Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
once upon a wrote


here and there, in fables and tales,
some in no guile and others
in chancier disguises,
some sine-known and some sign-unknown,
some dead in stillbirth,
some penned these words,
some a few decades old,
some of but a moment ago eyelash distant,
making me think that
someday I will scribe,
cobble some truths and
some falsehoods into one
leaping heaping melting scoop,
letting you decide,
which for better,
which for worse...


<•>

"No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say,
about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"

<•>

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...

<•>

is this craft that chose you,
not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance
for tolerance of the ordinary?

the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused,
discard the instant recognition,
unusable

<•>

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the
whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away
what soully belongs to you,
do your own sums,
admit your own truths,
query not the lives of others,
approach the mirror...

<•>

The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drop in and upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
the selected tool

you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation

you cannot lie in poetry

<•>

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook,
soft pillows for our hard Adirondack chairs,
situe hard by the bay, if too hot, we'll slow
drift to the sun room of
lace curtains and suicide poems,
still we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low,
listening to all the noisier, nosier
creatures asking themselves,
and the trees and leaves,
where did all those poets come from?

<•>

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity,
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity

<•>

how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem

the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?

there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, welded and wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever extinguish


<•>

now I ken better distance 'tween
artist and art,
I, a workingman's
daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in
the water-falling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of
a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
was not I,
it ain't me babe, but
one of us, his tongue,
like Moses-stung
with a hot coal
of language's divinity


<•>
JL Feb 2016
I retreat into myself
Into the corridors of me
I lounge on the well worn flagstones
Gazing on the marble columns
Arranging tapestries and paintings in
A more perfect order
I stalk down old hallways and explore unnamed galleries with a
Single candle to push back the deep
Sometimes rooms are filled with old Furniture
Sometimes entirely empty
Once feeling brave I held onto
The threshold of such a room and
Stretching out I hold the candle aloft in the chasm. Nothingness, darkness complete the light puddles at my feet pitiful.
When I recall that yawning abyss the silence of
It persists.
In ballrooms I play Chopin's waltzs' for no one  in particular
Yet I take my bow and my place at the head of a table set for a score of kings
I lay on marble steps trying to guess the riddles that my echo whispers
I climb the  towers and the spires to dizzying heights and many weeks I was lost in the labyrinth of cellars of basements of tombs beneath
I have seen strange things lately: a chair upturned or
Bed unmade, quills still wet, and doors open and shut of their own volition in the inky black
I swear I have seen before
A tall figure in a hooded cloak dart
Into the shadows, and it did not seem
Altogether human

I read for years inside my library  
And have spoken at length to Shakespeare and Plato
I have seen Yggdrasil and the seven hells
And sped through time with
H.G Wells. Of death and moon, of birds and galaxies I am enamored.
Tea with Julius Ceaser, chess with Captain Hook.
Breakfast with The Buddah
Coffee with The Christ
Did you know that Captain Ahab takes His water with a squeeze of lime? No Ice. Abraham Lincoln and Mark Twain know me by my first name, I have fenced with the Gods of Olympus and of Asgard and I remain undefeated. The divine crowd my hearth and many nights have been passed here in quiet conversation, with Confucius, with Archimedes, with Epictetus, Davinci, and the brothers Grimm
I have lived ten thousand lives and Will live another ten

-Without a single thought of you-

I wander
To my garden
Gently lit by paper lanterns
The path is smooth and heady
The amber blossoms
And weathered sculptures
Make my eyelids heavy
Monuments with fists clenched beat my
Ego ******
New flowers sprout from the ivy throat
Always things are grown but never overgrowing
I steal through the hedge maze that only I know
To the secret center where no plant grows
Pavilion and pond
Where no bird sings year long
In that quiet I endeavor
To look without fear
Into the pupil of forever
Some say writing is a good outlet
Some say writting is a good inlet
O LOVE! O LOVE! WHY ARE YOU EVER DEVOID OF LOGIC?

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)


Mankind in its pathetic folly entice you in a dint of stupor
Knowing not your true colour and texture
Endeavoring to achieve glory in your mastery
With the so limited human capacity
In grey faith that you are a cradle of bliss
But O love! Why are you ever crooked?

