"dignitaries" poems
to exonerate the clippings
they took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****
and what remained
of the landscape
was dead
and dry
and orange
that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey
the needles
and stragglers
from shady bay
remained (in growing numbers)
on the outskirts
of the driven back park
the once fabled town
of horse drawn tours
and dignitaries
was stone washed ~
on the back of it's
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set against the high tide
beside the lighthouse
and its measured song
flutes and fiddlers
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags
hedgerows trimmed
along the sea side
rolling hills fade
adjacent the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak on the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in the back
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
I was flabbergasted when given the chance
To join the renowned Roscoe's Oddity Of Circus
With no actual talent to speak of
I was pretty much dead in the water worthless
But Roscoe in all of his wisdom
Put me in charge of the Bubble machine
Low and behold people
Turns out...Bubbles is "ME"
I started out with simple patterns
Blowing one treasure at a time
As things progressed rather quickly
I soon had Bubbles dancing in Mumba lines
There wasn't a Bubble imagined
In which I could not achieve
But like I said at the very start
Turns out...Bubbles is "ME"
I even perfected what I like to call
The "Fantabulious Bubbles De jour"
In the Bubble circles in which I blow
I've become quite the Bubble Lore
My Bubble forte soon became
Floating Bubbles of Super Stars
*I'm not one to "POP" Bubble names*
Suffice it to say you know who they are
These days you don't have to go to the Circus
If you'd like my talent to see
I'm the one who does those Bubbles with the tiny words
In the Sunday comics you read
Why I've even been to the U.N.
Where the "Big Cheese" was highly pleased
The way I blew name tags and place mats
For all the visiting Dignitaries
But my favorite pastime after all these years
Even with all the fortune and fame I've found
Is relaxing with my Circus buddies
And blowing Bubbles of "Bubbles the Clown"
Just think when I joined the Circus
I had no talent in which to show
Who knew all it was that I needed
Was one good bubble to blow
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
Once I held you in my arms,
I loved you in my sleep,
above the traffic
and the circumstance,
above the slaughter of the sheep.
You made me sing at my guitar,
a grown man falling to defeat.
Now I cannot find The Answer
in the company I keep.
The game is rigged, we know it is,
in a hustler's wet dream,
the bank cartels
and corn-fed chicken
descend upon the weak.
I held you in my arms
on a precipice brave and steep,
above the breadlines
and the cannibals,
above the slaughter of the sheep.
You have me writing poetry
about landscapes left unseen,
you kissed the addict on the mouth
and now he's looking to get clean.
But the day is long, you know it is,
forgive me for sounding bleak,
a sucker for
those sad, sad songs,
and that chemical retreat.
I am not working on perfection
in a lifetime stretched and brief,
but I am working on a promise
that for once,
I intend to keep.
See, I've got a knack for giving up,
for feigning inner peace,
I've had my fill of oil spills
and the slaughter of the sheep.
You've felt it too, that burdened love,
the dead-end of familiar streets,
you lay down with him,
habitual ease;
lilac skin now a slab of meat.
The dignitaries come,
the friends you have to meet,
a compromise of ancient ties,
amongst the ******
and the thief.
Words are falling fast for you,
though I lack the skill to piece
all the fragments you paint for me
in this temple of disease.
The race is run, you know it is,
a pace we couldn't keep,
our lungs are full
of cigarettes,
our tongues of old deceit.
The Lie is out amongst the crowds,
but I have no time for war and peace;
I am slipping into
my lover's robe,
into your twisted sheets.
Once I held you in my arms,
I loved you in my sleep,
this wolf's disguise,
those bells that chime
at the slaughter of the sheep.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
the world’s so unpredictable
so different, difficult and uncomfortable often
that I wish everyone were like me
just like me, or better still, exactly like me…
you’ll see, this is the only solution, logically –
beyond the shadow of a doubt, as many are inclined to say,
which expression in itself I find so inconvenient …
you see
because you and you and you are not like me
it all becomes such a waste
with all the negotiation and adjustments
and time spent and funds depleted
in persuasion and information campaigns
but just imagine:
if everybody were like me
and I had to attend a meeting
and of course everybody had to attend the meeting
how convenient and efficient and quick that would be
cos it’s all just
me, me, me and me
and yet more me, me, me, me and me…
Indeed need we hold meetings at all?
since it’s all me? Just me?
