"manning" poems
1
Monday Night Football on a Thursday.
Preseason. Johnny Manziel, running.
The nurse is a signal caller, too.
She flicks the wrist like Rodgers,
puts spin on it like Manning.
Once a rookie, now a seasoned vet.
2
Monday Night Football on a Thursday.
Network glitch? John Gruden, talking.
Anxiety lurks in the tall grass
still licking its paws. My head's out the game.
I've become an easy meal.
3
Monday Night Football on a Thursday.
If I had another John he'd go right here.
I miss my mother, and how she smiles
like my illness only increases my value,
puts gold in my veins instead of chemo.
Rex throws his clipboard, I lose my appetite.
4
Monday Night Football On A Thursday.
No more John's. Get over it.
Game's almost over. My head fresh from
the toilet, pieces of everything falling out
of me. Broken. Stumbling. At this moment,
football is enough.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
The witch finder general he came to seek them out.
His mistake when innocent witches.
The innocent ones his soul did take.
Dunked Nanna in the ducking pool.
Dragged aunt to Manning Tree.
Wanted to started a mega pyre for the likes of thee and me.
In archaic land of treachery in the land of treason.
Sweet virgins crucified with no justified reason.
Mother turned the milk sour.
Daddy was a warlock.
Brother was magic man.
Kept his grimoire by his bed.
Family of innocence.
Witches innocent,
Spitting fire now deceased after the flames.
Wanted the witch finder's mortal remains.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
1. You could not wait til halftime to check your poem or add one.
2. You wrote a sonnet about pretty horses. (Broncos)
3.You wrote a poem about kittens.(Panthers)
4. As the ball soars through the air, you are reminded of a bird in flight.
5. A Superbowl commercial inspired a new poem.
6. You paused the game with your DVR to write a piece.
7. You think the referees look like majestic Zebra on the African plains.
8. You ponder the coin toss and wonder of chance and philosophical questions as to whether life is like a paradox, then write yourself a poem about it.
9. When a tackle is made, you think upon the animalistic nature of humanity and write a haiku about it.
10. There is a notebook and pen right next to your remote and munchies.
11. You have a neck ache due to looking at your hellopoetry site and then back up at the t.v.
12. You write Peyton Manning farewell poem.
13. The commentator of the game makes a poetical statement and you use it in your latest poem.
14. The crowd boos a player and you feel compelled to write the pain of number 94 in a poem.
15. Last but not least, you might be a poet if you are reading this and the game is on.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
While hearing a jingle
from somebody's Marmy
I bake on a warm parchment sheet
Cut out to be single
but one in an army
of gingerbread men I will meet.
Don't know if I care
that this life is so scary
or just that I fear saying so
and not that I know
but I hear that it's hairy
out there so I'm just laying low
For better, for worse, I can promise far better for me
if we all had no clue
a blessing or curse
I'm gingerbread, Ma'am
and a hell of a good soldier too.
We're golden brown guys
with a raisins for eyes
at first glance, not by chance, like the others
but The Gingerbread Men of Company Ten
have a mission: to stand with our brothers.
I'll fight to the end,
for I am what I am
and that's reason enough to defend
just give me my gun
don my uniform, hon
my baker, my maker, my friend.
You've had all your fun
when the mixing was done
with rolling and stamping my fate.
I live now to serve
and not to be served
a desert on a decorative plate.
I was mixed up before
but I've figured the score
from the moment I came from the oven
that you had a plan
for this gingerbread man,
not my fight but my plight you'd be lovin'.
So just give me a hand
kindly help me to stand
and salute all the men who have gone
into battle for this
a man's right to exist
and be more than a treat to chew on.
and in fact, if you will
I'd much rather still
to be the manning the front lines, I'm itchin'
to run 'cross your floor and head straight for the door
to release all my men from your kitchen!
