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Amitav Radiance May 2014
A blank canvas on an easel
Not splashed with hues, yet
Yearning for the stroke of a brush
And be painted with the painter’s dream
Most intimate of moments coming alive
Reflecting the colors of the heart and mind
Stroke after stroke, brushes caresses it
Coming alive, with passionate undertones
In cahoots with the painter, an **** of colors
Brushes of passion, colors the emptiness
A masterstroke of the painter; the canvas is filled
With these kaleidoscopic moments
Vivid imagery of the painter’s heart, is an Arts saga
  *




© Amitav (Radiance)
Bob B Nov 2016
Ah, Pinocchio--povero burattino°--
Always in a scrape; always in a jam.
The irresponsible, wooden-headed numbskull
Couldn't help but fall for every scam.
 
A walking, talking stringless marionette,
Pinocchio really would have had it made
In a modest home with babbo°° Gepetto.
But, instead, the foolish youngster strayed.
 
Ignoring the advice of the talking cricket,
Pinocchio EVEN smashed it with a hammer.
That right there should have been a reason
To throw the little rascal in the slammer.
 
The Fox and the Cat had no trouble
Dissuading the puppet from going to school,
Thus involving him in a series of adventures
Which often made him look like a fool.
 
The Fairy tried to be a good influence,
But Pinocchio's lies caused his nose to grow.
Constantly ignoring responsibilities,
The misguided boy, suffered constant woe.
 
(Swindled of his money, hanged on a tree,
And saved just in the nick of time
From being eaten, Pinocchio had
Too many adventures to fit into this rhyme.)
 
Fleeing with his lazy school chum Lucignolo
To the Paese dei balocchi,°°° there Pinocc
Turned into a donkey. Of all his follies,
This one had to be a masterstroke.
 
Once again a puppet, Pinocchio was swallowed
By a giant Pesce-cane,°°°° and then guess what!
The foolish boy was finally reunited
With babbo Gepetto in the fish's huge gut.
 
NOT until Pinocchio thought about others
And proved he was an honest and caring boy
Did his fortune start to change for the better,
And the stringless puppet became the real McCoy.
 
Does Pinocchio by any chance remind you
Of any politicians out there at all
Who fail to listen to expert advice
And thumb their noses at common protocol?
 
And speaking of noses, we can also see
Politicians' noses grow as they tell lies.
Lying to themselves and to others as well
And ignoring our best interests and flouting compromise.
 
Such politicians--unlike Pinocchio--
Have strings to pull when performing for the masses.
The more they avoid solving REAL issues,
The more they end up looking like *****.
 
They also love--these clever burattini--
To sell a bill of goods and promise many things.
But someone out there--or some corporation--
Is slyly and cleverly pulling their strings.
 
Do you ever wonder if these same politicians
Ever think about or care how you feel?
Will they eventually--as did Pinocchio--
Prove they have what it takes to be real?
 
 
°(burattino/i) - poor little puppet
°°(babbo) - dad(dy)
°°°(Paese dei balocchi) - Playland
°°°°(Pesce-cane) - shark

- by Bob B
Trevor Gates Dec 2013
[Fade in, Opera hall; Orchestra is tuning. There is a murmur of people whispering.]

Once upon a time
There was the House of God
And the stage of life

Its key players were man and woman
Supported by Sin and Death

The masterstroke of creation was not of the flesh

But of the souls

[Audience laughs]

I hold in my hand
The diary of a madman

Lined with notes and scribbles
Rotten thoughts to nibble

Food for thought
Or all for naught

Such eloquence and strife
From a torturous life
For these we must share
Alas, who would care?

Would you?

Let’s find out

For in this show tonight, in the heaps of winter fables
And changing seasons
The spectacles and visions shall not be enough


On a magic carpet set for Baghdad
In the Mirror sea of Venus
The performers are all here
For your entertainment

The illustrious Obsidian Theater beckons you all
The Masquerade of the Dream Catcher Ball


With masks, we put on our true faces
Our bare faces are mere disguises
That we wear in public places
But here we’re full of surprises

Mrs. Jujubee isn’t a housewife here
But a sultry dancer, moving to the tune of
Cat house romances

Mr. Wukanlyck isn’t an account anymore
But an eccentric ******* who plays at
Both ends of the field

If you know what I mean.

All these people are able to be their true selves in the light of the stage
How come they cannot be this way in life?
Why can’t they laugh with the bohemians?
Why must it all be a secret life?
Why can they not tell their spouses?
Their parents?
Their bosses?

