"ditties" poems
There’s a Devil of a night each year, the night of Mr. Haim!
When the devilish and ghoulie ones come out to play their monster’s game.
And why some would seek to trick or treat on this scary day of dead?
Careful now cause gremlins, trolls …sprites and wolves, will offer up their dread!
Quiet, shush, I hear a pack of creepy-crawly boots…
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo!
And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.
That crafty-smith of horns and hooves is spying on these kiddies,
As Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo are hunting strays to do their dastardly-ditties.
Quiet, shush, I hear a pack of creepy-crawly boots,
And their costumes, oh-so-foul, the evilest of suits!
And there she is, that little girl who can’t keep up, in a tasty mushroom ensemble.
And the skeleton bones clink in her path to give her quite a tomble!
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo!
And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.
And Sammy Haim, that smithy-devil, a ***** hoof -igniting ghoul’s desire,
He’s howling out, demanding now, “Put that child to the fire!”
And little does he know, no little bit, not even a small clue,
Neither Ra’atan-Zu nor Boogedy-Boo intend on giving him his due!
For once a year on Halloween they get one night to spaz,
Get down and ***** wild and crazy and play a little jazz!
That little mushroom of a girl will play a tiny fiddle,
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo, a jazzy duet with child in middle!'
Ra’atan-Zu, Boogedy-Boo and a little girl too as they get down actin’ a spaz! Playin’ all night, howling to the moon and kickin’ out some wicked jazz!
*And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.* *
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
1483
The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances—
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport’s Working Classes—
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer—
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer—
A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying Household,
The Guests of Perspicacity
Are all that cross his Threshold—
As covert as a Fugitive,
Cajoling Consternation
By Ditties to the Enemy
And Sylvan Punctuation—
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Innocent words of wonder
Burn the purest of souls to ash
The Goddess of love,
She spews her lyrics in tinkling sighs
Completed by the one whose light burns brightest
He lights the path of others
Consuming their shadows as they pass
A dragon of fire to fight the darkness
And she sings in sweet daffodils
Satin petals and the Heavens open wide
She sings of pain and the dragon feeds
She sings of joy and he watches
As the words are once again absorbed into her essence
The Goddess welcomes this guardian of light
Never knowing that her words
Pilot the fire that eats the shadows that surround him
Bitter pangs of abrasive truth
Wrapped in delightful ditties of eternal enamoration
He fights her darkness
She fuels his fire
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
Little shadows, little shadows
Dancing on the chamber wall,
While I sit beside the hearthstone
Where the red flames rise and fall.
Caps and nightgowns, caps and nightgowns,
My three antic shadows wear;
And no sound they make in playing,
For the six small feet are bare.
Dancing gayly, dancing gayly,
To and fro all together,
Like a family of daisies
Blown about in windy weather;
Nimble fairies, nimble fairies,
Playing pranks in the warm glow,
While I sing the nursery ditties
Childish phantoms love and know.
Now what happens, now what happens?
One small shadow's tumbled down:
I can see it on the carpet
Softly rubbing its hurt crown.
No one whimpers, no one whimpers;
A brave-hearted sprite is this:
See! the others offer comfort
In a silent, shadowy kiss.
Hush! they're creeping; hush! they're creeping,
Up about my rocking-chair:
I can feel their loving fingers
Clasp my neck and touch my hair.
Little shadows, little shadows,
Take me captive, hold me tight,
As they climb and cling and whisper,
"Mother dear, good night! good night!"
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When I walk out my door, I hear the birds sing in silent symphony.
At the bus stop, the sounds of low humming engines and rolling tires.
Outstretched clouds of pure white follow horizons.
The percussion of rain clinks on boulders, drumming quietly.
Bee's wings play muted notes on flowers, sweetly collecting.
There is so much more than radio static and dull ads full of ditties.