Young men and women in strength of their sinews
Toil day and night in ******* of humanity
Praying and whining incantations with the hope for optimal love
Ornamenting their bodies with diamond and bronze
Fibre and silk ornamented to helm of providence
In the foolish quest for love equillibria
But in full stretch of your vice, you impish love
You catapult all away to the shifted goal posts
O love! O love! Why are you ever ruthless?

You hate the learned but you favour the strong
You hate professors but you favour the soldiers
You hate the rich but you favour the agile
You hate the lawyers but you favour the footballers
You hate the pastors but you favour the ruffian
You hate the whites but you favour the Negroes
You hate the groomed but you love the ragamuffin
You hate the chaste but you favour the mistress
O love! O love! Why are you ever illogical?

Love, I revere you for wickedness and irrationality
In all of your history you scored sum *** laude  
In the duo as blend of your domain, Look;
You never dwell in a genuine companionship
You like where the couth will interject;
Amidst fornication between married and single ones
Amidst adultery in the triangle of foul compassion
Amidst miscegenation between black and white
Amidst infatuation between the whole and the lame
Amidst conjugal appetite between the old and the young
Amidst concupiscence between house master and houshelp
Amidst immorality of married master over the wallowing servant
Amidst libidos between literate teacher unto the peasant pupil
Amidst disordered passion among the sly lesbians
Amidst impious ******* among the suave gays
O love! O love! You are the  most wicked force!

Love I am told; your colour is red
You may be red or you may not be red
But all in all, you deserve poetical veneration
For your herculean ability to bend the most wise;
In your force you made sagacious Shakespeare to bend
In your force you made Princes Diana to bend and bend
Bending downwardly stooping for Afawoyed the moor,
In your stupefying dint you made Napoleon de Bonaparte
To bend and bend downwardly stooping for Josephine
Josephine a famed she-Casanova in the gone Paris
Among the then humanity and the then animality,
In your impairing machinery you set sons on their fathers
In the roman empire of Antony and Ceaser
In the scramble for Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen
Beauty of her aquiline nose heavily hovered perhaps  
In the eyes of the Roman beholders
The father and the son only to sent the empire
To the love forlorn smithereens!
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2017
~~~
a poem derived from these words of
Joel M Frye
"Poetry is a self-policing agency, enforcing nothing
~~~

The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drops in and
upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
are the selected tool

you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation

you cannot lie in poetry

-one can only validate-

you will tell the whole truth,
and nothing but,

all in good order,
to secure me to thee,
to muddle
our molecular cocktail mix,
you must,
must give only
truth in poetry,
or give
nothing

police yourself
in every aleph bet,
don't substance abuse us with deceit,
give only your unburdening,
force us to lip kiss
when
we face each other,
when
pronouncing the blessed script of
ourselves,
that we have been granted by sharing
each other's unvarnished lettres

the burden is
to un burden

cut out what needs
to be bridged from
the secret walled-in safe,
and give form, life and breath,
expose it to the atmosphere,
reform your bleak introspection
and white horseradish bitter realism,
turn blue blood veined internal
into an amberina red,
all by being
unsaved, unsavory, unsafe

you are the enforcer,
you are the police,
you are the validation
and the validator,
enforcing this sole law,
police your self,
give us

with no agent in between,

give us
nothing but,
a voice
one will recognize instantly
as the whole fats milk of
truth

oh, how I will embrace thy
one and only,
when given,
your

one and only

for do we dare disagree that is
each other's truths that
shall set us free?

•••

for we are the inhabitants,
of this wild land of
no inhibitions,
no rule of laws,
except one,

defend the essence,
protect the defenseless integrity,
promote the mystery of the
human poem
2/20/16
Arcassin B Mar 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

Wouldn't cross my mind,
I saw you fall out of the sky,
Crash landed,
Deep in the earth and,
I though you died,
You had a properly set burial,
We can almost see just what you're like,
I nearly cried,
I,

Looking so peaceful,
And peacefully crafted,
I could've loved your bits and pieces,
Of cut chicken in ceaser salads,
But I just thought that you would see,
My worth,
And for what its worth,
Just to see you rise from the dirt,
Passion fades,
But loves a curse,
And everything you did,
Was so supurb,
Like flavor in herbs,