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
As the Paddles were used to stroke Against the Resistance of the Water, Thereby Attempting to insure their Progress, for the Ultimate Destination across the Mighty Ocean currents. Each stroke of the OARS met more resistance by the people manning the ship. The Sweat began to increase on each brow, But yet they Never gave up Their earnest Efforts. Even as the Winds increased and the Current became stronger,, They pressed on toward Their Destination. Each was Driven to Dig Deeper within themselves, For the Stroking had become Most Difficult!! But they were not Deterred... They knew that the Reception waiting for them on the other side, Would be worth every bit Of Effort. They Had to Endure!! As they kept their focus on the ultimate Goal,,They remained Undisturbed by the Leaks, Broken Oars, Strong Currents, Ever Increasing Winds AND Shouts of Dismay among the weak. The waves began to break over the Bows of the Boat, But the OARS DUG DEEPER and Deeper, Drawing them ever so Closer to the Shoreline that NOW came into view.. Having seen the Shoreline, A Great Surge of Energy came upon Each Person as they STROKED FORWARD. EACH person continued to the the Very End,, With that very Unusual Smile on his face and a special kind of light in in His Eye. *KNOWING FULL WELL How great the Ultimate Goal would BE. Are You prepared for the Proper use of "YOUR OARS" ??
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 5:00 AM UTC
Ma Jalouse, Mon Unique, Mon Ultime
Sais-tu ce que Lord Invader, Sam Manning
Cyril Monrose, Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong
Jack Sneed et Ernest Rangling
Sans oublier Blue Glaze Mento Band et Phil Madison ?
Et je m'arrête là pour l'instant,
Sais-tu ce qu'ils ont en commun ?
Eh bien vois-tu, ce sont tous mes ombres.
Tu ne pourras jamais me comprendre
Si tu ne les comprends pas
Et si tu ne sais pas ce que représentent pour moi
La mangouste et le raccoon.
De même que pour te comprendre il faut avoir lu tout Dostoievski
Pour me comprendre il faut avoir écouté tout Sly Mongoose
Car peut être n'as-tu vu en moi qu'aria et boléro, symphonie et concerto
Alors je t'explique : pour comprendre, n'essaie pas de philosopher
Lève-toi et bouge tout simplement et tu toucheras l 'essence
C'est du folklore, c'est du reggae, c 'est du mento, c'est du calypso, c'est du jazz,
C'est instrumental ou c'est vocal
C'est moi, mes ascendances et descendances.
Sly Mongoose c'est mes Frères Karamasov
Smerdiakov, Aliocha, Ivan et Dmitri
C'est mon Idiot, mon prince Lev Mychkine
C'est mon Joueur, mon Alexei Ivanovitch
Mon Rêve d'un Homme Ridicule
Et Raskolnikov errant dans la nuit dans Crime et Châtiment.
Sly Mongoose c'est l'histoire d'une mangouste maline
Qui a baptisé la fille du pasteur
De son eau sainte
Et qui fuit la Jamaïque
Et part à l'étranger
Après son forfait.
C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui vole les poules les plus grasses de la cuisine
Et qui les met dans la poche de son veston
C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui entre dans la cuisine d'un prédicateur
Et qui repart avec une des poules les plus grasses
Et tous les chiens savent son nom.
il s'appelle Sly Mangoose
Il est malin, il est vicieux, le compère
C'est mon ombre, que veux-tu
Et parfois pour échapper aux prédateurs
Il prend l'apparence de l'ombre d'un raccoon.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:05 AM UTC
Summer's still here, it's nearing fall
Worldwide excitement, it's FOOTBALL!
This season starts the fans are wild
Time for the game, the players are riled
All in orange, tailgating before
Manning takes field, the crowd they roar
Toss the coin, we will receive
Want ball at half, won't deceive
They punt real high just watch it soar
Takes a knee, the twenty, no more
The blazing sun, outside it's hot
Cold beer and dogs, the fans they bought
The first pass is incomplete
Groans from throng and stomping feet
The second play, under control
Our running back finds a huge hole
First down their forty yard line
Thus far we are doing fine
The ball snaps and Peyton drops back
Four man rush, he's down for the sack
One more pass it's intercepted
To the fans this is unexpected
Out comes the opposing team
What's this, for Manning they scream
It's Eli in his red, white and blue
This is too much, you feel it too
Brothers face off in a game
Greatness is all in the name
Both teams run, tackle, hit hard and pass
Tied game, seconds left, do we come in last The field goal squad must do their best
Prader lines up, misses all in jest
OVERTIME :-)
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
I had a 750 Suzuki Katana, gray machine
learned like a young man 350, then 650 then that 750cc of course
in the mid eighties, paid cash but then my mom expected the worst,
I was in the army, I said Army, military single man
I could handle the motorbike well enough,
I knew my limits,
too slow one day
on a sharp parking lot turn
and I earned a
cracked signal light casing,
too early in the
season an April Easter trek
home, turned
around in Manning Park,
near that summit,
snow and ice made it dicey
and the police wanted me to prove I had
chains and snow tires for this late season
fall of snow is
all, so I turned and went back to the base,
too much competitive spirit one day
and I thread the needle between a moving
car and a parked car, well how to say this,
with the driver's door opened wide,
in that instant I passed by at thirty miles an hour
my Life Cycle almost stopped,
my thoughts were driven to,
maybe I should go back to
bicycles, instead...