Nature's ensemble invented the beat, rhythm, and the harmony.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
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The cuckoo-throb, the heartbeat of the Spring;
The rosebud’s blush that leaves it as it grows
Into the full-eyed fair unblushing rose;
The summer clouds that visit every wing
With fires of sunrise and of sunsetting;
The furtive flickering streams to light re-born
’Mid airs new-fledged and valorous lusts of morn,
While all the daughters of the daybreak sing:—
These ardour loves, and memory: and when flown
All joys, and through dark forest-boughs in flight
The wind swoops onward brandishing the light,
Even yet the rose-tree’s verdure left alone
Will flush all ruddy though the rose be gone;
With ditties and with dirges infinite.
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Oh Bard, wielding a tool mighty and spiky
Mightier than either the sword or rod,
You reign as monarch in fancy’s domain
Sketching life in all variety and mode
Which with pain and strife fraught
Or bright with gaiety and grace
In finer yarn than the gossamer thread
On a fabric of words in befitting verse
You steal away from the noisy crowd
Into the stillness of the cloistered cell
To dwell with Fancy’s mystic charms
Weaving downy dreams at will
You recount forgotten tales of yore
Of ****** battles won and lost,
Of lovers united, amour defiled,
Conjuring memories from abysmal past
You hearken to the moans of lovelorn souls
And sing of beauty in ditties fine
Triggering sparks into flames grow
In umpteen hearts that pine and whine
Babbling with the brook rushing swift,
Racing with the deer loping past,
You wander into mysterious woods
Where flowers, their richest odors cast
Your ears intent on the song of birds
That comes floating from the far off groves
And the whir of cicadas on the bark of trees
Breaking the calm of twilight eves
Alone you saunter the stretching strands,
Watching virulent breakers in fury heave
Often your heart dancing with the tide
And swinging with the rhythm of rising wave
You feast on the gleam of the auburn sun
And the speckled blue of the infinite skies
Watching the day dying in flame
And the night in a diadem of stars vies
All that’s lovesome meets your eyes
And commune to you in profuse delight
Which you turn into rhyme and rhythm
For the whole of mankind to devour and digest
From your harp flow symphonies sweet
Songs of longing, love and lust
Of idyllic happiness, peace and bliss,
Fuelling hearts with vigorous zest
Though outlawed by the great sage of Greece,
Branding the poet, aberrant and a fool
Oft beneath the façade of his wayward thoughts,
Lie heaps of wisdom for the discerning soul.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC
1.
New Year met me somewhat sad:
Old Year leaves me tired,
Stripped of favorite things I had,
Balked of much desired:
Yet farther on my road to-day,
God willing, farther on my way.
New Year coming on apace
What have you to give me?
Bring you scathe, or bring you grace,
Face me with an honest face;
You shall not deceive me:
Be it good or ill, be it what you will,
It needs shall help me on my road,
My rugged way to heaven, please God.
2.
Watch with me, men, women, and children dear,
You whom I love, for whom I hope and fear,
Watch with me this last vigil of the year.
Some hug their business, some their pleasure-scheme;
Some seize the vacant hour to sleep or dream;
Heart locked in heart some kneel and watch apart.
Watch with me, blessed spirits, who delight
All through the holy night to walk in white,
Or take your ease after the long-drawn fight.
I know not if they watch with me: I know
They count this eve of resurrection slow,
And cry, "How long?" with urgent utterance strong.
Watch with me, Jesus, in my loneliness:
Though others say me nay, yet say Thou yes;
Though others pass me by, stop Thou to bless.
Yea, Thou dost stop with me this vigil night;
To-night of pain, to-morrow of delight:
I, Love, am Thine; Thou, Lord, my God, art mine.
3.
Passing away, saith the World, passing away:
Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day:
Thy life never continueth in one stay.
Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to gray
That hath won neither laurel nor bay?
I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:
Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay
On my ***** for aye.
Then I answered: Yea.
Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:
With its burden of fear and hope, of labor and play;
Hearken what the past doth witness and say:
Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,
A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.
