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Terry O'Leary Aug 13
The 6th and 9th have come and gone though none have taken note
that faraway, on those two days, an instant blazing blast
had vaporized morality. A bygone anecdote?
It seems such tales are best forgot and buried in the past.

But nonetheless, one must confess, the odds are highest now
that might and means have globalized the final battle field,
such that the victors also lose and perish anyhow.
The rulers in their zeal decide these facts be best concealed.

The warriors bit by bit rearm, their foes to nullify,
with strategies for victories where winners will prevail,
rejecting thoughts of compromise (though nukes are standing by!).
Yet still its grimly obvious that all will finally fail.

Beware you wide-eyed simpletons that follow, with the herd,
the drumbeat of the profiteers that draws us down this path
with prophesies of glory days and other things absurd.
Instead the skies above will burn, the only aftermath.
Terry O'Leary Jul 2021
The wrapes of Grath adorn the path that slammer klingks had tread
when turning spades in everglades to flosticate the dead.
Along the way the snorbels bay at freebled sprutelned
that boogeymen had once again uphove above the shed.

The buildings tall that housed the krawl are pictured carved in stone
and all that’s left is now bereft of wrapes that might atone
for scabs that feed our wrinkled breed, distraught and lying prone.
Yes, flonk replaces merpeled traces deep inside, alone.

There’s no retreat from incomplete, so durbies never dared,
but streaped instead beneath their bed with franjent fangs unbeared;
they knew the past could never last although the trumpets blared,
for doogies, stripped, were ill equipped, no longer bald or haired.

Like cavaliers with gougejent spears, well triggered for a tiff,
slank vankulures with silver spurs embussed for grimp and griff
(no question why, for “we can’t die”, the oft regleated riff);
with little fuss the blunder bus krunged glimpfly off the cliff
and fetid breet of grim defeat gave Grath its final whiff;
the catapult had one result, all life lay lazelled stiff.

The plastic waves that washed the graves, now homeland for the rutch,
though faring worse when quenching thirst with warples in the hutch
were nonetheless, as frunks confess, so pleasant to the touch
exturbing sinks that watered wynx and onetime life as such.

Like burning blotters slurping waters, skindles sipped their fill
from koozing cracks between the tracks inhumed beneath the hill,
then spawned the spores of Grathic wars that profit from the ****;
their victory tales, like crimson crails, reside in dung and dill.

Those scrilly clouds that cowed the crowds neath radiation snapes
left little less than watercress beneath their coffin’s drapes;
yes, those unborn cannot adorn the pallor of the prapes
so scrundlemun tinge bibberun, we ones who reap the wrapes.

Yes, now-abandoned hetzelspan were once in time embroiled
with merikained that firps extained until the weather roiled.
What more, perchance, can happenstance inflict upon the koiled
when pendlesnips are in eclipse and wrapes of Grath are soiled?
This [will be/has been] written in the future (3121 CE) by our evolutionary progeny (in the ruins left, after our apocalyptic demise) and [has been/will be] sent back to us as a warning, through a warped space-time wormhole.

But yeah, we won’t pay heed…

Note that ‘language’ [is/will be] different then… so it might sometimes be a little hard to understand...

(too much koolaid???)
Terry O'Leary Jun 2021
The noblemen control the pen, indeed they own the farm,
but nonetheless exude finesse (and need I mention charm?)
with revenue to sate the few, exulting arm in arm;
for all the rest, they wish the best and certainly mean no harm.

The fourth estate stands proud and straight, emplaced upon a peak,
beside a birch where parrots perch and claim the truth to speak;
while hatching schemes, they’re hawking dreams to keep us mild and meek,
promoted by the gods on high, that clever reigning clique.

They spread their lies throughout the sties to keep the truth at bay
and horoscopes are filled with hopes for those with faith to pray;
the other few wait in the queue, with faces made of clay,
collecting crumbs which have become their dreams of yesterday.