but I won the race
back to the base
and both the admiration
and admonition of my peers
whom I beat.
©DWE102013
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
shifting focus
bended light
altered reality
as the present becomes redefined
creating substantial ripples
in an otherwise still pond –
reflections warp
running water distorts
landscapes shift with the wind
all those truths, so concrete
crumble in the glow of different information –
worthiness and self-importance
replace doubt and loathing
as the realization of acceptance
flood the low laying regions
torment of the torrential
pouring over the stained past
washing clean skin marred
by a lifetime of reclusively existing –
together and forward thinking
we sit, future planning
dividing the years ahead
into blocks of success
setting and achieving both
short and long term goals
for the creation of the future we choose
just like in all the magazines
and self-help seminars –
gasping for air in an undercurrent of responsibility
holding tight the notions of poor
or low-class monetarily
the struggle to break free is real
when one attempts to circumvent their station
and be more
do more
life better
in an age of classism and
social warfare –
we sit atop the madness
hand in hand
looking over the extremes
presented and normalcy
catching each other’s eye
a smile crosses lips in tune
knowingly, we plunge into home ownership
manning the torpedoes,
we move full steam ahead—
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
Give a little bit of my Shangri La
back to me.
Lets recall the 99p Scotch best at JD Weatherspoons,
revisiting Bradford by National Express
because we saw "Bob Sue and Rita too" on Channel 4
and on a whim had to have
B&B; down Manning Lane.
Let's see tea shops show civic pride
serving a strong Bergamont.
No queue jumping,
spitting or cussing in the streets.
Lets not be afraid to care,
and go back to the early 1990s
on the cusp of the Premiership
to see Notts County verses Luton Town.
Their six pointer
with an overturned milk float to presage the desperation
and long before the aerobic internet entertained us.
Funded Public libraries
venturing openings on Sunday's
and thank Steg from
Scorpion records at High Wycombe,
grateful for all those post restantes.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
Let me introduce the royal players:
Everyone wants to corner the King
He may be Lord of the board
But he's the most powerless thing!
His lady has to defend her man
He's pretty much a sitting duck
And not one to take command!
The other pieces....what will be their fate?
They exist to save the wimpy monarch
All the wrong moves...Checkmate!
Manning the front row are the peons, the pawns
Lucky to make it across to promote their rank
Like helpless turtles, they inch forward on
The Bishops, like royal clergy in robes of red
Diagonal in direction, they stride and they glide
Moving this way..and that way...behind or ahead
Shapely horse heads, the gallant Knights
In L - shaped ways, they gallop in battle
Noble beasts who prove their might!
Set upon the four corners are the Rooks
Castles, they have straight-line tactics,
Advancing away from their nooks
Oh, the lovely, noble Queen, not forsaken!
She rules! Nearly limitless, so watch out!
Yet if not careful, even she can be taken!
If Her Majesty is captured...you've lost the very best!
You might as well admit your defeat
You, who play this game called Chess
Let the games begin!
Aug 19, 2010
Aug 19, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
Like a speed limit,
Age 55 is a reminder,
A geriatric mnemonic,
Telling you to take it slowly.
Safe to say,
Most of us Baby-Boom geezers
Walk around half the time
Wondering how one gets laid,
“Hooks up”—
As our grandchildren say--
Gets laid behind & inside this
Asylum sanctuary?
Manning the ramparts,
Those Wackenhut stiffs
Are there for a reason.
Overt, direct ****** overtures
Strictly verboten (ver•bo•ten).