At midnight, at cock-crow, at morning, one certain day
Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:
Watch thou and pray.
Then I answered: Yea.
Passing away, saith my God, passing away:
Winter passeth after the long delay:
New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,
Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.
Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray.
Arise, come away, night is past, and lo it is day,
My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.
Then I answered: Yea.
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My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Extreme Poetry
Fights, fumes, resists, entices, twists, endures, seduces
Rhymes at times
Or so rarely you want it to explode, implode
Or just mellow out
But you don't stop reading
Unless it bores
Or you're just too tired
Ditties and sonnets
And ABAB and the like are all very well
But real men and women go for
The rough and tumble of truly free verse
Where words are the masonry
Spitting at you in spurts
Confounding, astounding
Welcome to consternation nation
Where assonance bucks up against alliteration
And the inevitable invasion of syllables and vowels
A perverse form of Password that traipses over diction when it wants
Because there are no rules in Extreme Poetry
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
Down the quiet eve,
Thro' my window with the sunset
Pipes to me a distant *****
Foolish ditties;
And, as when you change
Pictures in a magic lantern,
Books, beds, bottles, floor, and ceiling
Fade and vanish,
And I'm well once more . . .
August flares adust and torrid,
But my heart is full of April
Sap and sweetness.
In the quiet eve
I am loitering, longing, dreaming . . .
Dreaming, and a distant *****
Pipes me ditties.
I can see the shop,
I can smell the sprinkled pavement,
Where she serves--her chestnut chignon
Thrills my senses!
O, the sight and scent,
Wistful eve and perfumed pavement!
In the distance pipes an ***** . . .
The sensation
Comes to me anew,
And my spirit for a moment
Thro' the music breathes the blessed
Airs of London.
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Getting Ready
On the go
Doing things
Need a blow
Giddy gaggle
Endless Gags
Toothy giggles
Tongues a wag
Dressing up
Getting down
Goofing off
Clownin round
Pretty girls
Wearing pearls
Dancing Swirls
Fluffy Furls
Blowing Kisses
Giving Hugs
Singing Ditties
Cut a Rug
Buoyant Banter
Flashing Smiles
Bubbly Blabber
Smoking Milds
Shakin *****
Gettin Down
Wigglin *******
Goofy Gowns
Keep a Groovin
Boogie all night
Shake Them Legs
Les Dames et Dynomite
Oakland
8/23/01
Music Selection:
Jackson 5
Dancing Machine
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
Through the centuries, ecclesiastical types have called poets deviants and inferred we would burn in Hell for our heresy. I've often wondered what the rhymes of a condemned poet might look like...
#1
The serpent got
a ***** wrap
as well as did
the Jews
And if you read
between the lines
you won't believe
The news
#2
As I'm not
a Christian
I think it
quite odd
That I should
be punished
by a biblical
God
#3
God the father
and his boy
appear to find
the greatest joy
deciding who
will sing or fry
in pits of Hell
or Heaven’s sky
Me thinks I’d
rather burn in Hell
for truth be told
I don't sing well
Besides in Heaven’s
realm I hear they’ve
put a ban on wine
and beer
#4
Scribbled notes
on wrinkled pages
offer up my
rants and rages
To the gods
both big
and small
who really
don't exist
at all
#5
Going to Hell
is not my intention
For Hell I believe
is your little
invention
Ingeniously
Crafted for
scaring the
masses
By threatening
Flame if they
don't kiss your
*****
#6
Such a simple
happenstance
No books to
study true
No condemning
sermons from
the everlasting
Jew
And since
His love
is only for
the chosen
and the few
I think I'll pass
on Sunday Mass
I've better things
to do
#7
Galileo’s castrated
brilliance shackled
to an empty cross
as demonic paramours
burn in the city square
#8
Rest assured
the herd will
follow the absurd
proclamations’
and the institution's
philosophical solution
to the daily grind
that binds us all
to this stalled
morality we
have mistaken
for God
#9
'Peace on earth
and love thy neighbor'
Cried the man with
cross and saber
Even as he slaughtered
millions for the crime
of pagan birth
#10
Cups and saucers
filled with gold
but not a cent
may we behold
for we are not
among the few
selected by the
ancient Jew
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
"...and then we get up at the **** crack of dawn, eat cereal for breakfast, take a cool shower to put some pep in our steps, then get in the car and drive around listening to our favorite music until the coffee shop opens."
