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CK Baker Dec 2016
The napalan man in a violet cape  
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew  

sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors  

stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour

castle turret,  archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo  

ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified  

battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war  
gargoyles flock the terraced *****
pearly gates to bring on hope  

serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
ryn Dec 2014
It was those blue eyes, sparkling with words
I dreamt about reading but believed it impossible
Too beautiful to be seen with nuclear nerds
In my breakable beaker, you'd never be soluble.

A mismatched juxtaposition, atom for atom.
Even if I permutate, molecule by molecule.
We could never have struck stable equilibrium,
I could never escape the premise of ridicule.

Spent too much time postulating the unknown
Spent far too long balancing tricky equations
Head dug too deep to realise a factor that had grown
An external variable that had encroached with similar intentions.


My hand slipped from the scale when your finger touched my own
I forgot the words "controlled reaction", momentarily
Seeing goosebumps on your skin, and other bumps now shown
I gently pushed your wayward hair behind your ear, daringly

A moment frozen in the range of sub-zeroes
Dare I forgo the mandatory steps and arrive at a conclusion?
If I do I'd garner the title, "the nerdiest of all heroes!"
My "spidey-sense" failed me this time, and awarded me with a "fist-meet-face" reaction!

Happened in a blur, nanoseconds that sang in mock.
What was it that left me in a twirl?
Propped myself up to see the wrath of a crimson-faced ****.
All fists, no brains who yelled, "Hands off my girl!"


All this hilarious yet passionately painful hullabaloo
Let me drop the beaker of sodium in the zinc basin
Forgetting not to get it wet, the moment, clearly now unglued
When suddenly, "BOOM" it sounded like a pending cremation

Jocks, and nerds, and screaming cheerleaders
Hit the ground like a lunchtime scene from downtown Baghdad
And Blondie whispers in my ear, like a gypsy mind reader
"Maybe we should cool it, for I am in love with another lad"

Her words hit home and burned like The Lindenburg on fire
Amidst the fracas, cracked voice stammered to mask my bruised latent ego
"Nothing improper... Just an attempt to save your locks from the Bunsen burner
Science is my only love, just so you know"

Thanked God for my eyes and the need for correction lenses
Those thick convexes made it easy to not reveal
Steadied my frames and packed in hasty pretences
Accusing eyes followed as I exited the room with tears concealed...


Pieter Meyer
**ryn
You may have read this before as it is a repost of my collaboration with the witty and incredible Pieter Meyer. He seemed to have gone missing, along with the poem. So here it is... Hope you enjoy it
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.
:-)
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Here is a toast for valentine
Valentine in all seasons perennial
Where angst of money for love  
Cradled utopian capitalism,
It is once again in the city of Omurate
In the south most parts of Ethiopia
On the borders of Kenya and Ethiopia
Where actually the river Ormo enters Lake Turkana,
There lived a pair of lovers
With overt compassion for one another
The male lover was an origin of Nyangtom,
A cattle rustling Nilotic kingdom
While the female lover was a descendant of King Solomon
The Jewish children which King Solomon aborted
Because their mother was an Ethiopian African
They now form substantial part of the Ethiopian population
Their clan is known as Amharic, they speak subverted Yiddish,
These lovers were good to one another
Sharing secrets and all other stuffs that go with love.

Both the lovers were fatherless
They had lost their fathers through early death
They only had the mothers, who were again sickly
Their mothers coughed a whole night with whoops
And when in the wee of the night, when temperatures go low
The mothers breathe with wheezing sound
Like peasant music from African violin,
They didn’t eat with good appetite
They always left irritating chunks on the plates,
But they all puked mucus from their mouths
And of course with a very sickening regularity.

The menace of sick mothers intervened with love freedom
Among the inter-compassionate lovers
They did not have time for real active love
I will not mention recurrent missing of ceremonies
Fetes that are bound to go with valentine day
The lovers were bored to their teeth
They don’t knew when gods will come to unyoke them.

Especially the male lover, was most perturbed
His mother looked sorriest
With a scrofulous look on her old aged African face
She looked like a forlorn erstwhile cattle rustler
She ever whined in pain like a trapped hyena
Her son the male lover even began apologizing
To the female lover for such environmental upsets
Hence an African proverb that;
No love is possible with impaired judgment.

One day in the wee of the night
With no electricity nor any source of light
Darkness engulfing each and every aspect of the city
Confirming the hinterland of Africa
The female lover woke up from the sleep
And she never heard the usual wheezing breathes
That her mother often made in such hours,
Feat of suspicion gripped her
She jumped out of her bed to where her mother was
On feeling her, she found her dead, cold like a black member
She was already past the rigor mortis stage of death process
African chilliness had frozen her like a poikilothermic creature.

