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Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.

Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat 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,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.

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, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s 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 beyond the mushroom clouds.


No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



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

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.

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

Stray footsteps swarm through church no more (apostates that profane)
though echoes in the nave still din and chalice cups retain
an altar wine that tastes of brine decaying in the rain.

Coiled candle sticks, with twisted wicks, no longer 'lume the cracks -
their dying flames revealed the shame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
when deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.

Six steeple towers, steel though now 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.

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


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


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

Green trees gone dark in palace parks (where kids once paused to play),
watch lifeless things on phantom swings (like statues made of clay)
guard marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.

And castle clocks, unwound, defrock with speechless spinning spokes,
unfurling blight of reigning Night by sweeping off her cloaks,
and flaunting dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

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

The wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams have ceased to terrify
though terrors wrought by conscience fraught now stalk and lurk nearby
within the shrouds of curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky.

And fog no longer seeps 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.

The City’s still, like hollowed quill with ravished feathered vane,
baptized in floods of spattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.


No umbras hum with jagged tongues nor sing a silent psalm
nor lade 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
while celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Terry O'Leary Jan 2014
as the PROPHETS of profits, WE lead and WE’re fair
while WE’re living the life of the poor BILLIONAIRE
– silver yachts, pearly castles, cash (plenty to spare) –
with the world on OUR backs... ah! the burdens WE bear!

being HAVES (not the have-nots) as nature decrees
means WE’re certainly the better (they’re vermin on ******).
if they pray for a lift in their dark fantasies,
WE just kick ’em downstairs, get ’em off of their knees.

yes, WE offer great jobs (much too busy OURSELVES!)
for maintaining the toilets, restacking the shelves,
and WE teach ’em to fear god and play with the elves,
thus dispelling ideas where the dark demon delves.

though they build mighty bridges, twin towers and more,
peddle pizzas and popcorn, sell guns door-to-door,
still they gotta have BOSSES to tell ’em the score
else WE’d never be needed, WE’d thrive nevermore.

when OUR profits are plunging, they do their part too
for they dine on the dole! yes, no hullabaloo!
soon OUR fortunes  redouble, rebound and accrue –
since WE fare well without ’em, WE bid ’em adieu.

’stead of wishing for welfare and standing in queues
or parading with pickets (look! holes in their shoes!),
they’d be better off scabbing to save union dues.
while WE whistle and warble, they’re singing the blues.

whether heroes or hoboes, like spiders and lice
they just crawl all around us in life’s paradise,
but WE’re patient, big hearted and oft sacrifice,
spewing charity, kindness (though each has its price).

if they’re beaten or punctured or suffer assault,
are unhealthy or crippled or walk with a halt,
or ******* or helpless, it’s all their own fault –
just like US they should worship the DOLLAR exalt’!

protesters and loud mouths, you’ll find ’em aplenty
some older, some younger, the worst not yet twenty.
they’re shameless and brazen (unwashed, soiled and scenty)
impugning the prestige of brave COGNOSCENTI.

if they’ve got clashing colors (or shades in between)
or opposing beliefs in the hidden unseen,
well, WE’ll always exploit it, deflecting their spleen,
for with god on each side, would WE dare intervene?

WE maintain many methods to keep ’em in chains –
daily rags and the tube spin OUR circus campaigns:
“to pretend you’ve a voice”, an announcement explains,
“you can vote and decide on which ONE of US reigns”.

OUR policemen protect US, they stay on the ball
(they arrest ’em, no questions per law’s protocol,
and then jam ’em in jail with their backs to the wall) –
if you’ve lucre for lawyers there’s justice for all.

down the ROYAL road of justice WE march all alone
– WE condemn their defiance, set ways to atone –
since WE’re sinless, unsullied, WE cast the first stone
(while WE cloak REGAL fetor with eau de cologne).

politicians, bald bankers, grand idols galore,
attend meetings, fete banquets in which they explore
how to rid US of rodents (the weak and the poor) –
well, just round up the riff-raff, dispatch ’em to war!

ah! OUR wars are, well, just...... just a thing of the past
........... and the present............... and future... WE sure make them last!
if they frown as they gaze (Armageddon!) aghast,
then WE smile back with pleasure, OUR treasures amassed.

useless ranting and raving (in rags, when they’re clad),
leads to losing their teeth (my! their gums are... egad!).
WE’re unselfish, indulgent, WE’d never be mad
if they drowned in the sounds of themselves feeling sad.

as the paupers are princes in midnight’s domain,
they have pipe dreams to lose, certainly nothing to gain
if they’re hoping OUR fortunes will wither and wane –
for “WE’re here by god’s will” as WE often explain.

yes, they wish to be US, with OUR wisdom and grace,
keeping up with ol’ CROESUS, maintaining the pace.  
but perverseness or rancor? they’ll see not a trace –
for WE hold ’em at bay with a fist in the face.

WE’re la CRÈME de la CRÈME, yes! the proud UPPER CRUST,
and OUR clothes are the finest, OUR hair never mussed –
WE imbue ’em with piety, duty and trust
and they’re fed bread and water (if feed ’em WE must).

but they’re thieving, aggrieved, want a piece of OUR PIE
and request WE endure ’em, see EYE to black eye.
since they live in OUR land where OUR strict rules apply,
they must feast on the crumbs that We cast to the sty.

though OUR largesse and bounty WE don’t mean to flaunt,
yet the pittance WE pay ’em they surely can vaunt –
salty peanuts and pretzels (what more could they want?)
thereby keeping their kiddies so healthily gaunt.

yes, there’s room for the rabble (the back of the bus)
’cause WE treat ’em like equals, so what’s all the fuss?
all can rise to the top (yes! it’s always been thus),
to the suites in OUR penthouse (to sweep up and dust).

while OUR CHILDREN have tutors, the finest of schools
(being bred for the forefront, THEY’re nobody’s fools),
their own school of hard knocks teaches: “follow the rules”,
building brawn ’stead of brains and broad backs strong as mules’.

and to keep ’em in line (to ensure WE prevail)
WE now monitor phone calls and read all their mail
(civil rights? what a notion! at best a detail!)
and if worse comes to worst...... well...... guantanamo jail!