But I'm just really glad you saw the concept,
In the sky and the stars,
But others are deceased,
This ain't a contest,
Monkey bars.
Continuation
August the month,
I hate you  with passion,
You are  the most sad month,
You often  impeach manly  happiness,
With abnormal efficacy of  fate’s power,
Your vice and evil ploys  borrows a lot ,
From the throne of  thy name’s  selfish cradle,
Dumb-founding Fetish of the Roman self ,
Though you gave me chance to visit the earth,
But in  crude culture circumcissionally agonized
I hate you august  for the demise of great lives,
You have swallowed to  remove a  living realm,
In the un-couth ways of cruelty  on horn of fate,
You ate Ceaser , Cleopatra and Catholic Paul john II,
I now caution and  warn you to stop your evil ways,
For the two fortnights  you will be  around wi’ us
Don’t scuttle man’s peace whatsoever possible,
Arcassin B Mar 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

"Stars"

I don't care,
I would change,
In the stars
Just for you,
Let's be sure,
Skies are blue,
Just enough to say your name,
Mary sue,
No issue,
Like hello,
How are you,
I see you,
I love you,
Everything we do,
Is cosmical.

"Proper Burial"

Wouldn't cross my mind,
I saw you fall out of the sky,
Crash landed,
Deep in the earth and,
I though you died,
You had a properly set burial,
We can almost see just what you're like,
I nearly cried,
I.

"Hurry"

I want you to hurry,
(I'll wait for you),
You don't want me to worry,
(I'll wait for you),
I can tell you my story,
(I'll wait for you),
Just looking for sympathy,
I see you now.

"To Close"

You're making me nervous,
Too close for comfort,
Do you ever wonder,
How much did you put in the effort,
Just To make it stronger,
Strong enough walls,
To get through the hunger,
Too close for comfort,
Unless your really comfortable,
Or you feel numb - er,
Guess your the only one out of us,
With make-up pasted sunburns,
But it was our go,
Its your turn.

"Proper Burial 2"

Looking so peaceful,
And peacefully crafted,
I could've loved your bits and pieces,
Of cut chicken in ceaser salads,
But I just thought that you would see,
My worth,
And for what its worth,
Just to see you rise from the dirt,
Passion fades,
But loves a curse,
And everything you did,
Was so supurb,
Like flavor in herbs,

But I'm just really glad you saw the concept,
In the sky and the stars,
But others are deceased,
This ain't a contest,
Monkey bars.

"~i would change for you~"

...and everything you do,
I would never lose,
Baby its just us two,
I would change for you.

"Stars 2"

I don't care,
I would change,
In the stars
Just for you,
Let's be sure,
Skies are blue,
Just enough to say your name,
Mary sue,
No issue,
Like hello,
How are you,
I see you,
I love you,
Everything we do,
Is cosmical,
Because I would change for you,
Mary sue.
I love this ❤❤❤
Kuvar Feb 2018
Right here in front of my computer
I don't need coffee but whiskey
So bad a trader tricky brisky
Hold onto dear life placenta
Coin market cap is my wall street
Cryto coins zip zag zoom pit pat piffy
Crypto news throws me wing Wong ****
Deardevils hodling coins from plummeting Ceaser
Traders can only make your money if you sell her
History moonwalk to 2013 the drunkenness of GameKyuubi,
Be calm I HODL it sting as bee but as honey it will be
Broken spined books
Lay atop him so casually
No man like he
Could feign such reality
Living in pages
Dancing with pictures
Reading his home
Always quoting scripture
Living in shelter
Of other men’s words
Out in the cold
Drifting off on the curb