Yet, the silver-haired sireens
Crave company,
As in “keeping company,”
An ancient idiom for
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni!”
But you’ve got to take it slow at
Del Webb Over-55 America,
A multi-state lunatic asylum,
Where a preponderance of
Single silver-tress foxes,
Having “lost their husband,”
Somewhere, at some point,
Some recent but forgotten,
Alzheimer’s moment along the trail,
They comb the daily obits,
Hunting prey, newly widowed men,
Fresh casserole recipients &
Crypto-pepperoni buddies.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
A lover to a sailor’s mast,
She’s leaving me,
…moving; fast.
Cris-crossed with linen,
Set to sail,
A relation-ship…
…I had failed.
Low-hanging moon,
Way out yonder, -there,
Glint off her spar,
So far now,
I don’t care.
Frothy seas of waves impress,
Is it a lonely beach?
Shore, sure;
I guess.
A bottle drained,
In some sadness, yes,
Fill a glass; to my Bess.
If I told you, you could have it all?
Soar the heavens, never fall.
Said my man she’d never leave,
A life of love a life achieved.
There’s your lover,
You’re manning a sailor’s mast,
Wind is blowing oh-so-fast,
Low-hanging moon,
A relationship -steeled,
Wounded heart of hers…
It had been healed.
Steady waves, a gentle rock,
Endless days since you’d had that talk.
On a course together all through life,
The happiness and the spice of nights,
Frothy seas, gentle waves, and nights they fold right into days...
If I told you,
You could have it all?
Soar the heavens,
And never fall?
Lonely empty bottle...
Rolling in the froth,
Goodbye my Bess,
my love; I’ve lost.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
it is a sacred place
the driver's seat of a '99 Jeep Cherokee
manning the wheel
of a two ton killing machine
a means of crossing the width of a continent
in less time than it takes
your girlfriend to **********
that same girl who gave you head
from the passenger seat
that same girl who used to occupy
the passenger seat
every night
that same seat of variable
occupying friends
(makes you wonder why its called shotgun)
from the driver's seat
you look through the only window
that maintains an ever-changing perspective
from the driver's seat
you've thought of many different things
you've said many different things
you've cried of many different things
to me anyway
the driver's seat of a '99 Jeep Cherokee is a sacred place
if you would like to explain
to me otherwise
i would be very interested
to hear why you're wrong
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
i gave what you let me.
you took it all.
all of it.
you took away
the one place I felt welcomed,
just because you didn't want to take responsibility .
you looked me in the eyes and made your decision.
you took the risk for me.
we were both caught
and i took the downfall.
i would say that i lost you,
but honestly, you ran away.
afraid of manning up
still, living in your board shorts and tanks
and texting underage girls last at night.
my maturity towers over you and i'm ten year younger.
i took responsibility
i took the blame
you took away the one place where i felt welcome
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
The spout
Of the battle
Shouting
In inconsiderate
Babble about bling
While i'm saddling
My steeds
Manning the machines
And breathing easy
Before i speak
Clearly to your dreams
Interjecting the theme
Of the losing team
Cheering in victory
Snickering in mockery
I remarkably sing
In drowned out tones
And zings
And i'm gonna be
Everything you been
In a week
And its weak
That i win
And you grin
With your arms up
Hooray!!
But you lost today
Too dumb to know it
But showin it
To everybody
Rhyming
Isn't about money
Its about diction
Metered rhymes
And harmony
Arming the
Alarmingly
Disarming memes
Of scattagoried kings
Euphorically
Seized
In the lean
Of delivery
Creativity key
The breezy
Sleezinous
Sheened
In the has beens
Gassed up
Gin drunks
Grunting whats
In response to love
Callin bluffs
On the tuffs
Of your huffs
And shrugs
Whatever punk
I got a foot on you
And your ****
On my side
Talking over you
Until you shut
Out the light
With your mouth
Over your eyes
And your house
Of flies sized up
In tough love
And shoved off the shores
To the unexplored oceans
In the notions
Of severed portions
Aborted with a snorkel
In the cortex
Of Oxygenated
Brains showing you
A thing or two
So ******* vein
Watching you strain
To speak
To breathe
To think
When your ready
Il be brief
A pat on the back
And declaration of king
Before you bend over to be
Blessed by the best
In this contest
Im tested
Only of my patience
In the vagrancy
Of your empty words
Freshly matured
In manure
Skewered
In the lured
Obscurity
Muraling
The masterpieces
Stealing thesis-es
With the soul content
Of cheeseless pizzas
Sauceless in the lossless
Belligerence
And im tempted
To kiss
My fists
And commence
To smash out the comments
To astonished onlookers
Booking for Brooklyn
When im shooting
Blood across the pavement
With fury of a patient
To fairfax and back
To break the bones
Of your home
Set your soul apart
From the heart
That pumps lumps
Of ********
From the start
Of your every sentence
Ill take two seconds
To count on your blemishes
To settle this
In nubbish
*******
Stumbling
From a kid
Im only kidding
In my giving a single ****
Get with it
The mic is yours
And ill freely admit
To being bored
Here you go
....