WE’ve OUR quandaries and questions and headaches full blown
(like deciding design and decor of OUR throne...
whether diamonds or rubies... to gemstones WE’re prone) .
when WE deign to appease ’em, WE chuck ’em a bone.

now you know all OUR problems, OUR pains and travails
– like preparing foreclosures, evictions  and sales –
but WE’ve no need for worries or gnawed fingernails,
’cause WE’re sailing OUR yachts through tempestuous gales
(with them bailing OUR banks when OUR stock market fails)
sipping daiquiri sours, champagnes, ginger ales.
:-)
Joe Wilson Apr 2014
The Victoria plum-tree that we planted this year
Is now full of blossom that looks lovely from here
The creamy white flowers and the brightest green leaves
Makes beautiful colour as Springtime relieves.

The garden of Winter, this year so wet
Does blossom herald a ‘best Summer yet.’

It’s quite true of course that village life so snug
Can have a tendency to make one feel smug
But for years our’s has struggled, it now has no shops
And a pub that’s near closure though it still sells the ‘hops.’

We don’t take it lightly the community here
For we know we could lose it which would cost us all dear.

It’s not really the money though the costs would be great
But there’d be no Village Hall and no Summer Fete
No chats with our friends over stiles by the field
Nor any more eggs from the local chicks yield.

We don’t take it lightly the community here
And we will fight to keep it which will cost us all dear.



©JRW2014
Villages struggle much more nowadays, ours does.
Giovanna May 2020
Passes to sell, I went out
but no one knew what's a fete 'bout.
Started at 3:30 with ten,
and came back with nine.
Which was not fine.
Wanted all ten to sell out,
but no one knew what's a fete 'bout.
This episode reflects a disappointing moment in my life when I couldn't sell the passes of my school fete.
andy fardell Jul 2012
A love created in love to complete
a face on a program
a message to reap
could this be the one his soul looking deep
In time to remove some past weighted heap

A call from the look from a message sent over
never quite there yet
a scare sent in clover
a shiver me down as he takes up the plunge
a lovers remark of a love to be found

A day with a night was the end of beginning
as flames lit the sky to a new way done seeing
in shock from the feel as the waves flooded over
the tears gone from sadness to a longing
not over

a distance created yet seems so unfair
as love starts to blossom
a wonder a dare
a time will be telling I wish it the truth
take life to the future in traveling
love grows

The fete de complete
Standing in the sand, smelling salty waters,
Of the Caribbean seas, through the cold vibrant breeze.
Watching all the tall, happy, swaying coco nut trees,
And when you sniffle a little of the bake and shark it makes you want to sneeze.

Then take a walk in our rivers and cook up a curry *** or stew,
With fish coo coo and a little calla-loo.
and you take a bite and you taste buds and glands spring water of the delicious flavors that makes you say mhmmm.    

Afterwards you can visit the reefs and see the dancing colors of the under water reefs,
Of the Caribbean seas, where I'm from and would always love to be.

But tho forget, it's Carnival time so come in your costumes and with your coolers because you're coming out to fete,
And tho forget, when you step out on "D" road of jouvert morning until night listen to the Soca music,
And let it rap you up and run through your ears with melodies that will make you want to bep.

Oh yes the Caribbean dream, where every man's a king and every woman's a queen.
a temple tower proudly embossed over
the sun's last blush
stands a silent spectator
to the revelry

just like it stood welcoming
over kings
in
an
era
long
past

i stare into time
and time  stares back at me


- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   15.01.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Wish I could show you'll the photo!
794

A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree—
Another—on the Roof—
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves—
And made the Gables laugh—

A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea—
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls—
What Necklace could be—

The Dust replaced, in Hoisted Roads—
The Birds jocoser sung—
The Sunshine threw his Hat away—
The Bushes—spangles flung—

The Breezes brought dejected Lutes—
And bathed them in the Glee—
Then Orient showed a single Flag,
And signed the Fete away—
Conceptualcat Apr 2015
Why have a bite to eat
And then **** yourself?
One would think
Even that small fete
Might be pleasure enough,
Your hand gripping the spoon,
The knife in its proper place.
I don't feel at home where I am,
or where I spend time; only where,
beyond counting, there's freedom and calm,
that is, waves, that is, space where, when there,
you consist of pure freedom, which, seen,
turns that Gorgon, the crowd, to stone,
to pebbles  and sand . . . where life's mean-
ing lies buried, that never let one
come  within cannon shot yet.
From cloud-covered  wells untold
pour color and light, a fete
of cupids and Ledas in gold.
That is, silk and honey and sheen.
That is, boon and quiver and call.
That is, all that lives to be free,
needing no words at all.
Terry O'Leary Mar 2013
The midnight clings to dwarfish kings
while robot drones, adorning thrones,
       kneel, bowing to the Old...Guard.
Arrhythmic clocks and wooden box
       grace FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

The diplohacks, like melting wax,
have swept along the clueless throng,
       some dying for a life...guard.
And Nun, alone, has beached their bones
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Beyond the streams, a raven screams
at loser fish that swarm and swish;
       Nun slowly drains her dreams...jarred.
There are no thanks along the banks
       near FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

While FRiar smiles and prowls the aisles
the hierarch obeys the bark
       from maw that oozes pure...lard.
There's much ado throughout the zoo
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Well, FRiar’s pets are in a sweat;
he calls the tunes near burning dunes
       and taps his cloven feet...charred.
They roast in rooms, their future tombs,
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

His myrmidons, they drool and fawn
reciting verse near FRiar’s hearse,
       extolling wild the van...guard.
Remote controls abet the trolls
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

With faces straight, in bent debate,
they advertise their empty lies
       to every passing re...****.
Grey zombies groom white flies in bloom
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

With ghouls, unlearned, no stone’s unturned
to burnish blame with Nun’s proud name
       and leave the midnight sky... scarred.
They raise their hats to copy cats
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

While rumours spread amongst the dead,
Nun stays the pace with saving grace,
       and phantoms keep their face...marred.
The maggot digs neath twisted twigs
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

In tempests strong, Nun rings the gong
but fails to rise in vacant eyes -
       he palms a one-eyed trump...card.
Nun sets her sail, to no avail
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Nun asks him why a bird can’t fly.
His mouth, a rut, replies “tut, tut”,
       with conscience painted white...tarred.
A mushroom mold has taken hold
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

“To fly aloft," he laughed and scoffed
“lay bare your breast! I’ll do the rest,
       I’ll bless you in the church...yard”.
The golden rule's contrived for fools
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

He cast the bait and wouldn't wait -
once more defied, her wings denied,
       the Kingfish is a bass...****.
A 'no' said twice must pay the price
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

When day’s undone, and night’s begun,
Nun stirs a cup and turns face up;
       she's feeling that she’s ill...starred.
’Tis such a crime to waste her prime
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Nun plans to dine with sparkling wine
but sips instead a bitter red
       served with a crystal glass...shard,
Behind the bog, beneath the fog
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Well, minstrels fight beyond the night
and demons fete behind the gate,
       while silence chokes the host...bard.
The angel sings with broken wings  
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

The webs are spun neath dying sun;
and caught ensnared, her flight impaired,
       Nun’s thoughts are how they’ll die...hard.
The puppet people storm the stee-
       pled FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

And voices wail beyond the pale
“The old taboo - it echoes true -
       Nun’s bound to have her way...barred”.
The schemes are strange and minds deranged
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.