Once he had chased
A whale great and white
Then followed the river
On a raft all night
He awoke, the next morning
On the beaches of Troy
Then sailed off to meet
An old man and a boy
“What are you two doing,
So far out at sea?”
“We’re catching our fish,
The old man and me.”
The next thing you know,
He was forced into war
And Scarlet O’Hara
Waved so long at the door.
Then he sought a crazed man
Down the African river
Who’s dark disposition
Made the strongest man shiver
He then met a ****** angel
Who’d fallen from high,
With paradise lost
And hate in his eyes
Then he met a rich man
Who said, “Good fortune has found me”
And spoke of his father’s wise words
So profoundly
Then the reader met
A bearded man on the grass
Who spoke of his captain
To all who would pass
While in the Utopia
He spoke unto Pip
Who warned him of dangers
He’d find on his trip
In king Arthur’s court
A knight did he arise
And the next day they named him
Lord of the flies
At a party with Ghatsby
His charm was a pleaser
And with noble Antony
He cried out “Hail Ceaser!”
He marched with Italians
From the first Great War
He heard from a bird
Who cried “Nevermore”
And with great Ulysses
He blinded a brute
And helped forty thieves
Carry their loot
Then he and Sun Tzu
With a blade in each hand
Led the Hollow Man
Into the Waste Land
A fearsome beast
Made of lightening and bone
Cried “Beware,
The life you save may be your own.”

And just as the Reader
Traveled in deep
The book fell to his side
He’d fallen asleep.
Ja'Mya Kidd Mar 2014
Fear fills me through and through,
As I lay in bed confused.
The numbness I had is leaving me,
The walls I built around me are breaking,
And slowly I'm beginning to feel- once again.
Although memories come back to me,
And the reasons why I chose this solitude,
Echo in the recess of my mind,
I fear this time it is not enough to help me escape,
The confrontations I have always avoided.
All I want to do is walk away.
Which till now has not been an incident rare.
But this once mastered art seems to have left its artist.
And thus like a traitor so much like a Brutus,
Stabbed another Ceaser in betrayal- though unfortunately not with killing intent.

Before their time I see them.
I see my cat- his furry figure white as snow,
Speckled with brown here and there- lay,
As still as the floor that holds him.
I see my dear little sister- still unsure of my disposition!
I see my mother- still decisive and calculating, but praying.
I see my father- still hoping in spite of my own lack of faith.
And I see my dear beloved cousin- still wiping away my tears and fighting away my fears,
With no more than a smile upon her lips,
Standing by me,
A silent guardian watchful.
Nursing an animal with more scars than he would care to exhibit.
All of them I see,
Their faces so white,
Their dark eyes so grey.
A sight so distant from now.
And yet I am somehow compelled to believe in its overwhelming proximity,
And wonder in despair.

Fear fills me through and through,
As I lay in bed confused.
Asking "why?"- a question answered long ago.
Still I am unwilling to stand by breathing,
As I watch them, one by one, abandoning me for an eternity.
If nothing else,
I have learned Time to be my greatest adversary.
So I humbly pray,
For Time to be my greatest teacher.
Rhys Oct 2020
Those that weep,
oh weep ‘neath the shadowy, masked spectre of dreamless sleep,
where time refuses to define the state of the lost divine.
These are feeble sheep whom tragedy is want to reap,
whom when faced with fire turn away from the truth of its healing heat,
it is the Shepard’s of the herd who hurdle false virtues with tenacious leaps.

But why oh why should the best of mankind’s minds all dwell on the tortured side of hell?
They either submit to their anguished musings
or are crowned with the fruits of their immaculate offerings,
there is no compromise.
But who has brought back from the abyss, the truth of it?
and who only offers the seedlings of their sufferings?

Was it Nietche shielding the beaten beast of burden?
Was it Mark Twain is his converse between young and old,
of which motor best foretold mans immortal soul?
Was it Nero playing his fickle fiddle whilst Rome was razed to rubble?
Was it Jim Morrison dying with his wine upon the vine
whilst Indian ghosts crowned his fragile eggshell mind?
Was it Bobby Dylan with his ever changing soul touching his bones via lucrative lexicon?
Was it Julias Ceaser as he crossed with hardened heart across the rubicon?
Was it Buddha sitting ‘neath the quiet of his tree whilst the void whispered to thee?
Was it Jack Kerouac upon that rolling road of soulful life,
embracing with equal measure all love and ceaseless strife?
Was it the nameless brave whom have been lost to the ages
of times endlessly cascading pages?
Will it be You in your pursuit
of what your inner vision holds true?
Will it be me in my turbulent sea of bleeding dreams?
None can say but death itself, for he holds the skeleton keys
I used some of Jim Morrisons poetry to articulate the truth of his condition, I hope this leans within fair use, I will revise if otherwise
Martyn Grindrod Mar 2019
Springs first morning
Freshness unmistaking
The larks early call
Their singing did befall