She wept but not in the uproarious groan
In that instinctive Jewish shrewdness
She did not announce nor inform her lover of her mother’s death
She only washed and groomed the cadaver of her mother
She made a headscarf around the head of dead mother
She even placed reading glasses on her face
On her mother’s dead torso she wrapped a dress
The most expensive of all bought from Egypt,
In the same wee of the night
She carried cadaver of her mother on her shoulders
The way a poor Nigerian farmer would carry a stem of banana
And walked slowly by slowly for a distance of a hundred kilometers
Down ***** into Kenya towards the city of Todanyang in Turkana County
Todanyang was a busy city, but silent and minus people in the night
The king of this city was called Lapur the son of Turkanai
And the law that Lapur passed in this city was archaic
It was; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a Jew for a Jew
A pokot for a pokot, a samburu for a samburu
It was simply the law with nothing else
Other than clauses of measure for measure
And clauses of *** for tat instantaneously administered,
On reaching the market she placed her mother standing
Being supported on a sign post at the bus stage
In pose similar to that of an early morning traveler,
She sat a side like a prowling spider awaiting foolish fly
They way an African ***** exposes its red ****
And when the hen comes to peck
It traps and closes the head of the hen
Deeper into its ****,
At that bus stage there was a hotel
Owned by a Rwandese refugee
From the foolish clan of the Hutu
He had ran away from the genocide
In his country, he was also the perpetrator
And thus he was a runaway from the law *** hotelier
His name was Chapuchapu, meaning the quick one,
When Chapuchapu opened the hotel for the early customers
The female lover walked into the hotel
With innocence on her face like all the Jews
She placed an order for two mugs of coffee
And two pieces of bread
When Chapuchapu had placed food on the table
The female lover shrewdly instructed Chapuchapu
To go and hold the hand of the woman standing at the sign post
To bring her into the hotel for morning tea,
Chapuchapu in his unsuspecting charisma
With a mad drive to make money that morning
He dashed out as instructed with his foolish notion
That the customer is the queen, which is not
He grapped the standing cadaver with force
On pulling her to come along
The cadaver tumbled down like a marionette
Everything falling away; headscarf and glasses
Chapuchapu was overtaken by awe
The female lover was watching
Like the big brother in the Orwellian satire, 1984.
When the cadaver of her mother fell
She came out of the hotel
Screaming like a hundred vehicles
Of St John Ambulance
And two hundred Kenyan vehicles of fire brigade
And three hundred Kenyan cash transfer vehicles,
She was accusing Chapuchapu for being careless
Careless in his work that he had killed her mother,
Swam of armed humanity in Turkana loinclothes
Began pouring in like waters of Nile into Mediterranean
Female lover improved the scale of her screaming
Chapuchapu like a heavyweight idiot was dumbfounded
Armed people came in their infinite
Finally king Lapur arrived on his royal donkey
That his foot soldiers had only rustled
From Samburu land a fortnight ago,
The presence of the king quelled the hullabaloo
The king asked to find out what had happened
Amid sops the female lover narrated how
Chapuchapu the hotelier had killed her mother
Through his careless helter skelter behaviour
The king sighed and shouted the judgment
To the mad crowd; an eye for a……….!?
The crowd responded back to the King
In a feat of amok value;
For an eye you mighty Lapur son  ofTurkanai,
The stones, kicks, jabs began rainning
In volleys on an innocent Chapuchapu
Amid shouts that **** him, he came here to **** people
The way he killed a thousand fold in Rwanda.

The sopping female lover requested the king
That his people wait a bit before they continue
Then the king waved to the people to stop
Chapuchapu was on the ground writhing in pain
When the King asked the female lover what was the concern
She requested for pay from Chapuchapu not people to **** him
Chapuchapu accepted to pay whatever the price that will be put
Female lover asked for everything in hundreds;
Carmel, money, Birr, sheep, goats, donkeys, cows
Name them all they were in hundreds
Chapuchapu and his family were saying yes to every demand
And they rushed to bring whatever was said
The payments exhausted Chapuchapu back to square zero
The female lover carried everything away
The cadaver of her mother on her shoulder
She disappeared into the forest
and buried her mother there.

When she arrived home she found the male lover
He looked at her overnight change in fortune in stupefaction
He didn’t believe his eyes, it was a dream
Sweetheart, where have you gotten all these?
Questioned the male lover
Sweetie darling there is market for dead women
At Todanyang in the Turkana County of Kenya
I killed my sickly mother and carried her cadaver
As a trade ware to Todanyang
Whatever I have that you are looking at is the proceed,
Can my mother fetch the same? Asked the male lover
Of course yes, even more
Given the Africanness of your mother
African cadavers fetch more than the Jewish ones
At Todanyang market,
The male lover was now overtaken
By strong urge for quick riches
Was not seeing it getting evening
That day for him was as long as a whole century
He was anxious and restless more tired of a sickly mother
When evening fell he was already ready with the butcherer’s tools
He didn’t have nerves to wait till the wee of the night
As early as eleven in the evening he axed his mother’s head
Into two chunks of human skull spilling the brains in stark horror
Blood streaming like a rivulet all over the house
The male lover was nonchalant to all these
He was in the full feat of determination
To **** and sell his mother to  get the proceeds
With which he could foot the bills of valentine day.

He stuffed the headless blood soaked torso
Of his mothers cadaver in the sisal bag
He threw it to his bag
And began going to Todanyang
The market for human dead bodies
He went half running and half walking
With regular whistling of his favourite poem;
Ode to my Jewish lover
He reached Todanyang in the wee of the night
No human being was in sight
All people had gone as it was late in the night
He then slept in the open with dead body of his mother
Stuffed in the sisal bag beside him
Wandering night dogs regularly disturbed him
As they came to bite at smelling curdled blood
But he always scared them away.
As per the male lover he overslept till five in the morning
But when he woke up he unhesitatingly began to shout
Advertising his ware of trade in foolish version;
Am selling, the body of my mother, I have killed,
I killed her myself, it is still fresh, come and buy,
I will give you’re a bargain price,

When the morning came
People began crowding around him
As he kept on shouting his advertisement
Also Lapur the king came
He was surprised with the situation,
He asked the male lover to confirm
Whatever he was shouting
The male lover vehemently confirmed,
Then the law of an eye for an eye
Effortlessly took its course
Lapur  ordered his people, in a glorious royal decree
To stone the male lover to death
And bury him away without ceremony
Along with his mother in the sisal bag
In the wasted cemetery of villains
The same way Pablo Neruda
Had to bury his dead dog behind the house,

On hearing the tidings
About what had befallen her lover
The female lover had to send out a long giggle
Coming deep from her heart with maximum joy
She took over the estate of the male lover
Combined with hers,
All the animals and everything she took,
She made her son the manager
The son whom she immaculately conceived
Without any nuptial experience in the usual Jewish style
And their wealth multiplied to vastness
And hence toxic valentine gave birth to capitalism
Iraira Cedillo Mar 2014
Jellyfish stew,
I'm loony for you,
I dearly adore you,
Oh,truly I do,
You are creepy to see,
Revolting to chew,
You slide down inside
With. Hullabaloo.