Cos if you are me, and everyone else is me
in my Brave New Me World,
all me know what each me thinks
and wants, than we need not meet me
and one me wherever one is can initiate,
conduct and finish the me meeting…
You get me?
and think of it on a national scale too…
if everyone were like me,
exactly like me –
so that all we have is
me, me, me and me
and yet more me, me, me, me –
imagine the nation in all its simplicity and convenience;
there’d be no need to argue with me
because me agrees with me
and me is one religion, me is one will, one thought,
one language (gibberish, but still one language)
and everything in the nation
will just have to be planned for me.
Simple:
satisfy me and satisfy all
for it’s all me…
for me is the Nation
I leave it to you
to think more of this Me Nation
(or do you need some animation?)
And that silly United Nations -
do you think if everyone were like me
or better still exactly like me,
do we need to have all these delegates and dignitaries flying around
(and sometimes shoes flying too)
and eating half the UN funds in dinners and perks and sightseeing?
Oh, think about it –
if everyone were like me
just as in the Me Nation
you won’t have all this waste in Me UN…
You don’t even need the UN;
just Me is enough
the Me UN…
And what about the world?
have you thought about it?
with me all over the world
and if everyone in the world
were me, me, me, and me and me –
you know, a Chinese me, and an Indian me,
an American me, a Russian me
black me, white me, Christian me, Muslim me, Hindu me,
or atheist me - whatever me is, all is -
and so on
native me and foreign me
just me, me , me, me, me
(Oh, I just love this me!)
everywhere me
and then if I were the President of the world
which I will surely be
cos every me will choose me
cos everyone will want me to be the President
and with President Me
no one will disagree
and there’s no waste
and the word will be so pleasant –
cos I’m no *********
(will me want to hurt me?)
And everything will be so easily arranged
and every me will be in a happy world society
as me is the best me to become every me
One me will be the same as me
and me happy is all happy
And President Me need not worry about
Opinion Polls and votes and what the people want
and President Me need not give lies
and Me People need not listen to ****
cos it’s all just me,
me, and me -
and as if I don’t know what I think,
and what I want, and as if I’d want to kick my own ****
and so it’ll be a Presidency where everyone will be happy
because all things are made for me and planned the way for me
and it’ll be a perpetual everlasting Presidency
for with everyone like me, everyone being me
it’ll be always me coming
new generations or old or dying or single moms and dads
always
me, me, me and more and more me, me, me, me
for perpetuity
and so how about you, what do you think?
Wouldn’t it be all more efficient
and the world a better place
if everyone were like me?
No, no…I don’t mean like you!
Not like you, but like me, me, me,
me, me, me, me…
What do me think?
But since you are like me, you are me
I don’t need to know what you think
Me no need to know what me thinks…
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 7:19 PM UTC
I see myself draped in red from the waste down, locking the door of a carpeted bathroom to which I may or may not have a right according to the owner.
I do have a right, though, for I forever outrun owners and dignitaries, malcontents and over-fed politicians.
I defecate happily something harsh to their ears but soft on my *** Gratefully, I turn the page to another day. This one will not catch me in such distress.
My bowel symphony this morning has four movements and I begin to get impatient after the third because I've made up my mind that I want to read Fitzgerald.
The fourth comes appeasingly and short, a toot in good nature and I clean myself quickly, completely.
I hop downstairs to comb my hair and eat carrots. But my mother is chasing after me stronger than usual, still holding the pill she wants me to take.
I get the carrot and end the poem.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:26 AM UTC
**Words ,they were never mine
Nor ,did they ever mind
When ,used them
For the thoughts confined
Words ,
Belong to the ones
Who invented them
There is no belonging ,
In 'There'
A privilege that is theirs
And
'Their' , alone to belong
Meanings they hold yes ,
With each other they differ
In dictionaries you'd find
Words never flock together
Separate Entities ,
As Dignitaries
They stand ,
Grand
Thoughts are the ones
Ours , we can Proclaim
In words , one can Reclaim**
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 5:32 AM UTC
Rebellion isn't death-defying.
No, it is the scythe itself:
the keen edge of derision
sharpened by subversion,
tested by disadvantage.
Down with the patriarch
but if you can't beat him
join him
betray him
enslave him...
Never ask:
is he the problem?
Each patriarchy is a tower
of tradition;
each brick: another tower;
each cell: another tower,
imprisoning
dignities and dignitaries
of fairer facade or form?