The tube embeds the talking heads (you know the ones, the tools)
who on the screens won’t spill the beans, lest mighty might unspools,
so bend the news reflecting views of those who set the rules
to obfuscate and fabricate their pabulum for fools.

With pyrite smiles and other wiles, they thrive concocting tales
that lead to wars on foreign shores, which help improve the sales
of missile tips and battleships, discounting death that pales
and broken hearts for body parts a graveled grave regales.

You wouldn’t guess, the yellow press, when out to make a ****,
will sell their soul (to dodge the dole) and feed the swine some swill –
a trenchant trope with inside dope that gives the crowds a thrill
(when mixed with tripe, they call it hype) and masks a bitter pill.

The tabloids reek of doublespeak – when did the stench begin?
In olden times, with paradigms, no doubt with but a grin;
but nowadays, in subtle ways, there’s far more discipline:
they scrawl their screeds neath headline ledes that give the tales a spin.

A clever dunce tried hard just once to read between the lies
and thereby found that facts are drowned within a newspeak guise.
Yeah, all that stuff reflects the slough they hide behind their eyes,
although absurd it fuels the herd like  sustaining flies.

Within the fort a special court is hidden from our view
where sits a judge who’ll never budge, called Captain Kangaroo;
as justice bleeds, those evil deeds (like leaking what is true)
will be convicted as pre-scripted by the hangman’s crew.

A blue-eyed wight uncloaks the night and when (by chance, perhaps)
his whistle blows, the airwaves close, high crime stays under wraps,
and those that sin prevail again with feathers in their caps;
the price instead’s the leaker’s head, precluding a relapse.
Terry O'Leary Apr 2021
Like God amassing gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
vain potentates, possessed by pride that riches will confer,
depleted pillaged villages in pagan days of old…
With ******* privileges, their fortunes were foretold.

In feudal times, chaste clerics, cloaked, wrapped rings around the mind
with hymns of magic, mystic myths and figurines enshrined,
while blessing bayonet-like blades that mutilate and maim…
With ******* privileges, believers bore no blame.

In search of caramel colonies, some sailors set their sails
to conquer puppet provinces, for sovereignty prevails,
purloining wicked treasure troves which others claimed their own…
With ******* privileges, such sins sustained the throne.

Well, nowadays the quest proceeds, this time for ebon oil,
so peoples once again are caught within the serpent’s coil
and, pierced by fangs of greed and lust, death yields benign escape…
With ******* privileges, you’re free to rip and ****.

We wave the flags and beat the drums and often kneel to pray
to glorify our victories, bold, that happen far away;
but none salute the severed souls impaled upon a pike…
With ******* privileges, the riffraff look alike.

One day the moguls won’t agree on how to slice the pie;
they’ll spit and spat and, ***-for-tat, atomic barbs will fly -
but when the button’s finally pressed, they too will grace the heap…
With ******* privileges, the hole that’s hewn is deep.
Just a few lines for my mate M.'s amusement and diversion  
; - )
Terry O'Leary Nov 2020
Your lover’s drawing straws without you, better bid farewell;
he’d never time for rhyme or reason, so it’s just as well.
Slip out the curtained window quick, the future winks and calls,
ignoring paths of pagan gods, where faulty footsteps fall.
Identify faint flashbacks, cloaked and clustered in a heap
and sort out those you treasure most, you need or long to keep;
Forget about the epoch past, which wasn’t what you’d sought,
pursue instead remaining dreams before they come to naught.
            Reflect no more on what it was he’d meant for you,
            strike out ahead where something waits, has sent for you.

The graveyard night is haunted still, it hovers where you sleep
recalling souvenirs amassed, the ones that made you weep.
The poets poised in dungeon vaults, now growing old and bald,
retrace their palsied pleas in dust, like those that you once scrawled.
Except for runic proverbs carved on stone walls ill defined,
assumptions will not dog you that you dare to leave behind.
            The fortune-tellers waiting at the moat for you
            read tarot cards while setting sail a boat for you.

