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bones Feb 2016
Blowing silence
like a bugle
to announce his dismay

he got set
to make a statement
without speaking for a day

but his mother
just assuming
he had nothing much to say

sent her silent
son outside to play;

in the kitchen
by his mother's disregard

for campaigns
of wild muteness,
the rebellion fell apart

to the sound
of scuffing shoes
and the grumble in his heart

'cause silent protest
tends to lose
when no-one's listening very hard..
Robert C Howard Sep 2018
Prophesies of impending fall
     creep stealthily over the Great Divide.
Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze
     like leagues of fibrous wind chimes
serenading the mountain slopes
     with aires of shimmering gold.

A few distant bugle calls echo
     across the Big Thompson valley
as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.
     Sudden early gusts of frigid wind
bring waves of sleet and snow -
     in tune with the turning polar axis.

The greater chill is soon to come.
     The animals know it as do we.
Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.
     Elk and deer drift down from the heights
To show their young the ways
      of the plains and river valleys.

We pull our sweaters on
     and toss another log on the flames
and greet the harbingers of approaching fall
    creeping stealthily over the Great Divide.

September, 2018
zebra Jul 2016
I am Madam *******
ive come to your lair
please come to the table
and pull up a chair

i see you have  guests
theres plenty to eat
look at my ****
start with my feet

collard in silk ,
no ******* i ware
am i not gorgeous
do you like my hair

plump ******* spill out
manicured toes
take a bite
ill hold a pose

demonic friends
need love too
thrilled at there sight
my **** turns to goo

curtsy smiling
manners i have
ive come to be eaten
do you like calve

brain washed im not
death is for me
a nice hot oven
i hope you like ***

to my dinner guests
i bow and i scrape
i like it so much
you cant call it ****

as the guest of honor
soon to be eaten
i receive an ovation
tenderized and beaten

slit her gut open
shes a feast they cry
what a **** ***
shes begging to die

removing my robe
legs spread apart
on the table face down
please tear me apart

hands are clamped
and ankles secured ...
my head lifted
you'd like me cured

head on a block
knees pushed up so
*** is perched
would you like a toe

hands outstretched
i'm pretty when i smile
split me open
excuse my bile

at the dinner party
all howl with delight
as she cries **** me, please
shes so sweet and shes tight

we come from behind
our ***** in her ***
she farts like a bugle
oh wow its mass

hell where demons
with lots of hot ****
poops on the table
let's drink some more ***

come **** me sweet
you're so bad
tear me to pieces
is your name Vlad

**** down my throat
cut my belly to pieces
unwind my intestine
eat my fices

my eyes are candy
pull them out of my head
get out the soy sauce
i love to be dead

stick a spike up my ***
send me to hell
light me on fire
i'm in a spell

two buttery *****
in my mouth at one time
with hot lava devils
******* me blind

two up my *******
long daddy strokes
oh hell yeah
have a couple of cokes

working my ****
licking my ****
slow cook me
i look good on a spit

being ******
and pulled apart
its so much fun
it must be art

it's getting intense
i think i feel sick
my **** run through
please have a lick

it's time for the end
get the big knife
finish me, honey
i'm tired of life

the guest gather round
for the crescendo, the ****
out pours my blood
oh what a thrill

i'm ready for the oven
i go in still alive
turned up to 450
i blister and writhe

I am Madam *******
i've come to your lair
please come to the table
and pull up a chair

dinner is served
ATL Aug 18
Innocent markings, innocent prints.
(Intaglio, not relief)
Can you tell them this,
can you tell everyone about this?
Please, play the bugle. Sound the horn.

I thought I painted well,
but they all look the same!

Frame me,
in the frame I’ll find variance,
it’s the border that distinguishes
two alike.