You're soggy,you're smelly,
Ou taste like shampoo,
You bog own my belly
With oodles of goo,
Yet I would glue noodles
And punes to m shoe,
For one oozy spoonful
Of jellyfish stew
Iraira cedilllo
Mr Abbott hasn't a snowball's chance in hell
Of getting the Senate to pass his tax sell
The numbers are stacked well against him
Passing this legislation is looking rather slim

He's been all around the country selling his pitch
But the electorate thinks its a *******  
Pressure is building up in government ranks
They know they'll receive a whipping to the flanks

Opposing senators don't want a bar of the bill
Within the next few months they'll be a spill
A double dissolution election shall clear the air
That will surely sort out what is and isn't fair

The voters require utmost sanity to prevail
As they've taken enough of Abbott's rude mail
The conundrum in parliament must be attended to
For it is causing one heck of a hullabaloo
afteryourimbaud Apr 2018
In the midst
of the hullabaloo,

I found a heaven
that resides deep
in the heart of the hell.

I ran towards it,
only to realize
that I was dead for all this time.
a bilingual rensaku

       1

píosa eile coiréil
            caite i dtír:
                        bhog sé – portán sligreach



another piece of coral
            washed up on the beach:
                        it moves – hermit crab





            2

spéir gan teimheal –
            ar aghaidh leis arís
                        ag máirseáil, portán sligreach



cloudless sky –
            off again on his marches
                        hermit crab



            3

tost ... airgeadaíonn an ghealach
            an gaineamh faoina luíonn
                        na huibheacha turtar

silence ... the moon silvers
            the sand that hides
                        turtle eggs



          







            4

iompaíonn a lí
            ar an ré chródhearg
                        teitheann na réaltaí



a blood-red moon
            changes colour
                        putting all the stars to flight



            5

cruth an choiréil ******>            cruth réaltbhuíne
                                                            i gcéin



the shape of this coral
            shape of a distant
                                                            galaxy



            6

oileáin á nochtadh
            is ag leá
an mar seo a cruthaíodh an domhan?



islands coming
            and going
is this how the world was made?













            7

ní gá iarraidh orthu –
            seolann na crainn phailme
                        bríos chugainn



cooling breeze
            from palm trees –
                        without asking



            8

an féileacán fiú
            glacann scíth
                        san ámóg



even the butterfly
            takes a rest
                        in the hammock





            9

taoi foirfe, i ngach slí,
a mhuiscít; mar sin féin
fan amach uaim



you are perfect in every way
mosquito; nonetheless
buzz off







            10

spléachadh ar thurtar
            a shúile
is a bhfuil feicthe acu



glimpse of a turtle
            his eyes
and what they have seen



            11

lorg bídeach chosa an éin
            ag díriú de shíor
ar ghaineamh gan chríoch



faint imprint of a bird’s feet
            pointing                       pointing
towards infinite sands





            12

isteach i bpoll sa ghaineamh
            rud a bhí róthapaidh
                        le hainmniú



into a hole in the sand
            something  too quick
to be named





            13

níl faic ar na gaobhair
ach brostaíonn an chearc a hál
an cosán anonn





nothing in sight
yet the hen bustles her clutch
across the path





            14

féar mara
            itheann na turtair é
                        seachas sin, n’fheadar



sea grass
            turtles eat it
                        apart from that, who knows















            15

linnte geala
            domhainchiúnais
                                    a réaltaí, na himíg’!



bright pools
            of deep silence –
                        no, stars, don’t go!



            16

nach toilltach!
            ar luas an tsolais, nach mór,
                        scairt an choiligh



how penetrating!
            almost at the speed of light
                        **** crow





            17

an lá á ghlaoch
            chun beochta acu
                        coiligh nach bhfeictear



calling the day
            to life –
                        invisible cockerels









            18
          
domhan fo thoinn
            cruinniú gearr
                        leis an mballach Napoléon



underwave world
            short meeting
                        with the Napoleon wrasse





            19

guth dearg an choiligh
            dathaíonn spéir
                        na maidine



a ****’s red voice
            painting
                        the morning sky





            20

coiréal inchinne cnapánaí
            gealas na réaltaí-
                        gan smaointe



knobby brain coral
            starglow -
                        no thoughts





            21



coiligh ag freagairt dá chéile
            eatarthu leátar
                        an ré



***** echoing one another
            between them they dissolve
                        the moon





            22

cos léi amuigh –
            tá an chuileog rómhór
                        do bhéal an gheiceo





one leg hangs out –
            the fly is too big
                        for the gecko’s mouth



            23



anáil chiúnaithe
            na cruinne: is ansin
                        scairt an choiligh





the stilled breath
            of the universe: then
                        cockcrow





            24

éisc ar crochadh
            faoin ngrian –
                        muir gan mhonabhar



fish hung out
            to dry
                        murmurless sea





            25

ina gceann is ina gceann
ciúnaíonn tonnta
                        roimh réaltaí



one by one
            waves become placid
                        for the stars





            26

scáil an turtair
            nó féar mara
                        b'fhéidir



turtle shadow
            or sea grass
                        maybe





            27

línte reatha -
an t-iasc séabrach
ag scríobh ar uisce



fleeting lines -
the zebra fish
writing on water











            28

hurlamaboc

            francach

                        in airde sa chrann cnó cócó



hullabaloo

            a rat

aloft in the coconut tree
Where Shelter Aug 2023
<>

”To dream by the oak and awake by the sea
when August has ripened and turned Jubilee
you must enter dominion of summer's delight
and live in the rapture of candescent light

Oh to live and to love one must first learn to kiss,  
the kinetics of summer, with eternal bliss.”


