Everything is such fun in the beginning,
when it’s new and undiscovered.
i’ll try almost anything.

What is meant by almost?
All these stupid sick **** roles we play,
all this pretending, why?

i want to believe there’s something
behind the curtain
besides a windowless stone wall

Something inexplicable
his/her majesty of everything/
living/dead/never existed.

William Blake said, “Either be a poet or a painter.
Being both muddies audiences, and discredits one or the other.”
Actually, Blake didn’t say that. i am lost.

is it possible to love after what has happened?
the rage, hurt, disappointment of betrayal.
my ex still stalks

as recently as two mornings ago,
all her exaggerations, over-reactions, fury.
Why so desperate to return to crime scene?

An admission of her own guilt?
Excessive compulsive wound licking (psychogenic alopecia)?
Another excuse for getting drunk?

When we waited for the elevator going down
You said, “Let’s just get this over with.”
i understood completely.

i, who worships my own death.
i, who ****** on my own grave.
i, who gets bored faster than speed of light.

i, who suspects killing around every corner.
i, who sleeps restless.
i, who worries.

i, who loves women.
i, who does not understand women.
i, who is a woman.

i, who bangs the dude in L.A. to advance my career.
i, who is a nobody.
i, a man with no place to stand.

i, who belongs to a family of
blustering flirts, flatterers,
kidders, thieves.

We sit at the table,
monkey-wrenching hand over fist lives.
Forget about the eyes.

Watch the fingers.
Don’t listen to the speeches.
Words are intentional distractions.

Where’s your wallet?
Gypsies? No, we’re not gypsies,
more upper-crusty, yes, very well-connected secrets.

Do the names Dante, or Cervantes, or Nabokov mean anything to you?
No, none of them are our kin,
but we know people who know people,

infidelities in very high places.
All i’m saying is,
once you reach a certain level,

we’re all family.
i will make success happen,
with or without you.

Oh, let me not serve so, as those men serve
Whom honour’s smokes at once fatten and starve;
Poorly enrich’t with great men’s words or looks;
Nor so write my name in thy loving books
As those idolatrous flatterers, which still
Their Prince’s styles, with many realms fulfil
Whence they no tribute have, and where no sway.
Such services I offer as shall pay
Themselves, I hate dead names: Oh then let me
Favourite in Ordinary, or no favourite be.
When my soul was in her own body sheathed,
Nor yet by oaths betrothed, nor kisses breathed
Into my Purgatory, faithless thee,
Thy heart seemed wax, and steel thy constancy:
So, careless flowers strowed on the waters face
The curled whirlpools ****, smack, and embrace,
Yet drown them; so, the taper’s beamy eye
Amorously twinkling beckons the giddy fly,
Yet burns his wings; and such the devil is,
Scarce visiting them who are entirely his.
When I behold a stream which, from the spring,
Doth with doubtful melodious murmuring,
Or in a speechless slumber, calmly ride
Her wedded channels’ *****, and then chide
And bend her brows, and swell if any bough
Do but stoop down, or kiss her upmost brow:
Yet, if her often gnawing kisses win
The traiterous bank to gape, and let her in,
She rusheth violently, and doth divorce
Her from her native, and her long-kept course,
And roars, and braves it, and in gallant scorn,
In flattering eddies promising retorn,
She flouts the channel, who thenceforth is dry;
Then say I, That is she, and this am I.
Yet let not thy deep bitterness beget
Careless despair in me, for that will whet
My mind to scorn; and Oh, love dulled with pain
Was ne’er so wise, nor well armed as disdain.
Then with new eyes I shall survey thee, and spy
Death in thy cheeks, and darkness in thine eye.
Though hope bred faith and love: thus taught, I shall,
As nations do from Rome, from thy love fall.
My hate shall outgrow thine, and utterly
I will renounce thy dalliance: and when I
Am the recusant, in that resolute state,
What hurts it me to be excommunicate?