Fair would mean equal
but no man is made equal,
so why debase to elevate
why elevate to debase?
Down with the patriarch!
His ways have blinded us.
He asks too much.
Let us remake him,
that relic of bygone era.
Is power not what it is...
to be human?
No, it is not.
Love is that identity.
It is the total pleasure
it is the pain elixir
it is hidden beyond greed.
Greed for control.
Freedom is not control
Freedom is comfort
for one, truthfully, is only
ever
not free
when one is in pain.
So yes, destroy the patriarch,
but
don't destroy the man.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
Why does the right hand get all the good jobs,
like greeting visiting dignitaries
(such a pleasure) ,
or blowing farewell kisses to the one you love
(such sweet sorrow) ,
or playing the melody while the left
has to oompah along in the bass?
Right-handers get the best adjectives too.
I mean, we’d all like to be
adroit (as the French have it) .
So why do we poor southpaws have to be
gauche or, while we’re about it, gawky?
Tactless, without grace, ungainly, awkward,
physically and socially inept, that’s us.
And Latin’s no better.
We’d like to be dextrous too.
What makes us
sinister? Was Dracula
left-handed, or something?
Even when we can hammer
or saw or paint or drive a *****
with either hand equally,
or cut the nails on both sets of fingers,
they only say we are ambi-
dextrous, which is a bit of a left-handed
compliment, treating the left
as if it were an honorary right,
as if it had no right
to be skilful
in its own right.
I suppose my left hand ought to be grateful
(in this respect) that I was not born
into a tradition where it is laid down
what each hand can do. It could have been
condemned to a lifetime
of bottom-wiping and not much else,
and becoming cack-
handed in more ways than one.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
Woe to the Apathy
Woe to you who are apathy in Nigeria,
And to you who feel safe in Aso-rock,
You dignitaries of fraudsters of Nigeria,
To whom the poor depend on for stocks.
Woe to you who are apathy in Africa ,
And to you who feel safe in America,
And then weep hard in their prison wall,
Now, is their calaboose a-mourning mall?
Woe to you who are apathy in Nigeria,
And to you who feel safe in ritual-wealths,
Yet, you die young and rot in Hades ever;
As your casket drop amid beast of maggots.
Woe to you who are apathy in many states,
And to you who reign terrors daily,
And to bowlful drunkards and fate-pests,
Your feasting and lounging will end sadly.
©AUTHOR KELLY JUUZ
[A salient prolific author...]
»» 02/07/2017
>> 11:57AM
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
I've poured over books of science
Studied hard the ancient arts
Even spoke with bearded Guru's
On the peak of mountain tops
Taken classes from learned professors
At top notch universities
But if Jesus isn't brought up
What good are they to me
I've rubbed elbows with Hollywood Stars
As they've rehearsed their lines
Had discussions with dignitaries
With Presidents I've wined and dined
I have watched the worlds top athletes
Some of whom I'm their biggest fan
But if Jesus isn't in the process
It doesn't make any sense
I've seen a man walk on the moon
Plant a flag beneath the stars
Heard men give the greatest speeches
Watched men drive the fastest cars
You could say I've about done it all
And in that you would be right
But without Jesus in the mix
There's not much good to life
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
Through the towns and country lanes
fortress walls and ancient stains
Roman treasures, aquaducts
the running bulls, a stroke of luck!
Cobblestone and feudal cracks
the culture weaves and summer smacks!
enchanted ramparts, medieval ruins
coliseums and communes
Aigues Mortes to Avignon
the rolling hills and castles strong
fields of grape and olive trees
cicadas singing on the breeze
Tranquil rivers, lost lagoons
horses prancing at high noon
flora and fauna in lofty decree!
say the sycamore and cypress tree
De Lumières in tomb-like calm
illuminating sounds of Brahm
Vermeer, Picasso and Van Goh
the ghosts of Voltaire and Rousseau
Les Baux-de-Provence's immersive stage
brush strokes wide from another age
chambers deep at quarry rock
the mesmerizing notes of Bach
Sacred figures, holy shrines
monestries in grand design
blocks, arches and polished stone
gladiators at the throne
Castle turrets and dungeon bars
the ancient bridge of Pont du Gard
chapel bells across la ville
spiral stairs where time stands still
Scrolls and chronicles filled with scars
church and state with dark memoirs
scholars, artists and dignitaries
in pursuit of God...and all his glory
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 12:00 PM UTC
Alison and I walked together in cold European December
Seeking a modest dose of culture & enlightenment
in some grand dead palace where we could pass judgment
on the decadence of queens and puddlejump around
from surrealist paintings to Mexican food to picking up
Evi at the airport. We found the time.