Picture it:
me and my tilted thoughts,
resting aslant upon your wall.
Philipp K J Dec 2018
Naked pink and ebony feet
brush the slimy grass filled path
Through the tea fields elephants retreat
After a night of jaded mud bath

Armored with sack and gunny  weight
Enter the frost covered fields in drowsy rest
Wake up the greens to  a gentle fright
And pluck under care of  enchanting *******.

The supervisor mackintosh
Walking with a bend and a toss
Shout at those Cinderellas
Who look for shoes and umbrellas
Even  before its time to knock off

The tin covered temple of olfactory  auditory deity,
the holy Garden tea
The chanting enchanting to a coma hot  mesmerizing wafts of aroma
fills the air, capture the sense of all devotees who belong to the Orthodox commune TEA or CTC.
The sirens bugle the devotees into fits
They come in shifts for worship.
The tender hearts freshly plucked before they attain mature Tea
Spread to wither under a  hell
of a hot air with care.
crushed and torn and curled,
the souls are put into a purgatory rotary drum to pause to meditate
on the ephemeral color change
To cover the green with copper red
Garment to ferment  before being sent
to the fluid fire dance
To attire in black and retire
in packages
for a last plunge in to a boiling cauldron
The finale
A sacramental service,
a self sacrifice to energize the tired souls
In cups of tea..
Suresh Gupta Jul 3

When in the name of Lord, the Almighty, the blood is shed
And RIDERLESS horses trample the ground
A bugle is sounded


Come ye, the horsemen
Show your colors
Ye come to bare
This earth of soul

The heads you seek
Are devoid of breath
As zombies now
They roam the land

Waste not your arrows,
Your plagues, your stakes
These abandoned creatures
Now, yours to take

If S/HE let humanity be birth again
Discard mold useth already
Sins etched in genes
Terry Collett Aug 2018
Some sights, you said,
you couldn't forget, many
you could not talk about,

at least not to those not
there, not talk of the dead
and dying and the dead

man's stare. You remember
the dead horse blown up
into the branches of a tree,

hanging there like some
devilish tree ornament,
those without arms or legs

or blinded or deaf or numb
to the sound of bugle or drum.
You rest when you can,

when relieved from the Front,
and bath when a bath is
available or wash away

what grime and mud and
slime and blood of others
not yours, here beyond civilised

manners and laws. You sit
down in the trench and smoke
and think of home and fireside

warming, with the soft talking
and joking. Far away it seems
now, the old order blown away

and the birth of the new crawls
from the ashes and dead of
the old. You sit and smoke

and stare at the wall of the
trench and sigh for those
who but about to die.
A man talks to his dead grandfather
I want to play not manage,
  write not teach

I want to drive—all controls in hand

I want to be like the rain across
  the mountains

Not the river that may turn to sand

I want to be that ******
  with a single bullet

And not part of the infantry’s trek

I want to be the first
  to cross the tundra

Without needing a map to check

I want the bugle to blow
  from my own lips

So others may advance and attack

I want roses free, to line
  my front walk

Replanted from the garden out back

I want feet that will always
  climb above

The timid and reluctant below

I want memories to follow me
  out of this world

To a place that is just mine to know

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
ConnectHook Apr 5
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying

                                              Alfred Lord Tennyson

Grieve the fallen warriors of diversity.

A trumpet’s mournful sound now casts its pall . . .

Southern rumors: prophets of perversity

Non-profiting from Liberal wherewithal:

Poverty’s pimps. Their bold hypocrisy

Weinsteins loudly, colliding with our news;

Southern Law: poor as our democracy

Purporting to promote progressive views.

His name rang sweet in all progressive ears

But now the cypresses sigh out their song;

For scams must be exposed—though it wring tears

We hear the dirge; night’s shadows looming long.

Weep, oh armchair zealots of the cause

For Morris Dees, a victim of his laws.
inspired by:

PROMPT #4: write your own sad poem,
but one that achieves sadness through simplicity.
Playing with the sonnet form may help you . . .
be straightforward, using plain, small words.

— The End —