Listen to the aye-sayers;
Pay heed to the nay-sayers
For point and counter-point;
As Lear did with his fool,
As we did once in school.
Hear the sycophants and flatterers,
The realists and truists;
But in the end what matters,
Is the voice between your ears,
The sooth-sayer of future years.

being the topper in the class, he developed certain pride
that the envious derided, ignored flatterers on his side.

the first bench was his permanent place
from where shone his haloed face
when the teachers spoke seemed it thus
there was only him in the whole class.

all questions he took the answers he knew
solved hardest sums others had no clue
not once an intruder could invade his space
he shined in glory of his flawlessness.

from him was never unfinished homework
ruthlessly made on exams his mark
was taken for granted he would win first place
the rest of the herd would just run the race.

the teachers indulged him the pride of the class
but you know all fame are fragile like glass
it so happened a new teacher joined the school
unbiased he was not to blindly toe the rule.

he asked the first boy if he had ever flown a kite
played marbles on road picked up a fight
if ever he had walked barefooted on the grass
stole a look at sky bunked even one class.

if he had ever chosen to close the book
hid him alone in the scariest of nook
scanned the horizon to catch first moonrise
counted the stars bamboo grove's fireflies.

he looked nonplussed didn't utter a word
anything than studies he hardly bothered
had he answered it would all have been *no
to him most precious was his place at front row.

he bowed his head down with ashen face
for the first time in class he failed to impress
what happened next was no riddle to guess
that teacher was gone without a trace.

These grumblers,
Enoch said,
Walk in their own desires,
Arrogant flatterers
Taking advantage  of others,
Attempting to divide the family of God
Because they do not believe,
Because they do not have the Spirit.

But you, the Body of Christ,
The Family of God,
Continue to build in holy faith,
Praying in the Spirit,
Keeping in the love of God,
Expecting the mercy of the Lord,
Jesus Christ,
Who gives us eternal life.

Have mercy on doubters;
Save others by snatching them
From the licking flames of Hell.

Fearing for others,
Have mercy for them,
Without allowing yourselves
To be made filthy,
Keeping yourselves
From being drawn into
Their addictions and their sins.

Glory, Majesty, Power, Authority
Are HIS forever:
Before time began:
Past, Present, Future,
And He is the only One able
To protect you from falling,
To provide you legs to stand
In His Glorious Presence.

He is the only One who makes
You blameless,
Who fills you with joy,
Who is able to save you
Through His Son,
Jesus Christ,
Our only Lord,
Now and Forever.

Amen.

You had a method for testing the fiction
said “God’s not a bad man, but I know you need fixin’
You’re beautiful, you’re underwhelmed, anyway.”

There is a hand in the sky holding flames to your eye
but it’s not hard to tell there’s fresh swell of sighs
on its way to us, expectant, holding sway.

A court of flatterers dolled up in tatters,
I can hardly hear for the sound of their chatter--
the words they say fumble, they lead astray.

Since in the daytime I am soft-spoken and mild,
they’re all convinced I have the soft will of a child
It’s up to you to explain, I must have my way.

See, I’ve got a fine plan for testing the fiction,
God’s a good man when he’s free of restrictions
So trust in me when I say, I will pray.

Talking of sacrament, boy’s got a blessed bent
so he won’t hold me when ma says it’s not prudent--
“It’s not for a girl to say, anyway”

Here’s my hand reaching; I was born a huntress,
Come when I call you, obey when I say undress:
Here’s a test for your holiness, here I lay.

Words are the most wonderful things that would have existed in this world,
but now words are poison.
Even the world is rotting with liars, deceivers and flatterers.
Now words are merely dropped down, like candy wrappers.

Now I figure why no one desires the truth,
when words that would have been worth diamonds,
were merely said as if they were just soil in the ground.
when precious words that would've been treasured were just foolishly given away.

How many words of admiration have been wasted?
How many words of affection have been jested?
How many terms of endearment were truly heartfelt?
How many confessions were ever truly meant?

Words come and go as a craft of our tongues,
rather than a masterpiece of our hearts.
Words slip carelessly like unwanted wastes,
rather than carefully thought endeavors.

Now I am the boy who cried wolf,
whose words are mere garbage.
When I learned to truly tell you I love you, I adore you, I revere you, I need you,
'Twas too late, for the sugar has lost its taste.

Now then how can I tell you the sincerest words,
when the honey has already numbed your tongue?
Now how can I tell the sweetest affections I have for you,
when the words I've already wasted were as good as gone?

Now these words I offer, to your ear they may never sound new.
But know this, from now til the end of my days, all these words shall only be for you.

A crow sat on a tree branch holding
A chunk of cheese in her beak.
On top of the world was she. She thought,
"What a lucky streak!"

On seeing her, a fox decided
To use his expertise
To find a way to take from her
That scrumptious chunk of cheese.

Standing under the tree he said,
"Such a noble bird
Is almost indescribable.
It would be absurd

"To come up with appropriate terms
To celebrate your beauty.
But if I didn't try, I fear
'Twould be a breach of duty.