A roving along this wondrous path
I viewed a chiselled epitaph
Etched into splendid Larch
Read 'beware the Ides of March'

Perhaps a soothsayers warning
Was unexpected this Spring morning
This is so nondescript
Had I stumbled upon a Crypt

This isn't a Roman arch
It's merely a tree of Larch
This is not ancient Rome
This is not a catacomb

Twas the 15th day of March
I found the secret of the Larch
Words weren't scribed by t'other factors
than a mere plethora of actors

It was the scene of a play
of Ceasers fateful day
where Brutus and Cassius
hatched a plan to **** Julius

A roving first day of Spring
Where Butterflies Flutter, bees did sting
Down wondrous path i passed
Where Ceaser breathed his last

Martyn Grindrod
March 15th is the date for the saying
' Beware the ides of March'
Where Julius Ceaser met his death at the hands of his supposed friends Brutus and Caasius .
Lexie Jun 2018
light up the walls of my paper thin soul
such that I would burn out
would you be more careful
if my fuse was shorter than it is now

this fuse; she has been blown
out of water and reality alike
many a time, and many a time again
when consent was but a dying lie

and this she calls her dying art
to live each day as if a few had never happened
as if such shadows did not cling to her heels
like every memory was a not a venomous snake

if you bit into her memories
they would not taste like your own
the are unfamiliar in their rendering
and foolish in their aftertaste

the lingering scent of midnight tears
and a thousand scars, each handmade
wrought into her body and the backs of her eyes alike
only some will heal, and only some fade

others, like your own eyes
you forgot they are their
until you turn to the glass
and find only your soul looking back

what could you shut out
if you had a door in your mind
some nights would you lock it
like you lock away me in your life

to stow away like voyagers on a ship
not a care to where it would go
only that it takes you far and it takes you from
all that you have known and that has forced its memory upon you

silent and serpentine these dreams pass
through my shoulders and across my cheeks
into the hollowness of my head
to writhe in agony in a dying light

and still these lights they flicker in the wind
would that you would close the window
but still my soul shivers in anticipation
of the knife to my heart, oh Ceaser's ghost hear me

would you even hear the depth of my scream
as it calls to you in the shadows of my mind
here I hold you, twixt hand and sternum
such that you would ever cling to me

I am but a fool, secure in my own folly
and that which I stand upon is treacherous
the closing of my eyes will not steady my legs
and stamina oh she has abandoned us long ago

I am weak in all but that I have done before
the anxiousness of my bones is a crutch and I crumble
like the walls of a tower without a foundation
and such is this I stand upon

soon I too shall fall into the earth
her waters shall reach me in the end of days
and pull me out, to be one with wind and waves
oh a memory sunk to the abyss

such is this
a candle heart
and a paper thin dream
just enough life
to ignite a soul

burning out
among the stars
Livin' out the rest of my years,
Through the blistful memories,
Replays of the old days,
To reunion playin' the ol' says,
Smooth r&b classics, life is a journey, yet to be mastered,
Learned some new friends, is better than old friends,
Thinkin, where would i fit in,
This new society,
Broke the comfort zone, now im out of my zone, all alone,
Seems like when thoughts begin to hone,
Me many visions, guard my powers within', cuz if they see ya dwellin, thats when the jealousy starts swellin',
Aint no tellin', from friends family to foes, and switched up my wardrobe,
Never let them know ya next move, **** this beat is smooth,
Miss ya pa and ma,
Thats my grandma to grandpa,
That real love, twenty plus years of marriage, and many babies on carriage,
Black families gather in unison,
They spendin' billions,
To dim the light of our daughters to son, guard ya kingdom,
Know the target is kids, if ya read the bible, you'll see the planned of evils, behind the pyramid,