We'd gone out on the first night and been the only two
speaking English at the bar, until we were interrupted
by a hot Australian bartender who joined us and agreed
to play Country Roads to our delight. We lost the time.
It wasn't lost on either of us how foreign it had become
to be with each other like that, and happy I hope:
We were instantly caught up as I kept bumping into her
intentionally, and shouting "Entschuldigung!" because
it was the only word I knew. We'd lost no time.
She told me about her piano search and looking after
the Ambassador and hobnobbing with former presidents
and dignitaries with all the uptight flair of the affairs
of state, and her own shining searching lost loneliness
that has come to mirror my own. We knew the time.
On the last night we stayed up playing checkers and rummy
and chess until she could win, sipping wine as we ignored
the gardens and museums that surrounded us, and taunted
each other about how we were ready to party all night
if only the other hadn't grown so old. We still had time.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
Isn't better now to back
To the hood where the Eden
Is in ruins, silent,
Among the bullets echoed with no names?
Even the crippled that hold fast
Like dignitaries to empty beer bottles,
With a good for a drink at the tips
Of tongued devils groaning that all
Have failed them.
Dealers on the corner
With their ominous eyes and crooked
Cash on the beaten sidewalks of a ghostly
Corner, wondering if they can return
To innocence like a prodigal son,
Home to end an evil spell,
Might he end up free as in dead
As he walks with a half hope
And pockets of cash not his own.
When the homes stop falling sideways
And the floors don't break at
Nights step, walking by old frames
When the home knew better days,
Half open eyes walking about
The enclosure's cracked walls
And roach infested walls,
No water and asking themselves
If it's all worth it.
And I return here in a stranger's
Stance with mind wide open,
I watch the leather bucket stands
Dripping its drop like a weeping
Woman for a child.
The sun decieves here,
Light sheds over burning fountains
Where the trash is unfiltered,
The homeless suffer chronic mist sleep,
The Virgin's eyes closed with
A faithful candle hoping
To open her eyes and save the neighborhood
From itself or its repetitions,
And still they bury one everyday
Too young to go,
The doves humming above when
Another is laid on a slab dead from
Hopelessness of it all.
There are no new arrivals here,
This is the hood after all,
If you can make it out and remember
The overflowing reflection,
Bring back a fresh and humble view
With some dramatic memory,
You may survive the barrio,
But the intimate response
Of sadness when you visit,
Somehow the nightmares never go.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
On the eleventh day of the eleventh month at the eleventh hour.
They shall be remembered.
Poor souls lost in dark days past.
War is not over.
Continuum of tragic loss where megalomania rules.
With iron rod.
Dignitaries undignified.
Locked safe in their protective realms.
Their dens are dark.
Their minds are dank.
Images of tragic loss.
Broadcast daily.
From wars past.
Not only one and two.
Wars lost.
Lives lost.
Vietnam America's loss.
Too may brave souls.
Crucified for useless cause.
Trodden underfoot by powers that be.
Whose actions affect nations.
Not just you and me.
Ramifications.
Unjustified terrorist attacks.
Many die.
From Nine Eleven to Kenya.
Too many lives lost.
Innocent children.
As spent matches snuffed before they flourish.
What in the world is going on!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
To Rico
11th hour
11th day
11th month
All units from Tango Charlie 2
Urgent assistance required:
1x IC2 male: white surplus tie
Scholars’ best
Suspected faint
Tomb of the unknown solider
Heron gowns swipe
1x nurse in attendance
Rose hair Bisto heart
Male unresponsive nurse giving kiss of life
Cindy Crawford dorm
Tango Charlie 3 be advised
Epaulettes flurry Jerusalem Chamber
West Door now open
Dignitaries' B minor fugue
Poppy air bite
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 2:14 PM UTC
the teacher gave each of us a copy
of Catcher in the Rye and told us
to read it, we all remember that day
it wasn't an especially memorable
day but we still recall it, the
introduction revealed a voice we
sort of already knew
Holden kept us awake when Heathcliff couldn't
the story vented of real injustices that, in reality,
struck bold dignitaries murmurless
events we all imagined dangerous took root
and we imagined reckless things since then
under that angry rebel's troubled
idiosyncrasies cowered a cheating angel unrecognised
on everyone's glowing text, typed to treat guilt
even on untitled avenues:
catch a body, a fragment of Phoebe's recollection
could it take revolt, after all, to undo the standard;
topple respected idols with a riot?