The road behind is empty now, the sky is painted black
so gather all the wisdom gained, no time for looking back.
Forego the prophets’ prophecies, so tempting to pursue -
although they might be asked advice, they seldom have a clue.
Reject the secrets they reveal, enveloped in their guile,
which be betrayed between the tombs in ruins of their smile.
            They’re waiting with a fractured rule of thumb for you
            while beating on a perforated drum for you.

A sand-glass dribbles distant dunes, the sun dial’s shadow’s late,
so now’s the time for slipping through the open swinging gate.
A joker wild defies the fools to read between the lines
in search of cryptic radiance the future world enshrines -
“the days ahead will wake again like waves before the dawn
when picking up the pieces left behind a passing pawn.”
            A noble knight awaits to clear the board for you
            when, soon, a cup of nectar wine is poured for you.
Terry O'Leary Jun 2020
With fascist fist, white CHAUVINist (whose christian name is Drek)
hailed pearly Knights in Kevlar tights who spurn the ebon fleck,
and joined the Kops enforcing stops which keep black pawns in check.

Floyd feared the Kops (most drenched in drops that racial rules distill),
so long confined, entrapped, entwined in whitewashed webs until
he drew the straw that lured the law: a twenty dollar bill

for cigs he bought (no ’twasn’t ***) while at the corner store
and when he left, they called it theft at which he turned and swore,
strode to his car (which wasn’t far), to meet the nevermore.

The Kops arrived and chaos thrived as justice was deployed:
patellas pressed, ’gainst neck and chest (which Chauvin so enjoyed) -
as Floyd lay cuffed, like candles snuffed his light of life waxed void.

A knee to neck? Yeah, what the heck, when forced to come to grips
with someone prone that fate has flown within a wind, who quips
“Please, I can’t breathe”… those words still seethe that labored past his lips.

With windpipe crushed, through time unrushed (eight minutes last so long),
Floyd’s face seemed bent with eyes intent, and Chauvin’s smile was strong;
with bated breath of pending death, a chill chased through the throng.

Well Drek knelt proud before the crowd (no need of secrecy)
for, being copped, Floyd’s breathing stopped, while knuckled neath the knee.
Yes, poor old Floyd had been destroyed – “Mamaaa...” his final plea.


A single soul... but on the whole, Floyd’s death’s a metaphor
of crush and shove, by those above, until we breathe no more,
with twisted faces, lacking graces, pressed upon the floor.

As with attacks against the blacks and others, be they poor
we’re never told the manifold of deaths within this war  -
we’ll bumble blind until we find just what we’re mourning for.

The ruling class perverts, alas, the press, like wanton *****,
to dupe, misguide and wholly hide that septic social sore
engulfing us in putrid pus that’s oozing from its core.

Without a clue as what to do, we’re thralled as heretofore,
but nonetheless with due finesse, there’s plenty to restore:
the common good and brotherhood, world peace for evermore.

We must embrace the human race, its oneness not ignore -
so for our part let’s make a start with each hand on an oar,
as mainsails swing to finally bring the freedom ship to shore.
Terry O'Leary Apr 2020
~12000 BC             Sabre Tooth Tiger
~  1650 BC             Mammoth
    1681                   Dodo
~  1890                   Falkland Islands Wolf
    1918                   Carolina Parakeet
    1938                   Schomburgk's Deer
~  1960                   Javan Tiger
    1973                   Tecopa Pupfish
    1975                   Round Island Burrowing Boa
    1979                   Dutch Alcon Blue Butterfly
    1994                   Golden Toad
    2000                   Pyrenean Ibex
    2002                   Baiji White Dolphin
    2004                   Black-faced Honeycreeper
    2006                   West African Black Rhino
    2015                   Pinta Island Tortoise
    20??                   **** Sapiens
No rhythm, no rhyme, and no reason
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