Missin' my folks that passed before me,
Birthed in this earth legacy,
How can get a chance to be,
The best version of self,
But everywhere i look,
I see death, staring at us everyday, no matter what we say,
And the images that display,
Reflection rejection of old age progession,
Let wisdom be my smiff and wesson, to learn me lesson,
Black to gray hairs, with my wifey,
We one of a pair,
No need for secret affairs,
Yeah i dont gotta go there,
Im her Ceaser, shes my Cleopatra,
But ain't hate in this chapter,
Or brutus to intrude us,
Took alot of pain, but it didnt bruise us, cruise to this,
Mellow accent, listenin' to Smokey, makin' miracles,
Puffed the cigars in circles,
We made it, now my haters can save it, critics craved it,
Stand on ol' morals, bringin' back the family values,
We sit at the table, eat good everyone playin' they role,
Like they should,
Nuclear skills, bomb on these flows like pops that fill,
Shakes all over the globe, the ending is near, prepared for the angelic wings, with golden robe,
Z Jan 2022
Sundays she screams "Praise the Lord" for keeping me,
For bringing me through the week
From the fight she fought so meek.
Sundays she screams "Lord and father please",
To take her through another week,
To be devoured by Ceaser's sharpened teeth,
Pain and stress meets her at her peak.
Tears, sweat and blood running down her cheeks,
Yet she smiles and you don't hear the frustration when she speaks.
I call her mother and Queen,
Because she's the strength that live in me,
That make me want to be the best me that I could ever be.
Sundays she screams to the top of her voice,
With any song of her choice,
Singing the pain that reflected on her chest,
Dancing away her time to rest.
Still feeling the mortal pain that rocks her flesh,
Sundays she screams "Father Lord look over me" and the trials she's about to meet, pushing her feet
Ready for the new heat, ready for the streets,
To rebuke the devils peace and again her children's feast until Sunday she screams.
Tony Grannell Apr 16
“A *** of Earl Grey, Twinings, of course;
loose tea, not those contemptible teabags.
And I have decided on, the three-tiered
melody of afternoon dainties,
the array with the slivered salmon,
with a side serving of lemon,
halved and thinly sliced, mind you.
One is never awarded with
an adequate amount of lemon
with one’s salmon,
and do remove the rinds
and those irritating pips.
Furthermore, do inform chef,
no foreign muck, Scottish salmon
and to make sure it is unsmoked,
smoked salmon and lemon, uncivilized!
Unheard of, I tell you.
And God forbid if served on anything other than silver,
l shall scream.
Do you hear me?”
“I do, madam.” Replied the waiter.
“Good, off with you then,
tout suite, tout suite.” She snapped,
whilst lighting a slender, slim-tipped Davidoff,
seized between her burgundy coated lips.
Her effort successful and when realized,
exhaled, pouted and extinguished the lambent stem
with a deft puff; aware, cautious and determined
in keeping ash-free her legendary silk dress,
often the focus of many an afternoon tea gathering.
Such gatherings, once the highlight of one’s day.
A quotidian ritual, herself, a most ardent sipper,
and considered by many, the grandeur
of such social occasions.
Who, when called upon, no matter what,
always delivered with zest milled exuberance
and the accorded pleasantries,
to solve, enhance or decorate
any situation, as needs must and wants demand
and as always, handled with class,
decorum and quaint properness.
Leaving all and sundry
who sought her assistance
for pleasure or otherwise
midst the silverware, bone china,
pastries and scones,
in jolly good spirits.
A most admirable quality
as was her loquaciousness,
never, not even for a moment, dull,
in keeping with her outlandish dress sense,
prowess in the bedchamber
and her legendary rumour-mongering.
As for her resolve, not unlike
her blue-tinted perm,
ever steadfast, no matter the prevailing winds.

Sadly, unforeseen circumstances intruded
and that most splendid of traditions
was abandoned some months past.
Until today, that is, it being such a beautiful day,
she decided to resume
that, which she, so very much enjoyed
prior to the, aforementioned interference.
A spur of the moment decision,
as was her way,
leaving her with no time
to offer invitations to her flock.
She would have to wing it alone.