"So here's my attempt: Noble One,
Never have I seen
A more exquisite sight. Of all
The birds you are the queen!

"I'm trying to imagine how
Much pleasure it would bring
Us all to hear your gorgeous voice.
Noble Lady, sing!"

Flattered by the fox's speech,
The crow let out a caw
And dropped the cheese onto the ground.
The hungry fox cried, "Ha!"

And gobbled up the cheese at once.
"Perhaps your counterparts,
Would concur: you've got a voice,
But what you lack is smarts."

The moral is that flatterers
Will tell you what's untrue;
There might be a winner, but
The winner won't be you.

Sometimes even presidents
Can't seem to detect
The crucial differences between
Flattery and respect.

-by Bob B (11-19-17)

°An Aesop fable retold here in verse

forgotten




Now that you are big and strong, graceful and accomplished, now that you're powerful enough to surround yourself with pursuers and admirers, sychopants and flatterers


Do you remember , those who gave you the strength to pick yourself up whenever you were down,

taught you how to hold your head high
when they were being amused by your tripping'?


Just like the water that helped the sapling grow to a tree,
     never feels entitled to its shade,

     the hand that fed your first morsel,
         will not stake a claim on your treasures,

     or the hand that saved you from falling when the baby feet           took the first steps,
         won't hold the trophies you win,

     or the one who lay staring at you waiting patiently for the first words to be spoken,
         may not be there to hear the standing ovation after  your powerful speech,

      or the words that edged you on, seeing
a spark in you when others gave up,
         won' t ask for an acknowledgement in you memoir

      or those minuscule but timely gifts
that helped you through times of destitute,
         won't be expecting a share in your worldly possessions.


And here you are standing at the pinnacle of success, with all those moments that forged your life, forgotten!

I used to be a scribe
scribbling other people’s lives
empty threats and recipes
grimoires rank with heresies

I used to plagiarize
esoteric tomes of ****
pawned to tabloids gorged on lies
anesthetized I was to scorn

I used a fountain pen
inkwells of forbidden ink
from excretions of hanged men
Mixed with purgatory’s stink

I used to paint with hues
of rainbows found only in hell
after showers of excrement
on sodden flatterers fell

And from pieces of the lost
torn and pulled apart
I erected a louvre
to desecrate my art

I used to be a poet, many people
didn’t know it
few cared...
fewer noticed

when I finally made them see
they saw my poems, but not me

Lawrence Hall HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                   A Harvester of Praise

                              Cf. Shakespeare’s Sonnet 69

You taught us
Put not your trust in oozy flatterers
Who tell you only what you want to hear
And nothing about what you need to know
Adorning yourself with your own press releases

And as you taught us
Your thoughts, your words, your speech were ever strong
You stood upon the lessons you had learned
With wisdom and kindness you taught hard truth
And with truth found beauty in everything

But then you stopped
You were an artist and scholar in your younger days
But now you are only a harvester of praise

Huey Long° was the kind of fellow
You wouldn't double cross.
He ran his state as though he was
A genuine mob boss.

Bootlickers and flatterers
On whom he could rely
Helped him gain his wealth and power.
That you can't deny.

He stacked his government with folks
Who'd answer only to him.
His dissenters found themselves
Out on a shaky limb.

Hey, Huey,
We all know
The things you did
So long ago.
Your power grabs
Were tried and true.
We know someone
Much like you.

Harnessing the discontent
Of people was his plan.
His gift of gab as a populist
Made him a popular man.

His cadre of guards sufficiently armed
Made him feel quite smug.
Although he got things done, he was
Essentially a ****.

Taking control of elections, he
Sidestepped prosecution.
With power on display, he'd declare,
"I am the Constitution."

Hey, Huey,
We all know
The things you did
So long ago.
In a way
You primed the pump
And set the stage
For Donald Trump.

Calling himself "the Kingfish," Huey
Found corruption handy.
Power, control, and kickbacks were
His modus operandi.

Reporters whom he didn't like
Were ones he would abuse.
They'd be beaten, and he'd call
Their papers "lyinnews."

A glimpse of how a strongman would
Appear in the U.S.A.
Was Huey Long's rehearsal for
A dictatorship today.

Hey, Donald
We see through
All the things
You've tried to do.
Although this
Is NOT your song,
You're a lot
Like Huey Long.

-by Bob B (5-6-24)

°40th governor of Louisiana and U.S. senator from 1932 until his assassination in 1935.