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Bow Jan 1
I hate when people cry
almost
for me
seems
a little
pathetic

you hear them breathe
with their mouth
their nose
is clogged up

cling onto the past
poor woman
poor heart

crying in the bed beside
me

poor nose
poor mouth

stop crying
I hate it

I hate when people cry in front of me
I've never done such thing
so vulnerable
sensitive
a sense of weakness
yet powerful presence
makes me uncomfortable

I can't help but wonder
ʷʰʸ ᵃʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᶜʳʸⁱⁿᵍ
ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵈⁱᵈ ʰᵉ ˢᵃʸ?

ᴵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ ᶜᵒˡᵈ
ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᵗʳᵉᵃᵗ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ'ˢ ᵉᵐᵒᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ʷᵉˡˡ
ʷʰᵉⁿ ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᶜᵒⁿᵗʳᵒˡ ᵐʸ ᵒʷⁿ
When Dagobert adorned Franco caves,
Clovis iniquity built a realm portentous?
Ate fruit from olden, -licentious ways…

Portentous realm thus be-stow-ed,
No king in truth but a nave?
Nave only to a Catholic po-et.

Hearken crier old kingdom days,

Oh Franco brave!
Oh Franco brave!

Oh Franco brave!
Oh Franco brave!

In regret of Dagobert's disturb-ed grave.
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
They come amongst
a cacophony of noise
and clutter, little voices,
uttering unintelligible sounds,
amid giggles and laughter.
Sometimes it's pushing
and shoving,
"Mom he's touching me!"

Leaving as they go a trail,
of ever changing strange things,
like dropped Legos, paper airplanes
rubber band and old bent nails.

Once I found, to my otter amazement
A freshly dead intact Grasshopper,
Neatly folded up in brightly colored
Special Occasion Wrapping paper.
A gift no doubt from one of them,
left right out, on my Dinning Room Table.

Other times they emerge slow and stealthy
a  pair of Ninjas, all in black and scary.
Or as merely Batman and Robin,
Maybe Spidy and the Incredible Hulkster,
All of their personas assuredly entertaining.

As they barge through my door,
they tend to sing loud a lot,
True, squeaky, off key, yet sweetly.
Most are songs I've never heard,
Or just made up for the moment.

If I'm a little down, feeling kind of blue
five minutes with them is a sure cure
Funk gone in a flash, replaced by nothing
but happy.

Consummate story tellers they can be,
The nine year old should be the "Town Crier".
No news fit to print, ever went untold
from his lips, always relayed with such gusto.
Ask him a simple "How was your day?"
and he will recite 15 minutes of vivid detail,
all for my very delighted amused approval.

The six year old is sweet enough to eat,
Always bright blue eyes a flashing,
Not to be outdone, he will try his best,
to **** right in and share his days happenings.
Little brothers need always to try harder.

We all three laugh and joke,
and sometimes I break out,
the oh so dreaded "tickle fingers",
chase them all around 'till I catch one
and then for sure their screams of delight
and giggles do indeed fill up the room,
not to mention my old soft heart as well.
These little boys are pure magic.

Watching them thrive and grow, is my tonic.
A battery charger I can't get enough of.
Smart, charming, funny, sweet, cute and happy,
the loves of an old man's life. With them around,
who needs another.

They are a precious gifts from my kids, their
Mother and Father. Another chance to have
children close, be their loving guiding grandfather.

In them I see my son as a child, now a fine
grown man, In those boys I see the very
reason I was put on this Earth,
A life of human creation, come full circle.
Pagan Paul Nov 2018
.
The hypotenuse stretched
as far as the eye could see,
across a vast lateral plain
an horizon mathematically perfect.
And yet …
In the main square of the hypotenuse
the town crier bellowed out tidings.
The Triangle Triumvirate was unstable,
the discovery, nay re-discovery,
of the Mystery, the most horrific of Mysteries,
the Mystery of the missing
Fourth-Side.

Dweeb was a box standard barbarian.
Quick to anger, slow of wit.
Like last night at dinner.
He had Three potatoes, his sister had Four.
He shouted and thumped the table,
his angry voice expunging his ire.
Then his sister had explained,
to calm and reassure him.
Three was more than Four
because it had Five letters in it.
And Five is more than Four.
He thought about his axe,
then about his abacus,
and then he ate his spuds.

