behind the sick illusion,
the briefly faked miracle
of something
like life.

Away over a fence,
Union bunting
***** erratic and jarring
in a neighbour’s garden.
In a stuffy town hall,
the town band is practising
God Save The Queen, but
still can’t keep time.
Our betters wave to us from
high palace balconies
and golden coaches, and we
cheer them for it.

There’s such hunger, such
pain and desperation out there,
you can feel it, if you
forget to stop yourself.
There’s so much tragedy and injustice,
you have to go numb or go crazy.
There’s no future we can see,
and the past has been rewritten
to reflect the views
of focus groups,
fascists and fantasists.

And there’s a bird
lying in the dirt,
garlanded by fragrant petals,
feathers flashing like jewels,
so dead
it looks like
it’s breathing.
selina Feb 26
achilles, you already know i cannot stand it
but the crowds will wish for you to wear red—
dark chiton and leather sandals always enticed them
especially with a corinthian helm on your head

your father will ask you to wear royal purple
for you are heir and will be given his golden crown
that image of power was never what you have wanted
but i know you will be hesitant to let your father down

your mother will give you silks of homely blue
reminiscent of younger ages, gentler days, calmer seas
but tonight is a war gathering, a call to arms and action
i fear that your image may appear too soft, too weak

your advisor will suggest a certain shade of pale yellow
with hopes that you catch attention like apollo's sun
but you have despised attention since your birth
i know you would rather drown than choose that one

your cousin will offer a chiton of sage green
she will say it is time for spring and to begin anew
but people will perceive poison, green screams envy
i know wearing that is something you will rue

achilles, if you ask, then i will answer
and i will ask you to don robes of white
i will ask you to give the crowds a reminder of peace
of another age and simpler times

i ask you to wear white for the young ones
who will grow, attached to you like vines
i hope you will remind phthia of innocence
and the importance of fighting to preserve life

achilles, i am sure you already know
my words will not change your mind
if you have already chosen what to wear
wear it, and don't think twice

i trust you, and i trust your judgment
i trust your wisdom and your courage
i trust your hope in winning this war
and i pray to the gods that you never lose it
Carlo C Gomez Jan 29
Long live the king!
That is until—zooks!—a correspondence
from one indiscreet mistress
falls into the wrong hands
and passes before
the queen's eyes
it then becomes time
for a little Shakespearean tragedy

Emanzi Ian Jan 22
Kings are born Kings
Princes and princesses are born this way
The king selects the queen from whatever status and elevates her to the position
Mere attraction can turn the daughter of a local fisherman to a royal
From grass to Grace
Rags to riches
The lion cannot dine with hyenas
The eagle can't flock with the ravens
Haves and have nots
You can't have what's not yours
Mind your interactions and connections
Watch who you keep close
Some of them are wolves in sheep's clothes
They say your network is your networth
What's the worth of your network?!
Watch them closely,some of them in the network won't work
They are just work,so whack
Don't lose your focus,stay woke
The rich man just won't go broke
The poor man just won't get any richer
It's the aim of the system
Am only saying a word to a wise one,am no preacher
And am no teacher

Kings and Queens
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2021
Cold cold heart
Frozen plumage
Like a peacock
Her ladyship
In the campfire light
Skating about the pond
Of her own vanity

HTR Stevens Apr 2021
Standing tall among men was he,
Very humbly he called himself a 'refugee'.
He was the Queen's Consort, oft full of wit;
Yet in humour, he pretended to be a twit.
Some thought he stood among the gods,
Busy with so much he had no time for the Land of Nod.
In life steps behind the Queen he would always be;
At death carried high before the Queen and for all to see.
All the many good works he had done,
The world only knew at the set of his sun.
Nisha Apr 2021
Since you've been gone
Our sweetest melody plays on
In the midst of our visited places
Your warmth fills the empty spaces
As I walk on without you beside me
Your memories take over me, set me free
Of the ache of your missing and i
I soar to the skies,
Dawn to dusk, untill sunrise,
On comforting clouds and me reminiscing...

The way you held my hand with care
Our courtship, marriage, love in the air
I feel you through the whispering wind
And walk the footsteps you've left behind
Within the void in this lonely castle
The strength that helps my mind to battle
The strength that pats my loneliness asleep
Our people, the 73 glorious years together,
And you my love Philip...

Though I may shed sad tears, and grieve
We must move on, a positive belief
I'll lift my head and walk many miles
As your Queen, your loving wife.
Until we meet again.
Francie Lynch Apr 2021
Me and mine had our fill of HIS ****** royal Lip,
And racist, sexist philandering entitlement.
"We don't come to Canada for our health. We can think of other ways of enjoying ourselves."
"I don't think a ******* is more moral than a wife, but they are doing the same thing."
"When a man opens a door for his wife, it's either a new car or a new wife."
Juliana Mar 2021
I am a princess. Climbing the metal castle
surrounded by the forest of julienned trees.
A pink tutu complete with a fortune of tulle
flows at my waist, replacing the cotton of
normalcy given that morning by the queen,
my army turning into peasants on the ground
below me. Fellow children who wish not to
play with royalty, fellow children who do,
but alas, this princess works alone.

Sliding down into the moat, swimming across
the wooden hot sea, I enter my limo, the red
skeleton of a car, pushing soldiers out of my
way. They obey their highness, they always do,
or their actions are blocked from memory, a
storm of denial sugarcoating my beloved fantasy.

The limo, transformed during the voyage into
a shimmering carriage, stops at a stable, four
trusty steeds at disposal for any who come
across them. One’s fur the grey of used snow,
stomped upon by the hooves of peasants lasting
generations. Another the brown of rich milk
chocolate, named by those consumed with
hunger, to be used by the full returning from
high tea. A third the shimmering blonde as
the prince’s hair, the appalling matte of gold,
the foil of the one before. The last, dark as
night, a hidden soul trapped behind the plastic
eyes, watching as wars pass, powers change,
alliances grow and crumble into ruins.

The steed stops upon the princess’s destination,
the lone place in the kingdom where she can find
peace, where the chattering of peasants can no
longer disturb her daydreams, where she and her
court can enact royal business, where the swing
of her gavel rings loud and clear, where she can
study in peace, where she can play, where her
throne lies, two abandoned sisters sitting near.

It is here that the princess finds her solace; it is
here that the princess erases from her memory.
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