Ms.! Cast your nets, but hedge your bets -
there are no odds, where purple gods
       and hungry idle ghosts...sparred
with nameless gnomes in catacombs
       in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
Going down to Festival Park, just to see the sights

Neve know what you might see, It changes every night

Buskers, dancers, singers too, kids with faces painted

Pickpockets, con men and others who, live life by methods tainted

A hundred years ago or so the park was then donated

The family Billings, gave the land and their lovely gift was feted

Every year a party held in honour of the Billings

Until that time in fifty one, when the town had all those killings

No one in the town that year was safe while he was out there

He didn't pick just one set type, he didn't seem to care

Couples parked in cars at night at the far end of the park

It wasn't a safe place to be, especially after dark

Two men were found with bullet wounds, dead upon a bench

The Wylie boy was found because a dog had liked the stench

Yourng Tommy Wylie, 12 years old, was found behind the boat shed

The only thing to tie his case was the bullet in the head

The park though nice in daylight, at night became a veldt

Everyone was scared to death, that;s the way the whole town felt

A young man by the cenothaph and two more by the lake

The police had no clear suspect, they needed a mistake

The party at the park was stopped and other functions too

For the killer could be from this town, and who nobody knew

Eleven deaths in that dark summer put the town upon the map

Tourists would not visit, they would not come to his trap

The police were inundated with phone calls far and wide

People turning in everyone and making others hide

A task force was assembled, 30 cops from out of state

They had to find this killer before it was too late

While they interviewed the suspects the park had no events

You could go on through in daytime, but it still made one feel tense

The city added lighting to walkways and no luck

The only thing it added was taxes went up a buck

No other killings happened until that one in sixty two

It was just like all the others, so they thought that they knew who

Was back in town gone hunting, but there only was that one

A young man in his rambler, sitting drinking in the sun

The task force was abandoned back in fifty five

But after this last ******, they called back only five

This time it would be different, this time they'd get their man

Technolgy had changed alot, he'd be caught before he ran

A shell casing was found beside the wall down by the bridge

And it had a print upon it, they identified the ridge

Years ago they'd interviewed about three hundred men

But with this single ridge print, it was narrowed down to ten

Eight were dead and one left town, so with only one to find

A dragnet and a takedown plan were carefully designed

They knew that he'd be running if they called him back to talk

And they couldn't risk to lose him, or their whole case would walk

So with some misinformation printed in a column in the post

They hoped they flush their suspect, the one they wanted most

They said they'd made the capture, confessing every crime

They would take away his thunder, dropping hints on every crime

But, they would omit one last case, the one he started with

For this was information that they wanted him to give

It worked, he dropped a letter to the paper that same week

Threatening to strike again, and the first case he did leak

In his anger and his hurry he would leave another clue

They found another print to help them out and with this they had two

They swooped in and arrested a man of no abode

He lived in city missions he had no moral code

His capture freed the city from the monster in the park

It was now a place where you could go, and feel safe after dark

The festival committee for the city planned a fete

The victims of this monster, their lives they'd celebrate

A monument to those who died would be erected in their honor

And the whole thing would be organized by the Mayor...Mayor John B Connor

The names were read of each victim and then two minutes silence reigned

And a wreath for every family involved, these then were laid

New trees were planted for them all in a corner near a wall

And the park would schedule new events and brand new festivals

But, every year on this same day, on the tenth day of month ten

They would hold a special service for these women and these men

The park was now a joyous place, like it was meant to be

And if you're there, out by the wall...then you just might locate me.
.
Amy H Mar 2015
the rain was just a drizzle
like my feelings any more
as we stood in awkward chat
and you can't find me any more.
not in here, at least,
in a quasi-happy fete,
with celebrations halted
because they make you fret.
I can't see my heart to give it
for it's always given back
and we'll stand in smoke and raindrops
with me turning myself black.
the black;
it can't reflect the light
so you'll perhaps not see
that my eyes have turned away
and my heart it didn't stay
and the part you have
is just the surface-me.
I won't let go, or let you in,
not again.
you'll only get the drizzle
not the swim.
My how it flows when it's a current, current.
Brenden McNeil Jun 2012
I get scared easily.
And I always have persisted to allow my mind to be torn out when I let it affect me.
They say, "Worst case scenario is rare." in most situations.
I have yet to seek why they ignore worst case, become it, leaving nothing left for the worst.
Habitually it creates an aggression with associates: replacement and correlation.
Without me noticing inevitably.

Behind.
This shadow that follows, desires its personification;
Consequently the main man must fall,
He will dissipate towards the rock where the one before him stood.
Rather take a spot of one greater, it is that of less higher.
A demotion of sort.
In order for it to transpose into progression, a compromise is of order.
The compromise of time, itself, playing the waiting game - (let us back step)

…replacement…correlation…

The understanding of this is of which I no longer feel that emotion;
It is configured by the other, making a statement which is unrecognizable.
So much, not even I, the speaker, can do anything to prove to you what I mean.
--For keeps sake--
This is no where near a poor pardon for my actions.
They are far from a credible stature. Far from a pity fete;
Indeed a fare apology is in par.
Yet this is a means of report to say in far value: worry.
It is of pure arrogance that I state this claim. Keep this in mind.
That I fear the replacement emotion shall take place in fair time once more.

As the tail is coming back again, second time to be specific.
And your steps in self-fulfillment climaxes,
The steps to which I take are mimicked to that of the first tail.
(The apex forms and your entitlement proclaims its spot.)
I wish it not, to be furthered in my rut.
As of the annum before, was explained by dis-valued ties.
This is not to which I think.
It is your confidence which speaks and separates your feet.
Placing one foot in one path, far ahead from the other.
As I stay with the other, while the other one is altered.
Being free as it walks along with out I.
I wish for an ignoring of replacement, and to this I will forcibly try.

For you, my love.
We flew through
puberty and left a Concorde trail.
A signature of heat,
feats to fete the wonder in and the wondering
of where to begin.