As etiquette dictates and she,
its most obedient servant,
was observed, turned out,
in compliance with the
dress code for an afternoon’s excursion
into the elegant pleasures
of tea-sipping and dainty-nibbling,
though a tad over ostentatiously so.
A collage of pearls, pendants,
plumes and a pretty-in-pink parasol
accessorising her meagre physical enticements
into stately pomposity,
topped off with a generous plastering of maquillage,
befitting Madame de Pompadour herself,
and all this, in a rich silk dress,
embroidered with a flourish of
Chinese peonies, precariously flaunted
on a finely glossed pair of
puce red three-inch high stilettoes
with a three-figure price tag.
She was to be splendidly complemented upon
if one were to stray into her
perfumed drenched purlieu,
where she was displayed,
sitting blushingly plump
at an ero marquina marble
topped table, dressed for two.
A hoary, blue-tinted socialite
amongst a ghastly scattering
of low browed, ill-mannered diners
and to her abhorrent dismay,
a seating of dusky-hued foreigners.
“How utterly awful!”
She, griping to the empty chair.
Seventy-four years of airs and graces,
waited upon, pampered and now, afternoon tea
on the veranda of her favourite hotel.
Were it not for the hoi polloi,
bliss would have been opulently seamless.

“To return after a few months’ hiatus
and now this, this lot,
what is the world coming to?
Whoever allowed the common herd entry, is beyond me.
Must ruffle the flock and make known
to management, one’s profound displeasure.”
She, vexing to herself.
Until then, defended her table,
armed only with intentional disregard
to all outside her haughty dominion.
Stood her ground in highbrowed conspicuity,
Davidoff plumes
and mutterings of disgust,
focusing mainly on the dusky interlopers.
Who obviously necessitated no appreciation
or had any comprehension
whatsoever as to the formalities or graces
associated with the stately
modus operandi of afternoon tea.
“Tut-tut-tut.”
She tut-tutted to herself.
Continuing, in silence, her detest
whilst awaiting one’s treats.

“I’ll play mother.” She demanded,
when the waiter arrived,
slapping his hand away from the teapot,
an unsavoury trespass,
somewhat dusky, himself.
She, alone, would pour the tea
and did so with composure
albeit lacking grace,
a consequence of age.
Four lumps of sugar
plink-plonked from a pair
of silver-plated tweezers
and with a raised pinky
poured from a silver-plated jug
a trickle of milk,
liking her tea, hot,
very hot
and stirred clockwise
with her right hand
whilst holding a pair of
handheld spectacles in her left,
through which, scrutinized
the three-tiered display
of afternoon niceties,
as usual, in frowned silence
until satisfied that everything was,
as instructed and to her pleasure.
Contented, “Capital!“ She exclaimed,
followed with a snarling dismissal of the waiter,
“Off with you then!”
“Of course, madam.” He replied,
as would a lamb obey a wolf.

Her first choice of deliciousness
was a delicately layered pastry,
politely picked from the lowest tier.
As was her custom, always dined
from the bottom, up.
The top tier usually the sweetest,
dessert, as it were.
Herself, having a sweet tooth
as evident in her triple chin,
puffed jowls
and strained corset.
Biting off a morsel, during which,
holding a napkin beneath her three chins,
to keep crumb-free her legendary silk dress.
Her burgundy-bloated lips never parting
as she patiently chewed, allowing the flavours
to release their delectable secrets.
The chef’s skills overwhelming her taste buds
with a palette of scrumptious mysteries.
She paused, oohed and
declared with shrilled enthusiasm,
“Oh, this is absolutely delic…”
when realising, her husband,
that unforeseen circumstance
now four months into rot,
downed in a hunting accident
when the boar fought back,
and there, facing her, she found herself
talking to an empty chair
on the veranda of their favourite hotel
whilst the acursed boar remained at large.