pause
"And when we've finished our morning coffee and people-watching we walk around town looking at all the crap we want to get when we've saved up enough money for it and then get a slice of pizza or something. You know what happens next? We take our favorite books or whatever and go chill in a hammock that we set up in a corner of the college campus. You want me to bring my guitar so you can listen to the silly ditties I come up with on the spot? Sure. You want to go to a movie? Just say the word."
pause
"I don't really care what we do, as long as we're content. I'm just throwing out ideas."
pause
"I just want to give."
puts down mic and walks off stage *
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
In a fleeting panic
my body aching
my head in manic
I was fitted for depression
by my fashion shrink
cosmic blue straightjacket
boots of shocking pink
Day-Glo eyelashes
and a faux stole of mink
I walked the streets of Soho
and climbed the Factory walls
a girl betwixt
a boy between
everybody’s darling
till morning came to town
in my corset of denial
I took cover in the rain
and sang naughty little ditties
seeping from the recesses of my brain
I tripped my way to Bellevue
where a thousand plastic junkies
awaited my return
I fell into their fancy
and we frolicked amidst our lies
and hopped aboard an east bound train
to a velvet paradise
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
Beneath the weeping Willow tree
There sat a tiddly Monk
And no one knew and no one cared
Just why that Monk got drunk;
But everyday the clock struck twelve
You’d see him sitting there
Chirping cheerful ditties,
In a drunken slur.
Then one young boy, he stopped and asked,
“What troubles you my Lord?”
Ungraciously the monk replied
Or should I say, he roared!
“I have to taste the Holy wine,
It is my job you see.
But I cannot recommend it
Till I’ve tasted two or three,
And sometimes if the wine is corked
It can be five or six
So you see it’s not my fault
That I am in this fix.”
The boy said, “It’s not good my Lord
That a Holy man should be
Inebriated to the hilt
And sat beneath a tree.”
After giving one loud burp
The Monk he sat and cried,
“I’ll try to give it up my son
But many times I’ve tried.”
“The boy said Lord it’s come to me
This sudden blinding flash
My Dad would volunteer I know
But you’d have to pay him cash.”
“Your Dad would do this for me son,
Are you sure he’d volunteer?”
“It’s wine I know, but I think so
Although he’d prefer beer.”
“Is he a man of God?
Is he climbing Jacob’s Ladder?”
The boy said, “I don’t know
But he loves the ‘Bull and Bladder’.”
“Bring him to me soon my son
You’re the answer to my prayers
I thought I was forsaken
But now that someone cares,
I’ll walk the straight and narrow
And really sort my life.
Now what other sins have I?
Oh yes! I shouldn’t have a wife.
Do you think he’ll take her too?
This Father of yours son.”
“Well yes, he’s only human,
When all is said and done.
But that will cost, I’m sure you’ve guessed,
These things they don’t come cheap.
My Dad is sensible I know
And a robbing little creep.”
“That’s it then son. Go forth.” He cried.
“Bring your Father here.
It will be worth it this I know
Even if it costs me dear.”
The boy pushed forth his hand
He expected a large tip
But the Monk pulled out a bottle
And he offered him a sip.
“I’m too young to drink my Lord,
You should be ashamed.
Although I know it is the wine
So you cannot be blamed.
But if you don’t cough up right now
And offer cash to me
You can sit there drunken all your life,
Beneath the Willow tree.”