But the Concorde trail tails off
eventually,
and after the screaming noise, of us,
the boys
when silence returns to the body, and it's
only the chimes of the clock that rocks us to sleep,
there is, I find a tiny piece of my mind, where
puberty keeps a notebook

I look at it, cringe,
squeak like the hinge of an old door,
look some more,
it fascinates me
consternates me
makes me laugh and cry,
the trying of and wanting to
and the wonder of wondering who.


The memory of most memorable events are
scorched into and run right through me,like
a stick of Blackpool rock,each name I've known
are written and imprinted on me.

Puberty and what comes next,will in the future,
I am sure be sent in hurried texts by
hurried men,who hurry on to marry wives,
have hurried *** in hurried lives
and after that,
who knows.
John F McCullagh Dec 2014
The year was nineteen forty six, the memories still raw,
Europe’s Jews were still encamped as they had been before.
True, they now had food to eat and decent clothes to wear,
But in that Displaced Persons camp, little else to spare.

When Lilly told her fiancé about her dream one night;
her standing beneath the chuppah in a flowing gown of white,
Ludwig promised Lilly that her vision would come true,
but in a displaced person’s camp that might be hard to do.

A former Luftwaffe pilot proved an angel in disguise;
Ludwig traded, for his parachute, some coffee and supplies.
Miriam, the seamstress, swore to do her best
to fashion the silk parachute into a wedding dress.

Some miles from Bergen Belsen lies the little town of Celle
Its desecrated synagogue would serve the couple well.
They made an Aron Kodesh from a kitchen cabinet
A Rabbi, flown from England, would officiate their fete.


Lilly’s gown was beautiful, the bride felt like a Queen
Within the battered synagogue, her wedding matched her dream.
Miriam’s creation would be worn by many more;
Girls from camp made brides in white that year after the war.

The Gown’s in a museum now, the bride now old and gray.
She lives nearby in Brooklyn in a house down by the bay.
Her lovely great granddaughter, her loving heart’s delight,
now has the dream of being wed in a gown of flowing white.
Lilly's gown is now in the Holocaust museum in Washington, D.C.
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois

White clouds of rosin dust
Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings
As his earth dance
Soared above the pulsing
Of friends on bass and guitar.

Tuniced men bowed
To their bonneted ladies
Bedecked in colonial frocks.
In turn each pair sashayed
Down and up the line,
Whirled and laced their way
Through outstretched hands
Of family, friends and neighbors
Shaping an arch at line's end
For all the rest to pass beneath.

All across our country's timescape
Countless bridal pairs
Have sealed their sacraments
Spinning in the whirlwind
Of the Virginia Reel -
With each interclasping of arms
A blessing upon their unions.

Geoff lifted his bow from the strings,
And bowed with his band to receive
The applause rippling the air
Like the patter of ancestral rain
Nourishing the sweet soil
Of our common earthly essence.

February, 2007
Included in Unity Tree published by Createspace and available from Amazon.com in both book and Kindle formats
The body lay in a mound of hay
That was all piled up by the forge,
He took one look at the butcher’s hook
And the sick rose up in his gorge,
He peered on down at the bloodied face
There was nothing that could be done,
But held his breath when he saw that death
Had taken the blacksmith’s son.

He looked around for a sign of life
But the shop and the forge were cold,
The blacksmith Kirk hadn’t come to work
Though he’d seen him, out in the fold,
And darling Kate would be calling in,
His fate whirled round in his head,
What would she think when she found him there
With the love of her life stone dead?

The villagers knew no love was lost,
They’d fought at the village fete,
All over the hand of the pretty one,
The hand of their darling Kate,
But George was on an apprenticeship
For his father had owned the forge,
While Faber was a farm labourer,
So Kate had gone off with George.

But now George lay in a pile of hay
And he wouldn’t be dating Kate,
So Faber thought that he shouldn’t stay
Though he’d left it a little late.
He didn’t know if they’d seen him come,
He couldn’t be seen to go,
They’d think that he was the only one
To deliver the killer blow.

He heard a rustle within the store
And the sweat broke out on his head,
He knew if somebody found him there
That he’d be better off dead.
He peered silently through the door
And into the corner gloom,
And Kate was sobbing, there on the floor
In the darkest part of the room.

Her bouffant hair was a tangled mess
Her dress was tattered and frayed,
It didn’t take but a single guess
To see the part that she’d played,
For blood was mingling with her tears
Her bodice was stained deep red,
‘He stole my innocence,’ she exclaimed,
‘I hit him just once,’ she said.

Now Faber sits in a darkened cell
To wait for the hangman’s rope,
The Judge had asked, but he wouldn’t tell
So now he’s bereft of hope.
He’d told the court that he’d stumbled in
On the blacksmith’s son, and ****,
And hit him once with a butcher’s hook
For the sake of the darling Kate.

But Kate was strolling with someone new
On the day that they pinned his hands,
And led him up to the gallows floor
To pay for the court’s demands,
She never gave him a thought that day
Though the blacksmith thought he knew,
And lay in wait with a butcher’s hook
As Kate was passing through.

David Lewis Paget
Robert C Howard Sep 2013
Beethoven once said of the cantor of Leipzig
“Not a stream but an ocean.”

Sebastian Bach wove sonic tapestries
and scoffed at notions of genius
“Anyone who pays the price can do it.”

Whether for Sunday’s choir or *****
or for a palace fete of state,
The fountains of his bounteous spring
embellished every age and station.

Yet he could crack a joke or two
in a cantata to coffee’s pleasures -
sipping from a sturdy cup
of nature's matchless brew.

Flutists, fiddlers, singers, organists,
children and masters alike,
have netted hearty sustenance
from the seas of his boundless vision.

But modesty forbade him boast
the importance of his station -
affixing to his noblest works,
a trio of humblest words,

“Soli Deo Gloria.”

December, 2007
Not so much a poem as a narrative tribute.  I'll work on this some more.
Shiv Pratap Pal Feb 2019
Ticket, Ticket Everywhere
Money, Money Everywhere
Everything is Reserved
For the Money makers and Rich

Want to ride in a Bus, Car or Taxi
Or Travel in Ship, Train or Aeroplane
Use your brain, my dear
Please shell out some money

Oh Sorry, You dropped that ugly idea
Then what you are going to go?
Going to Circus or to watch a film
Want to go to a Book fair or a fete

Still have to Shell out some Money
It's not that funny, O' Honey
It's Business, Serious Business
Oh No, You can't even go to Public Park

Or the River bank either
Oh want to use Public Toilets
Do you think it's free?
No my dear, just Pay and Use

You need some Food, Nice Cold drink
Or want to sip just a glass of plain water
Pay Some Money, Money and Money
Money is the religion and the faith

Need a Pen to write your pain
Again I have to ask for Money
We Money monger are the rules
You Un-employed are the problem

Either pay or perish, that’s a simple rule
That’s a golden Rule, Follow it
Don't try to break it. If you do
I bet, you will fail and fall in jail
Money is Everything. Long Live Capitalism
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
Simple verses, blessed be the uncomplex,
But the visions, the glimpses,
The sightings, in and out,
Are celestial of, in, and on
This planet shared.