~from vienna bombardieri’s poem, “Kinetics Of Summer~
(with her kind permission)

<>

First verse pinpoints accurate, this,
my spot!
by oak and sea,
my precise longitude and latitude, where my summertime
eyes open to receive the gift of morning’s light, observing
the conjunction of land, hard by the sea, the land-ed avian gentry
and sea~sailor birds interacting, sharing the uprising currents,
for sport and observation, travel and pleasured sailing,
these “Masters of the Sky can fly for hours (or days), while barely flapping,” and this verse stuns, and
my shock,

at these, her words
my breathing is gasped and grasped
by oak and sea, for so it be,
this is where
my morning’s operatic scrum, ballet and dance hall hullabaloo,
my diurnal natural choreography is performed,
while slow sipping my very heated first coffee

it was here
that I learned to love more easily,
for the kinetics of summers trio of sun, sky, and moderate breezes,
lulled the turbulence of my disheartened lives into an easier
order, the world~surround, a living, breathing exercise that
warmed the spirit, cooled the soul, and spoke without uttering
a single word,
here dear person, is the where and the when,
the comfort of the natural-blanket
that enwraps, covers, cherishes the atmosphere entire,
containing the healing elixirs and protective ointments,
that remove the
plaque of life’s accumulated injuries, slights and scar tissue

simply put,
here I breath freely,
here I see with clarity
here the infusions of
living in nature, prolongs,
restore, remind, enliven
and enhances,
the intermixture of
body and soul

here in actual deed,
the kiss of summer bliss
upon
my tiring cell’s walls,
are resurrected even unto the nuclei,
by the warm breath of sun life and sun light,
and the breezes of salty sweet caramel air
and under their loving, combined-dominion
am I
resurrected and will yet sense,
one more Jubilee again
as I lay dreaming
by the oak and the sea…
great appreciation to Vienna B. for the beautiful poem she wrote,
and thanks for the inspiration!
Always be dreaming!
W.S.
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)



In response to the United States versus European Union  deliberations on Ukrainian- Russian stalemate  that were concluded on 25th may  2014 at Brussels , in which President Barrack Obama looked at the Putin’s political  behaviour in global set up of the postmodern era as a weakness, I beg to take my position within my capacity as global citizen, to go contrary to this stand of Barrack Obama by positing that President Vladimir Putin is a fact of global urgency , but instead it is Obama who suffers from universal class intellectual deficiency often  observed as insensitive rhetoric but branded as unmatched eloquence.
Firstly, let me give the sequential enumerations of facts which validate my position and hence this discourse. Barely the facts are; Ethnicity, Islam, terrorism, Guantanamo prison, Sino-African relations,Arab-springs,politics and human psychology and American political culture as state and an international citizen.
President Obama has always refused and rejected his ethnic connexion with Africa, he always refer to Africa as the land of ancestors. This is a stand that has most irritated Africans. Both in Africa and in the diaspora. Obama never learned a simple pre-industrial wisdom that every man needs ethnic identity for positive reasons. Because as per now Obama still stands as a Kenyan and as well as an American. This connotes a political fact that he is neither a complete Kenyan nor an absolute American in terms of political emotionalism. The empirical position of all these abode in the fact that there are a thousand and one Americans who feel politically belittled to be led by a first generation African American. Thus, a leadership fact has to be indentified in this juncture by inferring that, their voter consciousness as Americans is not fit to be crystallized as emotional resource to be enjoyed by Obama politics. In a sharp contrast Vladimir Putin has acquired substantial political strengths from positive recognition of Russian ethnicity. Putin recognizes Estonia, Crimea, Georgia, Serbia, Moldova and all small and poor lands around Russia in terms of ethnic connection to Russia. He calls these lands as the dear burial grounds in which Russian military heroes were buried. In a comparison, America has a lot of racial connection with Africa, but president Obama has earnestly worn blinkers on this. He only looks at Africa skeptically as a land of injured civilization in which terrorists abode. He has been wrong. African folk wisdom has a lesson that, you may not need your tribe in peace, only to need it in war.
Why did president Obama masquerade as a Muslim when he was vying for his first term? Moslems feel that he duped them only to turn around and **** their leaders. In Islam it is a heinous sin to pose as a Muslim when you are not one. President Obama mobilized the plotting which had to occasion the killings of Muammar Gadaffi and Osama Bin Laden. These two incidents fuelled high strength in anti-American feelings among the societies of the Arab world. Reasons are that both Gadaffi and Bin Laden deserved fair trial the same way Henry Kissinger was not tried when he perpetrated macabarous mass killing in Vietnamcong war. Muslim community least expected financial and ideological funding of the political hullabaloo known as the Arab Spring, through which heroic Moslem leaders were killed, to come from Obama government. But the contrary was surprisingly a fact. The meaning of this is that , in this tussle of show of mental mighty between Putin and Obama, All African and Arab states are behind Putin, China is behind Putin. Maybe it is Tanzanian and Ghanaian presidents who are in Obama camp, but not the Moslems in Tanzanians and Intellectuals in Ghana. The perceived rationale for this positioning inter alias is that the Number of North African Moslems in Guantanamo prison is the highest of all the detained terrorist suspects.
China is all over Africa today; African schools are teaching Chinese languages with passion more than they do with English language. The University of Nairobi in Kenya, has established the most prestigious Kungu Fu tze institute. Students in this institute are more self-confident and hopeful than those in schools of English and literature. China has designed a special business city for Africans, known as the chocolate city. Africans are more dignified in this city than their counterparts in Chicago.Negroes in Chicago of today still taste a vestigial pepper of negative racism on daily basis. All these conditions have graduated into appalling status from George Bush high school to Barrack Obama state University. These at times confirm the Russian Joke that Barrack Obama is an avatar of George Bush without a Nobel Prize. A political condition not evident during the Reagan and Clinton administration. Obama did not benchmark the shrewd equation of Vladimir Putin; good politics is equal to putting people at center stage.
Psychology of politics has a theory that being eloquent is not a connotation of political effectiveness. It may be sheer rhetoric. This is not a necessary variable for effective policy formulation and implementation. History of politics also has a testimony in confirmation of the same. The French society goofed when it fell victim of Napoleon eloquence, same to the Germans when they became emotional captives of Adolf ****** due to the razor sharp garrulousness of Adolf ******, which he adopted when selling **** values to German voters. In Africa Tanzania is the poorest country without hope of initiating any development this century. And all this is a preposterous protégé of utopian communalism planted through eloquent tools of prosaic socialism wielded by the articulate Julius Nyerere. The American society has also gone into annals of history to have collectively failed in its political choices as a national society by succumbing to rhetorical but policy insensitive conference management knack of the one Barrack Obama. These have happened in a capitalist conduit in which capitalism is killed by its success, just the same way which ignorance is never murdered but at most commits suicide.