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 4:44 AM UTC
Manning this vessel aimlessly
On open sea that beckons me.
Yet which direction do I set my sails?
According to the wind, if all else fails.
Alas, scar-clad from my ruthless ambition,
Longing to free my shackles of inhibition.
Wishful aspirations of self-deposition, yet
Auspicious sights arising on the horizon.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
(the reconvening of my mind)
It's always the extremes
that bring me back to center,
but it's the trips I take on purpose
that remind me its time to go home.
Today it was the thought of blood.
I cannot stand the sight of it,
and neither would I brave a plunge
in icy depths this time of year.
I’d rather gather sunlight
and convince myself there are
no ghost revivals,
only blood reprisals from
daddy's DNA.
I tell myself
I need to get away
to where I can pray
again, to quit giving in,
to stay and fight wars,
the black, the white,
the gray fluttering darkness that
comes out of nowhere swooping
past my ear, scaring the **** out of me
as if it never happened before
but it has, its just been a while.
So I call for a council of angels,
then prepare for the riptide
of demons that join the fun when
my cranial convention convenes.
The left against the right,
The east against the west,
The pros against the cons,
all the ups and downs,
I don’t give a **** what it is
just give me back my wars.
Give me back my reasons to live.
Give me Nietzsche
Give me Brennan Manning
Give me Sam Harris
Give me Frederick Buechner
Give me Bertrand Russell
Give me Henri Nouwen
Give me Daniel Dennett
Give me Gerald May
Give me M Scott Peck
Give me Pia Mellody
Give me Dante
Give me Jane Kenyon
Give me the Marquis de Sade
Give me Dostoyevsky
and that should just about do it.
Within these names exist
enough controversy,
enough conflicting views
on life, on love, on God,
enough heresy,
enough truth,
enough lies,
enough knowledge,
enough beauty
to keep me waging wars
inside my head until the day I die.
Give me back my wars.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
He went around
and came around, and went around again~
Then he came around, went back around
and came around again.
"What's with all the run-around?"
I asked my breathless friend
"Guess what goes around, will come around
and right up to the end."
"But what's all this you're chasin, then?"
I asked the weary clown~
"Been chasin' all these wimin,
and they've yet to slow me down."
"Who runs this ride, you run beside,
and can't they cut the speed?"
"I have no clue, but maybe you
can jump this thing, and plead."
"One last run around, dear girl
take a ride and wait for me,
it won't be long, enjoy the song,
I'm a sick sorry son of a b."
I hopped aboard his dream machine
where ladies rode the poles
and pushed passed blown out ******
to the room which housed controls.
I peeked inside the window there
and much to my surprise
no one was manning anything
on this carousel of lies.
A sea of lovely lonelies
ride 'The Future' from the past
around again a few more times
our lives are fading fast.
Suddenly he's on the ground
and draggin' on his knees
with sweat upon his forehead,
I said, ******* LET GO, please."
"One last run around, dear girl,
don't you worry none 'bout me
appreciate your deep concern
I'm a sick sorry son of a b".
Well, it took some major doing
to release his grip of fear
and then I jumped, and bruised and bumped
was finally in the clear.
"we've cashed in all our chips today,
but we'll be back, you see-
you push to run the Future
and I'm a freakin' fool for thee.
We hobbled from the Carn-evil,
my weary friend and me
what goes around will come around
dear God please set us free.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
Cold pizza.