I will walk with you to
Henry's Isle,
You, with me, on the beach,
We will ford Crab Creek,
When the tide is low,
And repair to The  Poet's Nook,
Where a moss stained Adirondack chair
Awaits the Poet Prince,
Your poems carved into
It's soul, it's arms, it's back,
Giving comfort continuous.

This chai, this chair, this throne,
Reserved for the lyricist of our lives,
The shedder of light upon the special,
The seconds, that fete our senses.

I await you arrival.

Tender this serenade, this overdue apology,
For having not thanked you properly
For your living kindness,
Yet my words, insufficient, compared to yours...
A special man, a simple homage.
Prabhu Iyer Mar 2013
Pro-

Photo-frame on the wall,
beautifully adorned.
Empty.

Snap your hero in.

-logue

Never mind their foibles;
Every fault is just a small weakness
when found in the otherwise great.

Dying to deify,
we are itching to sanctify;

Castigation unabashed,
but, for the struggling everyman.

What if we will never find
another son of a carpenter
who will die preaching love?

Epi-*

In a world starved of messiahs
ready always to worship ever
but be, never,

iconoclasts are icons;

Sentimental impossibilities
in the language of hope
aye, fete-worthy acceptables.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Che_Guevara_in_popular_culture#In_religion

A pdf document on Maoism as a proto-religion: rauli.cbs.dk/index.php/cjas/article/download/519/549
Anais Vionet Jun 2023
(An exercise to write a sonnet in iambic pentameter)

With heavy heart, I offer my remorse,
for I'm too tired to dance this weary eve.
The echoes of my workday's tireless chores
linger, leaving naught but fatigue's relief.

Oh, believe me, I hate to disappoint,
for the music tempts me to sway and dance.
But the hours I've toiled, each task and each point,
have drained me to a tired nudnik, perchance.

My spirit, once bright, now longs for respite,
to find solace in rest and heal my self.
Though my love for dance burns hot like cordite,
exhaustion demands I stay on the shelf.

Forgive me, my friend, tonight I must rest,
but once refreshed, we’ll fete and dance with zest.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Nudnik a boring person
Annette Phillip May 2020
A coronavirus melancholy is definitely upon us, this generation never thought that lives could change because of a confounded virus.
All demographics functioning on the norm, elderly people having tea on their balcony, the twenty-somethings on YouTube, social media, Snapchat living vicariously through their virtual reality.
Knowing that nothing could be better than no communication, everything is truly all about me.
The selfish keep on being selfish, the rich keep on being rich and tragically the poor keep on being poor.
What a perfect world of harmony.
Hey, don't shoot the poet isn't that the new reality?

Some of us can't wait for Summer, plans were already made for the trips we paid for.
Tickets bought two years ago, we are in control of everything we know.
Like the wars and fighting that continue around the world is it Tuesday or Wednesday when we shoot the ones we hate the most?
Carnival all over the place England, Canada, and the USA.
We West Indians can hardly wait for Caribana, Labor Day and fete, fete, fete.
Life is so complacent and satisfying that we don't even allow God to have a say, people depend on themselves to live to see another day.
We humans truly think we are one hundred percent in control of our destiny.

Nobody knew how their world was going to  change, it wasn't only the neighbor or the family on prospect place, or the homeless sleeping on the J train that would be greatly affected.
All generations alive in 2020 were going to suffer from an invisible enemy, mind you it was not the devil but a virus so slick and so cunning it knew where it could get you and get the whole **** world infected.
Coronavirus is its name and it traps the whole world with its deadly plague. It doesn't care if you are white or black, rich or poor. Tom Hanks or the postman bringing all your mail to your door.
It needs a host to survive and human beings would become it's prize.

This virus brought our world upside down, that people all over the world started calling out to God.
Praying on their knees on every corner of the streets
A God that some of them never wanted to meet.
The word social distancing was never used at all until coronavirus came through China's walls.
An airborne virus so deadly that if you sneeze, cough or breath you end up dying ferociously.
Everybody has to wear a mask but it's not like our superheroes we idolize so much.
It doesn't come with a cape and a flair, it's a mask to cover your face so coronavirus won't comprise your breathing air.

Covid19 showed us who run things
Everyone under lockdown and quarantined.
Nail salons, Barber shops, restaurants and bars all had to close their doors.
Places slowly became like eerie ghost towns
Our lives have become gloves and face masks,
Six feet distance on top the ground not six feet under for now.
So many people have died because of a virus that took complete control of our lives.
A global pandemic is all the rave, but it's not that kind of party that we all craved.
The world did come together as one, but not the way that we all dreamed off.
I pray before 2020 is done we can get a vaccine to **** this son of a gun.
Coronavirus needs to go, coronavirus you are not going to win this show.

Written by Annette Phillip
They gate crashed to our home in the late morning,
Dressed in the red-shirts, wielding clubs and machetes,
Howling loudly that they are national party officers
Protecting peace and development, that is never seen,
Our country already is crushed to forlorn state
Under the heavy lord of anti-human leadership,
They shamelessly extorted money from my poor father
Which they called compulsory party fees, for what?
A political party whose name is as horrifying as leprosy,
My father hadn’t enough money, they took away in addition
Our only one red cockerel which was learning to crow,
It worked as our family clock on its crowing in the morning,
We had too earmarked it for the next **** fight fete.
Our family hopes for money hinged on its wining the prize
The Proceeds with which hopped to succor ourselves
By funding our mother’s cancer treatment bills.
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
My oldest cell is pushing seven
and it's time for it to go!
That's just the way it is, pal;
the new kids need have their day.

Perhaps I could spare a smallish speech
to fete the good times and bad -
days amazingly graced
scaling some testy peak or other.

Not all dawns were rosy strewn
but you, dear friend held fort -
cloaking my back through
bitter days of tears and dread.

A favor of you if you please:
when you go,
please stow a portion
of my sorrows in your pack.
and let the new boys have
a sunshine day or season.
We all could use the break.