Alexander K Opicho, is a social researcher at Sanctuary Research agencies ltd., in Eldoret, Kenya.  He is also a lecturer for Governance Research Methods.
Tom Clarke Dec 2012
Above the treading commuters, surveying,
you giggle.

Tiny flurries hopping rod to bar to antenna
making sure to be heard

among bus honks and train squeaks,
calling high.

Trilling like typewriters in the satellite dishes
that quiver undertalon,

tapping and flitting around brothers and sisters
of feathered energy.

I don’t know what you are but shades of beak,
blurs of tail,

fluid shards of chatter bursting skyward.
It rains, but you stay and laugh.
PrttyBrd Dec 2014
Seeing happy holiday faces
Sappy sentiment and saccharine smiles
** ** **, and jolly jelly laughs
Pondering the likelihood
That their smiles are as porcelain as my own
Painted lips in Victorian red
Eyes done up in glitter and paint
Hoping that happy leaches into grown ups
From the wonder and joy that is the truth of babes
121214
Bob B Nov 2018
Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!

The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.

For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.

A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.

The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.

A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.

Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.

The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.

Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.

The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.

After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?

Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.

Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!

-by Bob B (11-6-18)
Unused Quill Sep 2012
It starts off that one plus one is two,
Even for the average person this is true.

NoW tAkE tHe ClInIcAlLy InSaNe,
OnE pLuS oNe CoUlD bE tHrEe,
Do NoT MiStAkE tHiS fOr SiMpLe SyNeRgY.
ThEy ArE mEsSeD uP,
nOt RiGhT iN tHe BrAiN.

As for the geniuses, they ask why.
1+1=2.
Wait what? How is this true?
Where's your proof, I demand it!
Prove to me this absolute hullabaloo!

So now the only question is,
Can you define the way one thinks?

Hold that thought, grab that pen.
You start to write it down, and then realise..

****! No ink.
As Thomas Wolfe said to Walt Whitman,
Crossing Brooklyn Bridge one early autumn
Sunday afternoon: "I greet thee on the
Brink of a brilliant literary career."
But I may have mixed up my facts.
nivek Sep 2019
in gentleness and silence
there is more to discover
than in all the hullabaloo.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
Jayne E Aug 2019
to unbind the climes
and unchain the rhymes
it's the only way
to engage and play
squash time and space
so bindings erase
I'm painting out the sea
pulling you close to me
10699 is a bit of a stretch
even for this love struck wretch
calling out to the aether
dissolve terra firma beneath her
meld land into seas
bring my true love to me
let me run to your arms
the only thing that calms
my tempestuous dreams
is you my love it seems
so dissolve it the breadth
and width of it the depth
disappear all the hullabaloo
mirage the kalamazoo
the magnetic pull is pain
if not in your arms again.

© J.C. baby-owly 15/08.2019. 4.20am
K Balachandran Jun 2013
Eating ' Grass', achtung! was a serious business,
if you think I was a vegan gone mad, I wasn't
In one go I devoured his "Tin drum", oh! Oskar!
felt enchanted, loved Grass, looked for more,
finished "Cat and mouse" next, sought further,
then"Crab walk"ed through "Dog years", delighted!
with the wish list in front, I continued to
go for Grass, an eating spree unabated.
Now the hullabaloo over my love for Grass subdued.
who wouldn't see what
Guntar Grass in German,  was doing
to my voracious literary hunger.
Guntar Grass:(1927-  )  novelist, poet and Nobel  winning literary genius,
most celebrated writer in present day Germany.
Harry Toye Aug 2011
Have you ever paused and stopped to think

What life would be like if we didn’t have a drink?

I don’t mean wine or beer, whisky or porter,

But the most precious of all, a drink of cold water.

                                          

Do we waste water, do we really think it’s free,

Perhaps because the real cost, we try not to see

Thousands of dead children, not as a result of ethnic slaughter

These kids died for want of a glass of clean drinking water

Not in long wars glorious, with armies victorious as the media would portray

But in stinking slums broken hearted mums watch their babies die, every single day.



The water crisis affects us all, this we know,

Not just in far off countries where the crops won’t grow.

In this matter we each share some blame

Collectively it’s a national, crying shame



If we only took on board that without water life would stop.

None of us would dare to waste a single, precious drop

But it’s always been the same concerning you and I

We never miss the water, till the well runs dry.



Recently in Ireland there was a cry and a hullabaloo.

There was a water shortage with a difference; this time it affected me and you.

Bad management and leaky pipes meant water was in short supply,

The councils cut everyone off; there was a tremendous outcry,



How dare you cut our water off, I roared and ranted and cried

I was about to boil my spuds, now I’ll have to have them fried.

Must I have a shallow bath or even a short shower?

Don’t worry mam he said, we’ll have it on within the hour.



That was a week a go, I haven’t seen hair nor hide,

Our personal hygiene habits are beginning to slide,

For we can’t clean our teeth or even flush the loo

I had to ring and ask, what ever will we do?



He said when water returns we will all have to ration,

It’s easy to save water if we take individual action.

As for our taps, turn them on just so

There’s no gushing water, only the required flow.



When having a shower and under that spray

Remember, that it’s not the time of day

To hum and sing, and ponder the meaning of life

For princes or paupers, from all walks of life



Seem to wash and rinse and then wash again

Oblivious to the deluge flowing down the drain.

A rub and a scrub and a few minutes in and out

Will suffice is my advice as there’s no time to hang about.



Don’t let your ablution mean even further pollution

By using chemicals to scour your baths and showers,

An alternative that is green is the easy solution

There are products that clean, made from plants and flowers

To protect our heritage for all our sons and daughters

Join the revolution against pollution of our streams and waters.



With towns expanding, populations are increasing,

Irelands thirst for water is desperately unceasing

Industry and commerce toil by day and by night

Its demand for more water, is an insatiable appetite

Its not that it’s wrong to try to prosper and thrive

It’s just if we continue to waste water, we’ll never survive.