Dec 4, 2009
Dec 4, 2009 at 9:14 AM UTC
the sign on the railway station says "Common Destination,"
the ties of our tracks are uniform, creosote covered, splintered,
spaced uniformly as is the wont of the arm-in-arm soldiers,
different regiments in the same army, though as they march,
some on the high, some the low road, in defense of the values,
right, right, right.
no believing in forever land, dreamt of poems forever burning,
real life farenheit bonfires lit by brown uniforms and such, thus,
now, when a poem completed and shared,
it is instantly disfigured,
by flames harnessed to lick
the slate page clean, immediately,
presenting yet another opportunity,
to protest, persistently,
endless be my own turnkey hands renewing,
my write to right.
my write to right,
my pupose; my only intent, even in love poems,
ogdiddy witty ditties, long dialogues with the creator, all purposed,
all written while standing one on left foot, are we not all
poets of the ways to increase the sum total of
righteous and kindness in the world.
'tis right to write,
but go further and farther,
write to right.
to ease, comfort, shoulder and hand extensions, be the lean-to,
the shelter when there is no shelter, for there is no
owning words, and no limitation on clear vision and
the right to write.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
The Doctor named Seuss was such a great man.
He wrote words so deftly like few others can.
In fact, to this day we honor his rhyme,
Or, I do, at least, to waste all my time.
It's odd how with frequence I get up the urge
To write tiny ditties: a poetry surge.
I'm volted to pen any number of things,
Shocking, to me, like a staticky sting.
Whenever I am s'posed to be working,
I notice that my duties I'm shirking.
Perhaps without pressure my mind is more fun,
But by the same token, I get nothing done.
Maybe I study so well that it spills
Onto my other thinking-type skills.
My mind works so hard that it often requires
More wood to fuel my thinking cap's fires.
Anyways, I'm probably ******* for my test.
I wish I could say that I studied my best,
But honesty stabs me for truth til I'm ******
The truth is that I fail when I "study."
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 8:26 AM UTC
(Geraldine, Maya, and Pedra were in the kitchen to drink some Jasmine Yin Zhen tea.)
Between Bosphorus and Dardanelles, the waters are calm.
Geraldine Said, ''I love the life at sea on this tall ship.''
Maya said, '' Let me see the meaning of the lines in your palm! ''
''I worked a lot; I can't feel my hands when something I grip.''
Maya insisted, '' Let me rub your hands with Gilead' balm! ''
''I can't stand the hustle and bustle of big cities.
Can you predict my future after reading my palm?
''You'll be surrounded by death coming from the waves' ditties.''
''What is this balm? '' '' It's an extract from the bakha shrubs.''
''Where did you find this shrub? '' ''This extract is brought from Chios,
Where this tree grows near the sea, to make this balm and drugs.
It's good for the stomach and prevents the skin infections.
I used it to make bread tsoureki.'' ''It's sweet, '' Pedra said,
''This tree excited the cupidity of invaders-
The groves of Jericho.'' Maya touched her, ''Are you afraid? ''
''Went there to fight Titus, Joshua and the crusaders.''
Pedra took a long look at her, ''Do you have children? ''
''I have two boys who live in southern Ottoman Empire.
My husband died.'' ''Why did you come here? '' ''I'm a poor woman.
Now, it’s war; I want to work here, not to walk through the fire.’’
(Maya left the kitchen. On the deck, Marco, Rosa, and Cruz stopped for a few minutes their walk to admire the Marmara Sea in approach to Çanakkale.)
''Anybody who wants to pass through the Dardanelles
Must pay a tax. So, we must sit at anchor in waiting
For an opening at this small Port of Çanakkale, ''
Said Cruz. '' About buying fuel, the ****** are still debating, ''
Said Marco.'' This city is placed on two continents.''
'' The shape of the strait is akin to that of a river.''
'' Its history started with Troy. The tidal currents
Make this time of wait at anchorage a deceiver.''