So "Adios, Amigo,"
Thanks for dancing on my stage.

*August, 2013
Our bodies replace all of our cells every seven years. Just think of all those fresh starts!
Trevon Haywood Mar 2016
A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.

A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!

The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.

The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.

Emily Dickinson. 3/22/2016.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
Nat Lipstadt
Mar 10
Pradip
Dear Sir,

I can't keep
up with
your prolific, delighting,
creations

This must be
the third poem at least,
for and to you, I,
publicly address

the thought terrifying,
if you took a vacation,
and had really
some free time to write

I do believe man,
it's time for a unique,
reserved, deserved,
and as of yet,
unheard of
special,
Hello Pradip Section
on this site

for this is yet one more
in a streaming video poem,
of me acknowledging you,
Master of the Word,
Wright Templar,
Poet Extraordinaire,

Most Importantly,
Beloved Human,
whose vision sees the world
in ways that
I adore

S. suggests,
I
take a vaca
just to eat your words,
in the lazy, rushed fashion
they deserve

but tween us,
your secret kept,
your parrot and
street dog Hengloo
write
every other one,
cause no human could
thus excel,
without some help
of animal spirits
in between your beloved
Saturdays

Yours Devotedly,

An Exhausted and Admiring,
Nat Lipstadt

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nat Lipstadt
Sep 2, 2013

Pradip Chattopadhyay


Simple verses,
blessed be the uncomplex,
But the visions, the glimpses,
The sightings, in and out,
Are celestial of, in, and on and about
This planet shared.

I will walk with you to
Henry's Isle,
You, accompany me, on the beach,
We will together ford Crab Creek,
When the tide is low,
And afterwards,
Repair to The  Poet's Nook,
Where a moss stained Adirondack chair
Awaits the Poet Prince,
Your poems carved into
It's soul, it's arms, it's back,
Giving comfort continuous.

This chai, this chair, this throne,
Reserved for the lyricist of our lives,
The shedder of light upon the special,
The seconds, that fete our senses.

I await you arrival.

Tender this serenade,
this overdue apology,
For having not thanked you properly
For your living kindness,
Yet my words, insufficient, compared to yours...


A special man, a simple homage.
Mazel Tov, my dearest comrade! Well done!
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
Six steeple towers, cold as steel, 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.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame, subdued and tame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in molten 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 the 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 lurid swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars and bare bazaars, though no one's there to fete.

The souls who come with jagged tongue won't sing a silent psalm,
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, and face it with aplomb.
judy smith Nov 2015
It's the most wonderful time of year...for a wedding? That's right! If the thought of getting hitched outside during your favorite snowflake falling time of year is intimidating, don't fret. Where there is a will there is a way. Warm your friends and family up to the idea of an outdoor winter wedding ceremony by taking these cold weather tips to heart.

Get hitched in a warmer climate


Because obviously, an outdoor winter wedding ceremony set in Southern California or Miami, is a lot more bearable than say, being stuck in the middle of an NYC blizzard. Yes, it will still be a bit cool out, but more along the lines of early fall (think 50s and low 60s), as opposed to below freezing temperatures. Destination wedding, anyone?

Warn your friends and family

There's nothing worse than showing up to a winter wedding, only to discover it's being held outside and you had no idea. "Give your guests a forewarning so they come prepared," advises lifestyle expert and event designer Jung Lee of Fete NY. If you plan on moving the party indoors after you say, "I do", having a coat check for guests is an absolute must.

Gift your girls a cozy faux fur shrug

It's the least you can do for forcing them to stand by your side in the freezing cold. Kidding! Seriously though, a chic faux fur shrug will not only keep your bridesmaids warm for photos and throughout the ceremony, but it's an item they can definitely wear again post-wedding. Plus, it looks killer in pictures! "I also love the idea ofthe bridesmaids having warm hand muffs and the groomsmen tucking a flask in their jackets," says Lee.

Crank the heat up

Like it or not, you're probably going to have to bring in some heaters. Everyone has a different tolerance for chilly weather, but after 10-15 minutes of sitting outside in the cold, most people become uncomfortable, cautions Lee. "Heaters then become a good solution. Remember that some can be loud and others don't provide warmth unless you're in close proximity to them, however."

Provide blankets, wraps or both for guests

They serve a practical need by keeping everyone warm and also make for a cute design opportunity styled up in a cozy corner, points out Los Angeles-based event planner Leslie Kaplan, owner of ENCORE. The softer and bigger the blankets, the better! Bonus points to brides and grooms that incorporate an area for guests to gather and warm up pre or post-ceremony: think a rustic fire pit or a more modern fireplace, suggests Kaplan.

Embrace warm drinks

Upon arrival, Kaplan recommends greeting your guests with a toasty beverage, such as hot chocolate or having a cider bar. Lee, on the other hand, loves Hot Toddies served in a footed glass with a cinnamon stick. "Mulled wine is another great option," she offers.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra
Asominate Jan 2018
Stop wasting my time,
Let us go and unwind
Fete over, then rewind?
Stop messing with my mind.

Don't stop one more time
No secret, it ain't a crime,
Just for me? You're so kind
Yes, I know, I'm sublime.

Your love's abiding,
You got what I'm craving
You're there when my world's caving
Cause of you, I'm still surviving.

When I'm abominable
Your love's like a cradle
Whoa, don't break the table
****, you know you're able.

You are heaven-sent,
Hate it when you're absent,
So accustomed to your sent,
Of your love, I'm absorbent.
When I was young *sigh*
In a world of many weathers, my weathers are boring.
In a very deep sleep and I began snoring.
I lay my head on my fluffy pillow,
And all I could dream is the longing for snow.

In my country, it's windy and wet,
And sunny season roles in and we all get the rush of sweat.
Although it's never and excuse to fete, I bet.
Like dreadful flees in an old woman's hair net.

Now when it gets dark in places with high grass.
A never ending buzz from a friend that's night fast.
Who's very annoying and loves to have you below,
A cover, because they are mosquitoes.

Just two weathers, two plucked bird feathers.
That fall to the ground but not ignored by anyone.
Imagine spring time when the flowers bloom,
And autumn night when we'll stare at the moon.

And the falling of the leaves, down they go!
To prepare the natures instruments for the coming of snow.
But the best time of all is known as the summer,
Due to it's end and school reopen, that's just a huge bomber.