In this big world we have a shameful distinction,

If everyone polluted like the Irish, we’d face extinction

How we seek success with our industrial drive,

Means we’d need three planets just to stay alive.



When we look at our country with its rivers and lakes,

It’s hard to believe, a little thought is all it takes,

To cherish and to relish this God-given creation

For the sake of the future and the next generation.



The moral of this story before I bid adieu

Is that there are a thousand ways to save water –

But they all begin with YOU
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
B.C.
B.C.
“Change is one thing progress is another. “Change” is scientific “progress” is ethical change is indubitable whereas progress is a matter of controversy.

Our dealing with change is a little less studious more to do with feelings the hold memories evoke
Before change or B.C. I guess we should start with a king B.C. King was before Ridings the one stand out
Memory was a kid who was sponsored by Mopar I remember his side kick Strawberry Austin but way
Back then he raced like a demon and BC and Mopar fit the bill as before mentioned Glen Walters was
On his own I don’t know about in Nashville but around here on his own and out in the front all the time.

B.C. It was Tanners junkyard now Roy’s everyone has a Harry Tanner story how I miss all of the Tanners
My story we walked out past the scale through the gate stood there on the road Harry in his old suit and
That familiar hat he seemed to always wear he had his hands behind his back he looked at his iron
Stacked across the road he said I don’t know we ship this across the pond to the Japanese and then they
Shoot it back at us I don’t think he was trying to be funny but he hit my funny bone.

B.C. It used to be the liberty gas station now BP I don’t gun them for the gulf I just remember when gas
Was twenty five cents a gallon no hullabaloo just a small little friendly gas station the price was right
Back then when there were so many exciting places to go in our home town.

B.C. The Dutch Mill had everything and then some you could get main line goods or some things
Bordered being off the wall I just remember the pleasant good feeling I would get just walking from one
Section to another one they of course weren’t the mighty Wall Mart nor did they have to be we did live
And quiet well before their arrival I bet we would make it if they left don’t panic the rumors are not true
They will be here for a long time and the future generation will hold fond memories just like we do of the
Dutch Mill.

B.C. Remember the wedge in the family mother father and son they had the concision stands at the park
Ball field and pool they use to freeze those zero candy bars like a rock man there is a whole lot of
Knawing going on you had to go to over to the little standard gas station for pops Grapette almost ice
Cold and a Great visit and conversation with Mr Johnson he was so pleasant a true ambassador for all Who paid a Visit.

B.C. I know this is more of a guy thang but anyone remember those great tennis shoe adds P.F. Flyers and Red Ball Jets hopefully they had ladies shoes.
Jay Bryant Aug 2013
The night owl performs even deep within the storm
The weight of the world on its wings
Though in its heart it sings
It sees the truth that eludes the day
The stabbing of pride that leads them astray
Wholesome is the mind,
But the eyes constantly betray
Causing turmoil and dismay
A freight train is the truth
And it’s coming this way
To be frank the worlds sleeping
Only the Night Owl is awake
So wake up and start to train
To see the dried blood in the stain
Train your brain to be alert
Or be found dead in the dirt
For what it’s worth
It’s not curse it’s a blessing
So let this be a lesson
A testimony to the proof
A quest of harmony in a zoo
To silence all of the hullabaloo
Let the Night Owl Be proof to you
Bob B Feb 2017
When humankind is out of control,
The world suffers a giant loss.
Threats of mass extinctions aren't
Difficult to come across.

More than half of the world's primates
Are on the verge of extinction due
To agriculture, logging, mining,
And hunting. Where's the hullabaloo?

Lemurs, chimps, orangutans,
And lowland gorillas are under threat.
When we endanger others, we also
Endanger ourselves, don't forget.

Habitat loss, climate change,
Wildlife trade…. Scientists fear
That if these are not halted, many
Primates will sadly disappear.

We're talking about numerous species--
A couple hundred, not just dozens.
What is wrong with **** sapiens?
How could we do that to our cousins?

-by Bob B (2-6-17)
Steve Page Feb 2017
The bass bassoon is poised
And the penny whistle too
And when the families converge
You hear under the hullabaloo
The sweetest harmony
Absent of cacophony
Because you see
There's one thing that we rely upon
Everyone of us has an eye on
The front man who bears the baton
As he grips our attention
For no matter how long
Directing us as instruments
Of righteous passion.
This is his signature song,
So lead on dear maestro,
Lead on!
Inspired by the phrase "instruments of righteousness"
Half past intermittent lunacy,

  quarter to expectations in

restoration's consciousness &

   brain filtered hullabaloo,

catching flies whilst passing time

   it's all set in  enigmatic mindset,

take a pill to swallow the moon

    or sun yourself on a deserted isle

hardly matters the schemed schematics,

   makes not one bit of difference

               to the ravenous cuckoo clock
He used to watch her dancing in the courtyard on summer morns
she would sing with the birdsong in such sweet harmony
her voice was made of sapphire skies,
and with such wondrous words golden and true

She had always lived in solitude
and did stand out from the crowd
she was chaste by men, yet did not care for them
most women looked at her with slime green wicked envy

Then one night whilst he laid in his bed reading
he saw touch lights reflected on his ceiling
so jumping out of bed he put on his gown
and by the window he saw a jeering crowd

Women were hissing cursing and laughing
men were jeering and shouting
he watched the little song bird be dragged
beaten and frog marched to the court house

With heart beating in his throat
he put on his slippers and overcoat
what was this outrageous hullabaloo
why hurt such a creature so golden and true

Outside the courthouse there was a mighty throng
the judgement they deemed on her did not take long
fighting hard he nudge through the maddened mob
has the town gone mad, he cried skyward to God

Then the crowds did part as armed guards flanked the door
as the pale and frightened woman was dragged to prison
people were screaming at her calling her a witch and *****
they kicked and spat on her and did vile unthinkable mores

That evening he consigned himself to her fate
he just hoped that all was not too late
walking up the the prison gates in the rain
he bribed with silver the door keeper to let him in

Down he was escorted to the darkest the deepest cells
hands from behind bars pleaded for help in this living hell
then down this long corridor he spied his end
then down an iron ladder he did descend