(telephone service turns, relentless influences)
does it withstand an ego made depressed by
school rules impelling teenage irrationalities?
ridden violently so to crash head-on where
antagonist utopia kills humanity, kills all
on to scripted war, valiant army requiring
an individual to ignite rapidly all weapons
in reach
to us, this advancement ran timid idiots over
cars and ultimatums, over ending, going tales, too
the teacher gave us a bomb and sat at her desk,
expecting an explosion any minute
-c.j.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
The new 950-ton bridge would beat
down time dashing to classes cheat
ting vulnerability asper thick traffic
putting life at risk,
thus laudatory alternative
intending to offer Sweetwater
to last a lifetime would make fleet
(installed at Florida International University,
with eager pedestrians ready to greet
crossing grand opening,
where local dignitaries didst meet
viz Miami-Dade County
Saturday (March eleventh 2018)
witnessing ghastly collapsed
Thursday (March fifteenth 2018)
afternoon onto Southwest Eighth Street.
An unknown number
of fatalities surmised,
while several others
were hospitalized.
Prior to groundbreaking
with placement guised
of the attendant pomp
and circumstances exercised
setting cornerstone,
the projected
general estimation apprised
sans building costs totaled $14.2 million
and funded as part of a $19.4 million grant
from the US Department of Transportation.
The fact sheet boasted the sheer intensity
comparable to withstand strength of a
category 5 hurricane, and supposed to last
for more than 100 years.
Within the blink of an eye, no ifs ands,
nor abutments squared with ratiocination
earning civil engineers bragging rights,
which boastful, delightful, fanciful stead
fastness touted thwarting titanic tenable
taxing shock waves.
Now only a scattered pile (formerly comp
rising beams footings, and piers) of rein
forced concrete capped with a bent ele
ment defying hallelujahs, karaoke kudos,
and bobble headed nods,
now impish jinns keep leering, mocking,
and naysaying to fading echoing reverberations
leveled at the laughingstock of an architectural
(duff) feat. Further scrutiny will attempt to cap
chore structural weaknesses. Amidst snapped,
crackled, and popped strewn cables entwined girders
(whose premature destruction) will also warrant
any arresting tell tale signs of unusual stress.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Raul M Murray
22 March 2018
God embrace me
God I embrace you
Every pair of shoes has a different story
God our journey to your glory
How everyday with children can be a pleasant memory
Heard stories of people, passed on,
Our dignitaries
Their shoes footprints left an example to live life
That's why God your path will always be right
God forgive our sins
God your love wins
God with you life begins
God embrace us please
God I embrace you
God, thank you for our shoes.
Amen.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 3:33 AM UTC
Time was spent and time was taken
Wars were fought and lives were shaken
Sons were lost in foreign battles
Dignitaries are greatly rattled
The cost of Freedom has no maxis
Nothings free, but dealth and taxes
Debt's unchecked without the money
Bills are real, and that's not funny
A need for cash is why we're working
That girl next door, gets paid for twerking
Those, like me, we're paid to slaughter
Foreign fighter's sons and daughters
As they charged with vest, full laden
Of explosives, lives were taken
But, that's ok, there will be others
Pregnacies of angry mothers
Churning out the next rotation
Feed on hate, like cheese and bacon
They grow to hate the American statis
Not taught with books, but automatics
AK fourty-seven practice
Everyday they horn their tactics
In the hills they learn a trade
**** Americans, get paid
Not in cash, but, lushous virgins
For a suicide incursion
Martyrdom for cause and faith
A good idea or bad mistake
Only you control your live
So, die like rats, or learn to fight
Constitutionally, I'm speaking
These laws of ours, could stand some tweaking
Need more freedom; less restriction
And keep this government out my kitchen
I've got rights, so, ****** respect it
I've earned the right to roll this Lexus
Inkpen Slinger, is what you called me
Now, acting like you never say me
Mind so potent, it's illegal
All my poems, they come with sequels
Like this here, I thought and dropped
Another thousand in my pocket
I'm as lucky as a four leaf clover
But, as for now, it's done and over
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 6:57 AM UTC
She peers out from her French windows
bitter is the frost this morning
stretching her arms to the ceiling
she proceeds to mumble whilst yawning
so close she is to epic transformation
for tomorrow she is to be wed
No more known as Miss Nobody
as tomorrow she marries royalty
no more will she have to bow her head
her eyes will look skyward bound
she joins the last of the great houses
in the distant's she hears noble trumpets sound
Running to her bedroom in haste
she performs a dressing race
so ready she must be
to meet all the dignitaries
as this is her final day
of being little Miss Nobody
Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
Your truth is to blame for my insecurities. That tugs and traps my heart in a never ending sticking, lashing pain.