Any way of all things, I will always love my sports.
My favorite's football, because I just love scoring.
But I awoke from my sleep and an end to the snoring.
Back to a world with many weathers, but my weathers are boring
Wiblet Feb 2013
I stood,  my collar tightly drawn 
as sea spray brushed my skin
and gazed towards the choppy waves and all that lay within.

Gulls circled right above my head,
they wanted from my hand 
a salty bag of fresh, cooked chips
so I dropped one on the sand.

The first gull dived towards me
followed by his friend 
and then they ALL flew at me!
I thought it was the end!

They all seemed so much bigger
as they descended down,
their screech of war was deafening!
I chose to make for town!

I turned to run away from them,
So scared, as you would be!
But now the gulls were closer still
I felt their beaks on me!

They snatched and ripped out clumps of hair and one snapped at my ear!
I thought I'd die, I really did!
My heart was full of fear!

I swung my arm and slapped a beak, 
grabbed legs and dealt some blows
and then the biggest gull of all 
was hanging off my nose!!

It looked at me with angry eyes
and squeezed my nose with hate,
I scream so loud they must have heard me at the village fete!!

I grabbed its neck to give a twist 
but before i could **** it dead,
it flipped its feathered torso up 
and landed on my head! 

It's gang had now surrounded me,
their king perched up above.
All because the greedy sods 
wanted what was in my glove!

They took a menacing step closer,
they looked like they could ****!
Their beaks were set for fighting,
their war cries now quite shrill.

I needed to get out of this, 
Or I was in real trouble!
More local gulls had heard the fight 
and numbers were almost double!

I threw the chips away from me
as far as I possibly could,
the gulls would surely follow them 
and I prayed to God they would!

My nose was ******, 
my ears were sore,
I'd lost some hair, it was on the floor!
I ran like a madman holding my head, 
howling like a baby and needing my bed. 

I hid beneath my bedroom covers,
shocked by what had occurred,
who would believe such injuries
were caused by a ****** bird?!

I'll never visit the seaside again, I've moved to the big bustling city,
those crazy gulls have left me scared, 
and the scars are not that pretty!
Steve Jul 2022
The day that John met Paul
There was a summer fete in the old church hall
And it was fate that day that came to play
As the powers that be had their way
Two young boys would come of age
They’d rock the world from a golden stage
The fates combined would all agree
And Mary whispered Let It Be.
A memorable day.
Helen Oct 2014
I have very little time for me
5.30am I wake, so I can read
6am I'm waking school children
6.30am I'm making lunches
and waking them again
7am I'm ready and waking them again
in between, I try to read...
3pm, after work, I've picked them up,
home again, I have no luck
I'm reading homework, doing washing,
cooking dinner while they sit watching
asking questions, demanding my time
showing me answers, I can't say Nien!
at the time they are ready for quiet
I'm deep into my own bottle of Claret!
I've exhausted topics from
Logistics to get to the Fete,
and simple dress changes
that relate, if acceptable for camp?
and can my girlfriend stay
just for a night?
Mum! Look at me dance?
Have I got it tight?

I'm tapping away trying express
my own thought
then comes a little voice
that breaks down my fort...
And I realise,
I can't tap out a rhyme
the could ever compete
to the little dancing feet
that demands my attention
no less than your poem
but rest assured
as you have written it
I've read it, I just thought
*you should know
excuses, excuses but... if I had 27hrs in my day, I'd still not be able to say how much I would love to be able to ****** enough time to tell you how much I love what you've written :)
(alternately known as the Doubting Thomas Crown
Taj Mahal Cupid Affair)
-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -   -  -  -

Fortunate (for me) thee bona fide "FAKE" Cupid
(aka Decoy Donald Duck
and side kickstarter Jay Rad,
colluded donning one alias,
which (former and latter)

amounted tube bing disguised incognito
as the cingular "Ivan Ha Bea Robber Baron),"
while same above placed
their System Of A Down on high alert
whereby, they unwittingly, fortunately,
and accidentally discerned disquieting "noise"

i.e. static electronic crackling
purportedly from nemesis, asper sans above
whereby broadcasters colluded
confusingly, congruously, and convincingly
as thee infamous digital (duplicity)
faux "Big Mac" Trump.

The chalkboard scratching, hair sprayed bouffant,
and knuckle crackling
appeared tubby the handiwork cleverly disguised
(as tinpot dictator antics of Moscow's version,

sans Putin on the ritz),
which decrypted garble (a fluke) as iterated above
strongly emanating via polygamous,
prestigious, and pseudonymous
pull no punches ploy

innocently convincing feigned
duo code named "Ashley Madison and Bert"
disclosing (when uncovered),
a heartless conspiracy in concert

with Sesame Street studded lesser known Muppets
pretending tubby oil tycoon Bedouins
intent to fleece "sensitive"
top secret military defense contracts,

which Russian motley crue ace double agents
intended this act of espionage thence sabotage
feted as a Black Sabbath Lupercalia feint
not for the faint hearted clubby fete

where Cupid given free rule of the roost
allowing, enabling and proffering
Cyrillic chattering Cherubim

hook cooked United States "figurative goose"
lock, stock and barrel, which stratagem
captured president unawares
and did significantly boost

Eastern Bloc reconnaissance (on par
with the Philadelphia Eagles
winning 2018 Super Bowl LII
which surprise clenching championship
wrought frenzied hoopla, gala, and bacchanalia
where barenaked ladies

cavorted nsync with beastie boys,
whence City of Brotherly love hoopla found
nearly every man, woman and child ******
(analogous to each person garnering
an early Sainted Patrick's *** of gold.
the bittersweet silent story of my life age
fifty and nine automatically rebroadcast
     in indelible (yet never washed out) beige
indistinguishably linkedin, when counting
     the last three of seventy somber orbitz,
     signify torturous custom made cage

whose darkening shades of gray
housed a weakened Harriet Harris,
     an ashen corpse lay
no doubt a grown changeling dust play

a cruel trick, and soul of me mum didst slay,
so...tis with great difficulty aye write this poem today
cathartic to brush off self denunciation,
     an albatross that dust way

heavily incriminating, ostracizing this mind of mine,
recurring every year comb May fourth a line
codifying, delineating, earmarking,  
     and doth likened
     to elementary school Boyer

     as in  Henry Kline
no less painful reflection plus unavoidable,
     hence this middle aged man lets feelings incline
toward self expression this anniversary
     revisiting re: deign

upon memorializing general up beat
defiance at death of thine late mother,
     where disease rabidly did eat
ting her til she expired,
     this singular married heir
     set himself a writing fete