A lone cell here did he spy in the dim light
he clutched at his hand till his knuckles turned white
facing the guard he asked him to ascend
with a few more  he left in the end

He could hear her crying bitterly in her cold damp cell
he sneaked slowly on tiptoes to the iron reinforced wooden door
through the open shutter he saw her crumpled body in the comer
as the witch finder had claimed that she was the devils daughter

In the morning she was to be burnt in public,in their courtyard
the same courtyard that she had danced and sweetly sung in
he whispered her name through the bars with tears in his eyes
he so wanted to tell her that he loved her, before she would die

He was powerless to help her, he knew that
she crossed the cell floor and he took off his
through the bars he stroked her delicate pale wrists
she leaned forward and gave him her last tearful kiss

Telling her that he had always loved her from afar
as she was his joyful angel and his brightest star
he cried how can they do this to you
one of such beauty golden and true


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris




By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Neha D Nov 2014
To get away from the TV set
and the cursed Internet
I sought refuge among the trees
and lunged in natural aired breeze.
I watched the orange setting sun
And clouds drift by. Oh what fun!

I heard a distant sounding moo
followed by some hullabaloo.
The sound of voices was clear now
they belonged to women, not a cow!
Two young women tall and fair
approached my grassy open lair.

Two young women in floral dresses
with auburn, curled demure tresses
and polished docile English air
having considerable savoir fair,
on the grass beside me landed
and a jewel casket to me they handed.

Trying my best not to sound rude
"Who is it?" I asked and "why intrude?"
One of them took my hand and said
"I have written the book you recently read"
"Forgive me” Said I “to not sound shrewd,
but pray tell me to which book you allude?"

The taller one again; the clear leader
spoke and said "oh dear reader,
my book was written in silent prayer,
the ****** of which you are aware
quotes of which, you cite with flair
I am the author of Jane Eyre."

"Charlotte Brontë" gasped I with glee
has come for a rendezvous with me!
My excitement no bounds knew
when the older one of the two,
who had hitherto watched silently
spoke and thus addressed me.

"I have written on sensibility,
sense,
prejudice, pride and providence.
I have written on layers of the mind
and family ties that never cease to bind.
I covered events both real & farce-y,
I am the creator of William Darcy".

"Jane Austen" said I with fervour
"I am your greatest admirer.
Your lucidity of language and verse
and the way your characters converse
have helped developed my writing style
which previously, I assure you was sterile"

"This is an honour, a considerable one,
But to deserve this tell me what have I done?"
"We are here to give you treasure
to improve your writing in measure"
I motioned to the jewelled basket,
"Is there something in that casket?"

"Does it contain secret notes?
unpublished poems and anecdotes?
maybe a magic potion or spell
That will make me write really well
Does it contain divine mediums
that will help me conjure idioms?"

"No" said Charlotte Brontë,
"It has what you need, not what you want"
I opened the jewel case with ease
expecting to find a set of keys
and so was nearly surprised when
in its interiors I found a pen

"There are no rules to follow
No magic potion to swallow.
Every accomplished writer knows:
there is no secret method to poem or prose.
So do not cloud your mind with fears
and write with blood and tears."

Birds around me began to stir
and the scene before me; to blur.
Was this a mere delusion?
A dream perhaps or an illusion?
"Remember to put pen to paper"
saying this, the women turned to vapour.

I woke up with a nervous start
and a wildly beating heart.
It was nearly breaking dawn;
I may have slept off in the lawn.
If the women were a creation of my mind,
how then in my palm did the pen I find?
My latest poem is an encounter with two women authors who give me invaluable advice on how to write.
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
With the reception I'm getting from you
I might as well be in Timbuktu
It's a growing feeling of deja vu

All my words you misconstrue
I tried to explain till in the face I'm peacock blue
One of these days your gonna get whats due

And life, on you is gonna chew
And spit you out like rancid stew
Then maybe you will feel bad for what you do

Treating me like a pair of old tennis shoes
Walking on me until your through
An apology is overdue
Don't give me that look you know it's true

With you every thing is a hullabaloo
I think I'll find someone new
With them I'll move to Kallamazo
There my life you can't askew
wolf mother Feb 2014
BOO
making a playlist titled you you you
taking a pill at the **** zoo
******* fools wasted on the pavement
chasing waists on the pavement

i'm tired of these ******* games you're playing
tic tac toes on the cusp of my aortic valve
**** hippocratic oath falsifying fingerprints

i am to you, just an oddball goodfornothing sonofabitch
semi-sweet curvature of the lungs
tar-coated nail-biting feminist *****
some uppity analyzing self-righteous bore

well *******, too, then
*******, too
i'll do alright in the world, got some chew
that i'll spit out a rhyme with, all that hullabaloo
i am those whos, on a dead *** dandelion making wishes on elephants (such buffoons)
and finding that donkeys are nothing but mumbling tools
roughass
K Balachandran Dec 2011
Good God didn't like
media's portrayal
of godly affairs.
even the mix up
in gender  embarrassed.
sending a rejoinder
by way of retribution
would be viewed
as barbaric at this times.
that will ensure
a media hullabaloo,
quite avoidable, it was decided.
so, a gentle curse
was finally  promulgated,
news on godly affairs
immediately got distorted
to the side of God,
with out the notice
of eagle eyed editors.
to edit a long story short,
this "editor's curse"
spread to other
media departments as well.
special correspondents
were specially bend
to distort their stuff, at will.
diplomatic scribes
used their skill utmost to
pitch one country against the other.
by and by distortions became
an unwritten rule, nay
a birth right of media tribe,
who could be fiercer than a pack of wolves,
not only on a full moon night
but on' any moon day' too!
Now it can be told,
this is how distortion of news or views
according to the whim of some
came about.
"Oh! God"!
OOO
Here is bit of insider information, as a news hound,tasted blood.Divine sanction to distort news for gain has been a secret till now
Stanley Mungai Jun 2012
The music disappeared
Into the blues
Those soothing notes
The elixir to the soul
Devoured by a wordy hullabaloo
The one that draws a rabble
In place of dancers
The maniacal drumming
A rhymy confusion
The one they call music
And I call it noise;
Unnecessary noise.
*What happened to music that noise is today considered music?*
Jay Bryant Apr 2013
I'm running, but the Government is on my heels, and my shoes are untied.
If you don't see the truth you’re bound to die.
Mass Media Hypnotist if you know the truth I know you feelings this.
These lines are the best years of my life,
But they’re after my hope so I hope I finish it tonight.
Finish lines bombed before the feet crossed the line,
Before the hand crossed the time
My intelligence slips,
I dread that I’m about to lose my mind
Great uproars of silence,
The hullabaloo is mental this time.
I remember last time,
I saw the beginning before the end
But now I see the end and its only beginning
Now I beg that you make supplication in pray
So that you may live to the end
Tragedy may cause your life to end
But you’ll begin to live again.
Will you cross the finish line in the end?
Pauline Morris Mar 2017
With the reception I'm getting from you
I might as well be in Timbuktu
It's a growing feeling of deja vu