''The Dardanelles is the most dangerous waterway, ''
Said Rosa, '' Maya and Naimah are talking fiercely.''
Cruz said, ''They've seemed not to know each other until today.''
''What happened, Maya? '' ''He can't stop speaking viciously.''
(To be continued...)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
Deny we the possibility of order
Ignore we an Outside Law
Suggest we an endless possibility
Worlds without end
Positions simultaneous
Moving in all directions or none
Claim we the future as ours
Defy we realities of law external
Look we inward-outward simultaneously
To become one or none or all
Reject a single story
Saw we the Arms from Truth
Reduce we the Other to I
Forget we the order of Universes
Without-Within
The clockwork structures
Atomic
Celestial
Genetic
Physical
Biological
In and or-ganic
Reorder or Retell we the Cyclical Tales
Birth and Rebirth
Seasons and Times
Journeys of stars swirling through space
Endless flights of planets
Endless migrations of living things
Each rhyming to universal rhythms
Watts and amperes circular-linear mysteries
Predicting futures from their undisputed histories
Deny we external truth
Held here in the gracious grasp of gravity
Warmed gently by a tolerant star
Inhabitants of a universe
Unable to explain itself
Or even how its atoms came
To repel and to attract
In perfect tensions
Or to unleash energies
Predictable and measurable
In milliseconds and millenniums
---------------------------
Marionettes macabre
Cut loose from our strings
Dancing slowing dirges
Proclaiming opening spaces
Beneath closed skies
Denying a Maker
Rejecting hymnody to sing
Ditties laden with lies.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
Oh old days of past lives lived -
West coast ridin’
Thumbin’ ‘bout the coast -
San Diego up to L.A. -
Zoomin’ through Big Sur with strange friends,
Stranger than strangeness itself.
Arrive Santa Cruz,
Cops called,
No transients allowed,
Caravan keep tumblin’ northbound -
San Francisco Bay,
Oh, that Oakland scene
With Park Prophets
And worn-out crack minds
Panhandling supermarkets
Begging coins for fire -
The Sun isn’t enough -
Old man needing dirt
Paid with by pity,
Smoking up the score
Singing little ditties
On Piano, beating keys
loud, Loud, LOUD
until Cops called
by neighbors afraid of God,
claiming Jesus freaks of being demons,
Oh old days of past lives lived -
Walking Telegraph to Berkeley
In the rain Rain RAIN,
Stolen bicycle,
Making friends, People’s Park
No more noise -
Just rain fallin’ fallin’ fallin’
And in the rain, I do miss those lives -
Those faces. And I know, forever I will. Forever I will. Forever I will.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Precariously perched pidgons
Coo with cautious curiousity
Wondering why we wander
On faltering feet rather than fly
Just little ditty
A quiet play on words
Just little rhythms and rhymes
That are fun to be heard
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 8:02 AM UTC
She sang with a beauty that made the sun shine brighter with every tune that floated up to the sky.
But one day she stopped singing.
A strange little boy told her, that no one gave a single **** about her little ditties.
She didn't cry.
She simply stopped singing, and went on about her life.
She kept to herself and the world began to wonder why everything seemed so quiet.
Then the sun stopped shining.
He couldn't go on, making the world a brighter place, if she couldn't sing her songs to him each day.
One night, the moon visited the girl.
"My child, you know that the Sun longs to hear your voice again. Do not worry what little boys tell you, they cannot make the music that you can. This night will last for many years if you do not raise your voice. Go on, summon the Sun."
Reluctantly, she stepped outside, and with a rusty voice, she sang as loudly and as honestly as she could.
And as tears rolled down her cheeks, the Sun rose in the east, with tears that evaporated into steam as quickly as they came.
And the strange boy fell in love with the way she looked
to him when she sang to the sky.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 1:10 AM UTC
A Yank with a terrible voice
Singing ditties of dubious choice,
Gave a concert at woik
In the heart of New Yoik,
And ended up making it woice.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:14 AM UTC