wordlessly mouths never expressed greet
unbeknownst reeders gleaning my sentiments heat
ting recollected adieu bid prior,
     whence she angrily wanted to meet
that accursed nemesis
     against healthiness and repeat
  
cherished apothegm,
     that existence offers no second act
as she relinquished slipping tenuous weak bract
leave ving ever fainter grip upon cracked
pommel of mortality, an immutable fact
thence black knight denounced, pounced, hijacked
trounced unannounced, vanquished, lacked

motive to rival nixed, extinguished sputtering pact
fast fading joie de vivre unspoken,
     where death rattle racked
personal def tone accentuation tracked
subsequent self castigation,
     excoriation nearly whacked

me to Timbuktu rebuking extolling bless
sing experienced from
     this sole son for thirteen years, aye confess
when the inimitable Harriet Harris

     devastatingly, grievously, inconsolably,
     got hexed, issued jilted livingsocial, a less
son learned to late, how maddeningly mess
say yon nick lee infuriated, not accepting press

sing ill fate, nor countenancing fatal injustice,
refusing to curtsy fiendish inxs did ****
her off (poisoned scorpion sting) remiss
cheekily peppering psyche as if Swiss

cheese, a once spunky Arthur Murray shored
dance instructor, who scored
door prize in the guise of thee less torte sured
near nonagenarian papa, where meanness poured

from grim mortal outlook parlayed moored
deadly reaper, quashed, ruined as lord
stole, sacred maternal tribal nurse, unfairly did hoard
final precious seconds unexpectedly meant un explored
positive rapport forever undergirded "door"

closed to resolve ambivalence with venerable bead
did association between
     kith and kin, unfairly
     dead poet society lettered deed
wrested a vibrant life despite zest that freed
a vibrant gal to coast along dialed up esprit

     de corps spirit to live, yet greed
of metastatic cancer upended lead,
where mind over matter, sans power
     in positive thinking rubric and plead
ding didst **** last ditch homeopathic screed

ambitions *******, thus giving up the ghost
wracking sadness, sinking sorrow spilling most
lee tears of loss, among family, fellow Unitarians
of the Thomas Paine Fellowship
     included with your obituary post.
Terry Collett Sep 2013
When she fainted
at the bus stop in the town
and others gathered

around her
you stood watching
anxious of her

being such
but not wanting others
to know of you and she

(her choice)
you stood looking
through the crowd

of what you could
of her
the glimpse

of black hair
the yellow flowered dress
a white sock

then she was up
and someone
brushed her off

Jane gazed at you
pale white
her lips bluish

her dark eyes
black olives
on white plates

and next day(Sunday)
after church
she walked over to you

and(no one noticing)
you and she wandered off
beyond the hedge

her father shaking hands
at the porch of church
her mother talking

of some fete
and the making of cakes
Jane taking your hand

settled by a higher hedge
and whispered
glad you never came

to me yesterday
when I fainted
that would have set

the tongues wagging
I thought that too
you said

she smiled
why did you faint?
you asked

not sure
Mum thinks
it's my time of month

or some such thing
you looked puzzled
unsure what her time

of month was
or what it meant
(13 years old

as both you were)
I see
you said

but didn't
anyway
she said

feel better today
and then she talked
of a butterfly she'd seen

sounding like
some lady or other
you stared at her

the eyes bright
the skin still pale
her hand in yours

the scent of apples
freshly picked
her warmth on yours

her words silk like
whispering to you
and you thought

of the Sunday before
the walk up the Downs
the hand in hand

kind of thing
you thinking
of her nearness

something stirring
within
and she talking

of the spread of flowers
colours
design

petals
and how bees
come and go

and you sensing
each touch of her
skin on skin

her thumb stroking
the back of your hand
then someone called her name

beyond the hedge
over from the church
and letting go

of your hand
she walked back
leaving you to stare

and wonder and wish
as you walked back
another way

the churchyard
with its many dead
the flowers

the smells of summer
and you watching
wanting her instead.
Jihad Donald Trump Style
The glory of America, now heats up
with agitation poised to strike on the brink
sans legislation incites humiliation,
which goads desecration as fete accompli *****
in armor of Democratic rubric, constituting capitalistic
ethic, generic iconoclastic, and jingoistic logic,
nor budging an inch when mandating masses swallow his drink
what huff huck – this belligerent, dominant and
fervent hell raiser doth bungle in the jungle
decreeing tacit Mar shall law fast as a shutterfly eyewink
as his cosmic crotch grab doth put Venus under his sway
with his Mercury hill temperament
pitches the orbit of planet Earth tubby comb out of balance
infected by hiz anti Ju pit er damnations, excoriations, fulminations
Huzzah sing how **** derriere didst Sat urn simultaneously
crushing crucible as an Uranus
indiscriminately plop ping two hundred fifty pounds off flesh
dub ling down snapchatting and humming his favorite Neptune
that dost affect Pluto hoc crass sea
repeating a self coined motto – I yam all mighty, therefore no fink
simply commandeering the reins of control,
a one man military intelligence groupthink
hut triad and true dyed in the wool rip pug in ant guise zing rogue
rejoicing tuff fool, governing and hoodwink
Fake king the die hard fans of dictatorial, linkedin and monarchist ink
cube bus thriving on wielding indomitable aggression
practiced in the Art of the Deal incorporating an unanticipated jink
iron fist rule reigning down vis a vis
pro pens heave lee and prop hen city
flashing hiz seal of approval, which scribbled signature
doth not smooth monkey serve hay puzzling kink
boot his frenzy to bulldoze catastrophic, formulaic, and illogic
spells these United States of America twill become hell
in a hand basket worth repeating with nary a trace of the grit of link
kin, the sixteenth president
(whose ruggedly pioneering frontier existence)
found him steady and strong, plus soft hearted as pelt o’ mink
the epitomy of this forty fifth elected commander in mischief.
Jd Schooley Jun 2014
Hasten down, all you of golden minds
Young or worldly, true and comely chaste
Brightly rise, swiftly step and hasten hence.

***** up your spirits, leave your dullness behind
Out of the brightly lit, merry fete of Spring,
Cast off all that hinders your supplicant will.

Twirl and lively dance to sing and shout,
Mid wine inspired jubilation of festival.
Chirp the bird, cry the wolf and hoo the owl.

For upon the humbled visage of my soul,
Do invite all who wish to see and speak the voice,
For she is here, to hold our hearts and cheer thy soul.

Greet Summers dawn and Winters gone,
A hearty price was paid, anon call in the glade,
Now roar and sleep no more, till Winter's door,
We curse once more.

— The End —