The Fourth-Side drifted in spacial isolation.
Of course now it wasn't a Side.
Being attached to nothing, it was just a line,
but it had some tricks.
It could coil and curl itself
to form rude words in joined up writing.
It floated on reminiscing,
about the **** angles it had made
with all its previous adjacent lovers.
The memory caused spasms
and it formed into a rude word
that should never ever be written down.

Teena, Dweeb's sister, vomited.
She had kissed a puppy,
and was being sick in the morning,
was she pregnant?
But, it was never a puppy, always a stork.
He mum had told her, warned her
'never kiss an errant stalk'.
Her mum died of the pox, whatever that is.
Something clicked in her head.
Oh! Stork and stalk!
Well they do sound the same,
especially in a harsh barbarian accent.
But the puppy had sneezed
as she had kissed it goodnight.
She thought about her axe.
And then she threw up again.


Equations to be solved #7
Vlad the Impaler was a Barbarian
+
Vlad the Impaler was a Libra
=
Dracula was a Librarian?



Right Angle was worried.
Duly so.
If the Fourth-Side Mystery was solved
he'd have three other Right Angles to deal with,
instead of a sixty and a thirty.
The Triangle Triumvirate would cease.
An intense Quadrilateral Mexican stand-off
would ruffle his perfect two-seventy external.
He had to divert attention away,
far, far away, from the Fourth-Side.
By Jove he had it! Bingo!
Let them try to solve
the Mystery of
The Back-Side.

Dweeb loved winding up his sister.
So he hid her puppy in a box.
But now he was worried.
Was the puppy still alive?
Or dead? Or both?
This may sound like a ****** stupid question
but where did that last thought come from?
Yes!
Yes what?
Yes, it was a ****** stupid question!

Teena though it very strange.
When she rang the dinner Triangle
the cat sat on the mat,
Salivating!
Curiouser and curiouser.
Conditioned response or learnt behaviour?
Teena dismissed the thought line,
she didn't ask ****** stupid questions.

It had no idea
about its status as a Mystery.
The Fourth-Side has issues.
Complicated issues.
It had somehow conspired
to tie itself in a knot.
And spacial isolation had become crowded.
Missing links everywhere, the sofa of time,
excommunicated integers, 1970's wallpaper,
it all floated about in spacial isolation.
Above all Fourth-Side was intensely agitated.
Couldn't anyone quieten that yapping puppy?




© Pagan Paul (06/11/18)
.
My psychedelic washing machine mind on spin cycle!

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/29495/strange-world/
.
zebra Jul 2018
Lover
Linker
Licker
Killer
Thriller
Sucker
Thinker
Stinker
Maker
Shaker
Faker
Breaker
Fucke­r
Burner
Crier
Cutter
Perforator
Shooter
Impaler
******

oh I forgot cannibal
and
I'd love to have you to dinner


.
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.


No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.


Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.


No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.


No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Kara Jean Jul 2016
The moment I feel it
The point I've figured it out
Seconds away from being a whole
A mind in control
The walls,
The house,
My world
begins to sweat
Melting
Swelling
My heart feels irony in my soul dying
I run frantically
There's still time everyday
We scream and pray
Fixated on a break
To bad it's on fire
Others envy as you rise higher
If only they knew your heart was tired
Self-worth never acquired
Still we run
The winding path kissing your morning breath
Progress
Nothing changes
Time to admit
Your heart finally turned to charcoal
The darkness has no forgiveness
Somewhere in the middle section
Helpless
With a world full of alcohol, tears and desires
No one notice you were a crier
You sit in loneliness
Proving you're a ******* fighter
There is still life in the smoldering soul
One day the run won't be so tiring and old
Hope or bitterness hits and you die in emptiness
Cleanse me in a chlorine pool
My white dress floats
Eleganntly holding my figure together as my skin burns off
God screams
No one hears
I sit in a universe I only see
Mother Earth stop haunting me
A dream form made to torment her
Today we lay no longer breathing
Free is still currently a lie we put into our speech
I lay lifeless in a straight jacket built upon fear
Terry O'Leary Oct 2014
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
          .
                     .
                                .
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.

Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.

Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
          .
                     .
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid  at times like these.

But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.

Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.

In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
          .
                     .
                                .
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
          .
                     .
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"

We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …

Such things as these, most may admire:
          - placid dove and war defier
            (some are bolder, some are shyer)
          - patience (mess-up mollifier);

          - humankind (Life's justifier)
          - charity (charmed self-denier)
          - tolerance (proud pacifier )
          - love of Life (folk unifier).


What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?


No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.

So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
"if not the gnat,
the gnat is naught..."
ANON

Hmmm... wonder what that means...
Graff1980 Dec 2018
History is a pendulum
swinging perilously
back and forth
over our shared humanity.

Slicing bitterly
at the air above me
with a visceral hatred
for all the good things
I hoped we could be.

Kinder to hater,
forgiving to denier
loving to crier
sharper it slices
cutting the air cleanly
leaving me feeling it keenly.

Wild rhetoric
going viral,
virus of ******* words
spreading like the plague,
a poisonous and bubonic phage.
I struggle to stop it,
this rising tide
of tired tirades,
republican charades
turning different skin shades
into the enemy.

These neighbors are our family,
but the pendulum sees them
separated by the serrated blade,
exhausted by the hate
and violence that blazes.

History returns to sicken
my sorrowfully stricken
heartbeat.
French rose Dec 2018
My boy's being sus and he dont know how to cuss he just sounds like his trying to be his father My boy's and **** crier but his such a pretty liar
This not my work its a part from billie eilish song my boy
Check her out if you dont know her shes such a good singer
And her song are meaningful
By: Cedric McClester

Babylon hath fallen
Said the crier to the town
And all the graven images
Lie broken on the ground
So eat drink and arise ye princes
At the trumpet’s sound
And gather ye in the houses
Where salvation is found

For thus hath the Lord
Sayeth onto me
Gather up the scribes
To record what they see
If evil’s in the land
Thou can’t just let it be
If your claim to fame
Is that you worship Me

Behold the man who insists
That he holds no blame
For the evil that he does
In his country’s name
He makes the children suffer
Just because they came
To this land of promise
That isn’t quite the same

Beware that your silence
Also makes a sound
When good people do nothing
They too are hell bound
Like someone who demands the flesh
Of others by the pound
One day they’ll lie prostrate
Trembling on the ground




Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2019.  All rights reserved.
Robin Lemmen Feb 4
I always trust the wrong person
With remnants of my heart
Giving away parts of me
They think they want
But reality is messy
Fantasies write better on paper
And fights are only romantic in movies
I am an **** crier
A malicious fighter
An incredibly complicated version of normal
I whisper to myself to make me feel special
Life is nothing like they will tell you
Because it's incomparable to anyone else's
I don't know where I belong
I have seen many a place
But home is a concept to me, estranged
I am young but sometimes the world
Makes me feel so old, soul heavy
I wish I knew
How to turn anxious thoughts into
Precious gold for I would surely
Be the richest of them all
Melochany moods sipping ice coffee
In my underwear tapping along
To my favorite album
I find solitude in music
I find peace in unexpected places
But stray from comfort found in strangers
Help me, is all I know to ask
But when offered I refuse
I am the biggst burden of all, to myself
Ralph Akintan Mar 30
Strutting stuttering town crier
Crying, howling and barking
But dews of cry spilling
Over blighted ears of a messed
      mildews.
Obduracy of hearts prevented
Waves of warning.
Binding the wings of wisdom
Behind the altar of recriminations.
Let your crying pierced
Through grommet of grimy
      grubby spivs,
And exhume foetus of righteousness.

Strutting stammering bellman
Howling for attention of inattentive
      sullen audience.
Poles of attention standing
Away from the lobes of ideas
Murmuring with inattentive agenda
Like the babbling of a rustling
      dry leaves.
Say your saying
Out of the babel of noises
Cry your crying
To the congested muddled
      market of voices.
Tricorne hat's bellman
Howl your howling to the strangers
      from the strange land.
Aléa Boodoo Jan 30
Tell me that you love me, scare me to think you want the fire
I only love those I can turn into a beautiful crier
So if pain, hurt, and destruction is your desire
I’ll play my game.
You feed my flame.


I hope I don't purposely fry her
12/30/2018

— The End —