Her Ceaser, his Throne, their Empire.
“Absit omen!” Beseeched her pathetic hopes,
inwardly knowing, fantasy would not oblige.
An ineffable feeling of loneliness befell her.
As if plucked from one’s pleasure by
the memory of another, now dead and buried.
Chewing for solace but to no avail,
the delicate pastry losing its flavours
as the peculiarities of loss
welled over the tiered array of make-believe.
Striving, as inconspicuously as possible,
to stave off the embarrassment of grieving in public.
However, such was the intensity of her distress,
her efforts were futile,
eventually succumbing
to the uncontrollable tears of grief.
Unbecoming her demeanour,
she faltered, the imperial dye
laundered away in the wash of sorrow,
etiquette violated.
Alone, a lady of no companion,
crying like a lost child desperate for affection.
A weeping remnant
of a once glittering society.
Its Ceaser: her beloved,
who now,
but a gored corpse.

Her inappropriately timed outpourings,
gloat-fodder for the present peasantry,
whose gawking intrusions made it
so unbearably degrading,
especially here, on the veranda of her favourite hotel,
where afternoon tea was a truly delicious occasion.
Such an appropriate ritual
complementing a most gracious way of life,
and now, for commoners, dusky foreigners and servants
to bear witness to the, often hailed,
much loved, doyenne of decadence,
usurped by grief,
destroyed in humiliation
and not a friend when one needed most.
Her pompous maquillage smudged to insignificance
by the salty residues of a weeping heart.
At a table dressed for two
sat a miserable creature, forsaken,
banished to the cold-hearted states of loneliness,
displayed in naked vulnerability
and a stained silk dress.
And to think, the rumours will be unbearable.

“There, there; it’s okay.” Whispered the waiter,
rushing to her aid, placing his arm gently around her shoulders
and she, leaning into his chest,
inconsolable; crying, pleading,
“Don’t leave me, please, don’t leave me.”
“There, there; it’s okay.” He whispered,
as he tried to calm the arrogant racist *****
pining relentlessly for her arrogant racist cur,
as would a lamb lick the wounds of a fallen wolf.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2023
TIME'S ARROW

so: once again
my time machine
fails to work

I curse
and now
my mobile is gone

missing
where ever
could it be

but unbeknownst to me
my mobile has been
transported

back into
the very distant
past

where Cleopatra
takes a selfie
and laughs

she even adopts
the selfie pout
loves her magic machine

takes pic after pic
does my nose look
too big in this

previous pics
depict her with
"Ceaser babeee!"

and here she is
on a date eating datesn
with that honey Anthony

the last
with an asp
as the battery dies

the mobile
now lost
in time

oh the things
my mobile has seen
you wouldn't believe

whilst here
I am
stuck in the present

failed scientist
crying into his beer
wondering where

It all went
wrong going over
his calculations yet again

and wondering
where oh where
can his mobile be

reading an article
about a sacred
Egyptian artefact

only recently
discovered
and well well

what do you know
if that isn't
my own i-phone...
Aiyo ******* to ****** ain't **** I'm cold legit
My bullets spit then split all of ya  ligaments
Too legit too quit no **** we never sell out to corporates
And you ******* can ******* slicker than rick
Living in a young world it's just me and my girl
**** the pearls my rhymes swirl leave ya mental in a curl
That's the way it goes eating ya earlobes
With lyrical acid **** the finest hoes of Aztec
Check my tech that's get mad wet once the heats ejects
Fools sending me their threats but I'll always jet
Across the borders cookin' up the hottest orders
None could ignore tha coldest brother laid like a torah
Too ******* feelin' like Shakur bring chaos more than Baltimore
Who wanna battle more
I'll leave ya head ******* with mad blood on the floor
Black ceaser not a pleaser to the weakest rhyme
Beatin' all of my opponents with just sixteen lines


Laying bars ya won't forget ahhh **** raw tactics
It's another hit as Makin' my way to the classics
Black magic adversaries get covered in plastic
Families shedding tears cuz I invoke fear
Then appear in ya nightmare Kruger pioneer
Burn alot o heat on my street its a pistol to ya melon
Where life and the edge of death meets stiffin' ya feet
Sweep out competition til it's completely obsolete
Sound asleep as the night skies weap my conscious leaps
Into my worried thoughts until a brought
Into the universal patterns laid rings more than Saturn
Around my mental I'm close to the Christ celestial
Sit back as I pound you with the
Lyrical vessel
Stress you til you in the ground lowered for proper burial
Eshwara Prasad Nov 2020
The Brutus in me
is waiting for Ceaser.

— The End —