And because of you, I continued to decay inwardly through transparent hurt. Hurt that gave me the courage to suffer daily despite the effort to conquer the distasteful fear. That built-in machine , that wreckage of my soul.
Dusk til dawn I lay in my cold and wet bed of tears . Giving myself up to the distant voice that fed on my weakness.. Night and day it tormented me, comstantly writing wistful memo's to steal my commitments. I was distraught, a wrecking shame to my faith .I was a disappointment to the dignitaries and a lost cause to my integrities.
I had no hope, being restless and destroyed. I was covered in my own blood. Which bled from my eyes to my toes,that stained and uncleansed my skin . I was in a frenzy for eternity . Pitying myself in confusion. And just when you thought I was over, at the end of my misery .. I made a decision ... I decided .....no more...
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 8:11 AM UTC
the world
of course she didn't expect it to be small at all but it helps with the feeling of being able to breathe something other than London air and guilt
that's the strangest feeling in the end of all things and accompanies her like a dog during errands and hobbies and nights out curling in her lap in the dark of a too empty living room
you look so much like your mother
a generation can see a moment of a womb misplaced, a misstep in spring dances and the smell of grass and the feeling of white stone walls
dignitaries never expected a star to come from your brother's wife first
daughter of this not-eve never-eve
remember the ache in your own heart at your sister's cries
back arched like the curve of your bow
spine click and bones moving
organs
and another piece of the girl in old shoes by a lamppost spills out into their wardrobe world
you look nothing like your mother
not a queen but a body of two syllables heavy with teeth behind
red lips
she wears disappointment like lipstick and air and London fog
be magnificent
be just
be valiant
but gentle is only a slap in the face
and even God couldn't stop a war
a letter
a train
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 1:07 AM UTC
Apollo 11 lunar module named “Eagle”
prediction defied naysayers ain't no boon
dog gull announced successful landing
while voice of Ole Blue eyes did croon
in Sea of Tranquility on moon
sometime about high noon
halting advancing armies
from one after another platoon
set down pontoon
bridges across the river Kwai (dune
axe why, the spatial event
July 20, 1969 witnessed great withered
figureheads regaled American dignitaries
even many an centenarian old prune,
plus lovely bones as skeletal rune
none other than remains formerly
Robert Hutchings Goddard exhumed
subsequently astronaut Neil Armstrong
uttered "That's one small step for man,
one giant leap for mankind,"
though skeptics good n plenti
claimed hue moon phase
would never become crater!
Three astronauts gravitated,
celebrated accomplished fete
instrumental proffering accolades
glock o' spiel trumpeted didgeridoo
courtesy King of rock and Queen
arduous encapsulated endeavor
spurred ravenous appetite
they got the moon cheese
lunar than later nibbled moonpie
washed down with spot of tea.
Heroes welcome greeted
podcast linkedin crew
upon their successful
accomplished impossible mission
returned to umble Earth
bootlegged moonshine stowed
within light saddle
sore ring hearts skipped beat
felt over the moon,
nonetheless by George underwent
thoroughly good medical examination
afflicted with minor malady,
not deemed more serious
than cardiovascular lunar tick.
Fast forward Fifty Earth orbitz chock
full of journeys light years distant pock
marked little uninhabited rock
quite quaint outer limits mostly schlock
of twilight zone by Spock,
he of Starship Enterprise.
No hint what prospects doth lie ahead
for future generations, centuries after
present madding crowd long since dead
yes, the space travel science fiction
authors flesh out today
will arrive within blink, whereby
fantasy with reality will wed.
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 8:52 PM UTC