Storm of the century.
Draped in lies & love.
Funny glasses.
Shark tank disaster.
Too old & cold for ********
Flashed before me.
Rollerskates. Pardon me, "-blades."
Don't like pizza crust.
Manning up, facing demons.
Worst midnight snack ever.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
Red back eats her lover while she's mating.
Love is overrated.
She thinks it's great to mate.
She's hungry for fun.
The ladybug won.
The mantis is manning, she's scheming and planning.
She's killing for thrilling.
For less than a shilling.
She's hungry again
Look out all you men.
Remember remember its not the fifth lf November.
There is no treason or plot.
The poet you know it,
She only pens insignificant words.
She herself ,no murderous bird.
The idea itself made poetry.
Hungry for cute things like chocolates and flowers.
Writing words for hours and more.
Now you know the homestead score.
Soft as putty and a stream full of dreams.
(c) Livvi
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
penetrating sight and hearing
turning his head 90 degrees
listening for a rustle, squeak or cheep
manning his steadfast branch
sitting gallantly proud and astute in dead silence
clothed in winsome feathers
smooth as velveteen
shades of brown, rust with black specks
white breast plate and heart shaped face
large steely almond eyes that swoon his mate
releasing his talons
the rodent he brings
pounces on mate
instinctive coitus
screeching primal sounds fill the dark quiet night
she stays in her nest
checks her owlets yet to hatch
veraciously eating the award
gliding off he surrenders
the night is quiet again~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 9:39 PM UTC
Last July was the hottest month, ever.
That is, ever since we ‘officially’ started tracking weather.
The Earth is lying on the bathroom floor, wrists severed;
I wonder whether this is a storm we can weather,
Or whether we’ll all perish together.
Greenland lost 12.5 billion tonnes of ice sheets.
That is,
The island that was 80% ice is becoming one, giant, puddle.
The earth is about to be slain, a warrior conceding defeat;
Huddle up, give your loved ones a cuddle,
For we are so troubled that any aliens out there must be truly befuddled.
My generation was born with a guillotine looming over our heads.
An impending sense of dread,
As corporations put on their executioner’s hoods,
And reach for the lever.
A sordid reality in which to save the planet,
One must fight one’s own government;
A reality in which we may have done permanent damage,
A reality in which valour gets no monuments,
But only condemnation and incarceration.
Remember these names:
Julian Assange. Currently awaiting an 18-count indictment charge from the US.
Edward Snowden. Could face up to 30 years in prison if the US get their hands on him.
Chelsea Manning. Spent 7 years in prison.
Abdullah Öcalan. In prison since 1999.
Edem Bekirov. A man who has been dying in prison for the past year.
Benny Tai. Sentenced to over a year for fighting for what is right.
Nasser Zefzafi. In prison for the next 20 years.
Kerry Shakaboona Marshall. A man who received a life sentence aged 17 years old.
Simon Blevins, Richard Roberts, and Richard Loizou. Sentenced to over a year for fighting fracking.
Tim DeChristopher. 21 months for fighting oil and gas pipelines.
Stella Nyanzi. The raunchy Ugandan poetess who cannot be tamed, no matter how many times prison beckons.
This list is basically endless.
It is saturated in blood that drips from the corners of the page,
Soaked in the rage of brave men and women, living in a cage.
Depression. Exhaustion. Numbness.
Oppression and a lack of caution,
Leading us to this dumb mess.
This can no longer be the norm.
We can no longer conform,
Nor can we compromise or haggle;
We must reverse our own demise,
For this is our generation’s battle.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 1:56 AM UTC
Queens Loves Poets. (for Em MacKenzie)
———————————————————-
*Kings love making war,
no wonder, the people,
remember well fond
their femi-mine
rulers with femi-fervor,
Queens, who loved poets.
You fear Jesus,
Adore Mary,
generosity of understanding.
because it is hard
for woman to do
cruelty,
till she has been abused
by men who thought
they were kingly by being
beknighted, unbeheaded
for now at least.
Men who invented Brandy,
in the be of night,
were stupid men,
they forgot alcohol, the
Brandy of Channing,
is not fit for manning,
for it is a*
toxin, like me, like me.
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 3:14 PM UTC