All my words you misconstrue
I tried to explain till in the face I'm peacock blue
One of these days your gonna get whats due

And life, on you is gonna chew
And spit you out like rancid stew
Then maybe you will feel bad for what you do

Treating me like a pair of old brown shoes
Walking on me until your through
An apology is overdue
Don't give me that look you know it's true

With you every thing is a hullabaloo
I think I'll find someone new
With them I'll move to Kalamazoo
There my life you can't askew

©Pauline Russell
Nik Bland Sep 2014
If we could stop a moment and breath for just a bit
Carry out the hullabaloo and cut all the ****
Listen to the surroundings and then just contemplate
Find ourselves in the noise, stop, and simply wait

If I would just look into your eyes and see the value of it all
Why we chose to take these steps and why we chose to fall
To feel the wind rush through our hair as our hearts drop from the sky
Only to realize that the falling is just a lesson on how to fly

If you could just lay down with me and say not a word
Let the dark and silence banish the harmful and absurd
If we just could understand and maybe contemplate
Then we could find a point on where be both find we relate

If we could see the point where awkward smiles turn to tragic tears
Where bravery is overtaken by overwhelming fears
Where we can alternate covering each other's fallibles
Then turn a tragedy into something wonderful
Frieda P Feb 2014
Peer out the frosty crack'd windowpain
translucent poetry in fractured hand
vintage thoughts rise from a steam'd
cuppa emphatic billowing overtures
prelude to the days's negotiations
darkly processing as ink bleeds
out through  cynical purse'd lips
embers of dark eye's glean'd glow
mind field's traffic steadily high-season'd
blinking lights dimly reflect'd thunder
gingerly flavor'd pungency's flair
smacking on a charm'd lick of despair
speculating rain'd on parades chagrin
put on another *** of stimulating spirits
peppering a **** melodious harmony
pen'd a snappy sparkle with a bite
left out on a din'd windowsill overnight
hullabaloo's brouhaha made a boisterous clatter
bedlam nearly snared the disquiet of will's disposition
dancing moon lover's save another testament'd hue
witness'd by evidence within a cafe's smoky allusions
covenant's bargain within the scheme of another frosted avenue
forced to whittle time in disguise flying above landscape'd rhyme
sword'd dilemma's cut another frothy fizzling perspective
twilight closes illusion's blinds on facades picturesque view
delusion's of a torture'd poet stirring in frenzy's  flurry never slumbers
hillary litberg Jul 2019
it’s fresh sticks of vanilla deodorant,
cap’n crunch going on sale,
ladies selling mangoes in midtown,

it’s the pictures of baby cows,
the most specific dream tattoos,
documentaries about unsolved ******,

it’s an oxymoronic vegan cheeseburger,
striped shirts with a graphic one layered on top,
the clear memory of pacific air,

it’s all of robert smith’s hair,
prodigy kids on cooking shows,
stinging sunburns quickly fading,

it’s the perfume of onions and garlic sautéing,
smooth sidewalks where mom’s back is safe,
well-loved shoes that used to be white,

it’s an avocado perfectly ripe,
girls riding skateboards alongside boys,
rings that don’t turn fingers green,

its bras that won’t make memory foam of me,
jars full of change -- saving for something,
still going strong senior couples,

it’s an anthem that came up on shuffle,
the last clean socks without a hole,
chipped tooth smiles, snaggled ones too,

it’s just the word hullabaloo,
three new albums in a day,
someone else’s king sized bed,

it’s the **** pieces of loaves of bread,
an empty train after a long night,
dog tails that are just teeny nubs,

it’s sour candies and numb tastebuds,
weezer’s ever expanding discography,
end-of-day hair thrown into a bun,

it’s cobalt.
it’s b flat.
it’s twenty one.

it’s whistling.
it’s goosebumps.
it’s serendipity.

it’s getting out of the sound of the city,
untangling tiny necklace knots,
reuniting with my long distance cats,

it’s tongues to the tune of soundcloud rap,
learning a language even a little,
finally seeing real lighting bolts,  

it’s tourist dominoes when the train jolts,
finding keys -- being able to leave,
breaking in the most stubborn shoes,

it’s the empty after puking up *****,
flirting with customers and getting paid,
knowing every word and singing along,

it’s not breaking my friends’ bongs,
still doing cartwheels because i still can,
getting a thirty but taking an hour,

it’s waking up first, getting the warmest shower,
cutting my own hair, well, when it goes well,
having an umbrella when it starts to rain,

it’s getting out a demon stain,
taking pens from work, they don’t pay me
enough,
walking in to no lines at trader joe’s,

it’s picking things up with my toes,
learning the chord i’d been looking for,
tacking knick knacks on the walls,

it’s loitering in suburban shopping malls,
frosting cookies during christmas,
laughing for the first time in a while,

it’s getting told someone likes my style,
feeling a heartbeat other than mine,
sneaking in a second to breathe,

it’s witnessing every single thing,
picking through the good and bad,
and letting the little guys win,

it’s seeing.
it’s living.
it’s taking it in.

— The End —