Why can’t they be what they want to be?

Because…

Their spouses mock the idea of such silly notions and aspirations.
Their parents disregarded their dreams in the hopes they will one day:

“Wake up, get their life in order, so they can get a real job, earn a living, buy a house, get married and contribute to society like a normal person; have a decent life.”

If you can call that a decent life.

Why become another cog in the gears of the economic machine that fuels the fire of excess industry?

Why owe more money to lawyers, bankers and debt collectors in the hopes of owning a piece of property that is just like everyone else’s?

Why push out more unwanted kids into the world where there are already millions without homes, food or even families?

Those “free nations” are ok with owning guns than knowing what’s really happening in the world.  

If another opposing religion or country threatens your comfortable lifestyle then you’re ok with having your government go to war.  

You are slaves to your TVs

Your smart devices

Your phones

Your social networking

Your computers

Your shopping rituals

Your misunderstood purpose

Your narcissism

Your arrogance

Your defensive self-righteousness

Your thin empathy
An obtuse apathy

Indecisive, nail-biting listeners of classroom objectivity
Ridiculing social solicitors of mall shop dogma
The young millennial generations stamped with no discerning identity
Than the loss of critical thinkers which are replaced with
Cultural zombies and robotic masturbators dripping over
Dim screens of cyber people in the millions, filling minds with
Misconceptions, misguided eroticism, racial diabolism that will be
Passed on to friends, family and teachers who will disregard sources and substance
But use the same destructive and dividing strands of unrest
That will define their day to day lives
From the words
The minds
Of frustrated, opinionated
Suburb bloggers
Middle class pioneers that one day
will rule the country
Preaching of the day that all are troubles will be
“Resolved”
And all our past misdeeds and sins shall be
“Absolved”
The crusted, rustic chains of our forefathers’ bane shall be
“Dissolved”

And then maybe we’ll be able to embrace each other
Like in the storybook pages of our dreams
Where men can love men
And women can love women
And the faces, the masks
Will not be needed anymore
Because what we present to the world in the face of that
Higher being
Or simple sun
Will be what we truly are
We will have one life and one face and it will be all we need
Not like before, where our closets have that hidden space
Where we hide our real faces
With that suit of dusty skin
That everyone once in a while we have to sneak away and wear

Little Colette De Salle
Petite college student with features like
Audrey Hepburn
Singing in the underground garage
With Stevie and his troupe
Her songs haunting, elegant and pure
About people she once knew
Her parents
Beaten to death on the streets
By simply reporting the truth to the world
Which their bosses and media supervisors
Will determine what the “truth” is
And what is newsworthy at 7pm

She is Ms. Colette de Saille
And will be dead before she graduates
Because someone didn’t like what she said that one night
Calling out the Pigs and suits making sure no one paid
For her losses


This is Ken Sosnowski
But tonight on this stage he is Aveda Cicada
And she is who she is from birth

Like you all that sits before me

With shadowy smiles
And grins holding flowers, doves
Secrets

And

[Applause]
The Obsidian Theater, entry 16
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2020
Beautiful Bangladesh naturally is pretty cute
on second thought is a masterstroke.
You gotta see it to believe how stunning it looks
as if the sunrise rendered a beauty spot
gladly put it on the morning rose!

Pop into a country of mass people
you could be walking down the singing birds
hanging low nearby our princely open doors.
Every one of us knows in the heart
we are sitting on a land of pure gold!

Should you bask in at the crack of dawn
as the crackling light of heaven stumbles upon
follow the first light that gives you your cue!
Besides the world's ******* Aladdin's
three wishes came true: the longest beach
the biggest tea gardens and mangrove forest,
in ***'s Bazar, Sylhet and Sundarbans.
Take your peep eye on in every direction
ah, moments await you on both sides of the pool!

Vividly mesmerising the Bengal of Gold,
a narrative in words can't always be told.
Sometimes it's said with whispers of old
in the shade of bamboo when that flute is heard
expect it to be carried to you by the frost-kissed air!

Hang onto your cameras even though
you walked passed the twilight in scenic Bandarban
seen the sunset in Kuakata is de ja vu ambling down this nook
you might feel walking one step down beneath the Moon!
Amitav Radiance May 2014
A blank canvas, inspires a painter
A blank paper, inspires a poet
From a blank we can draw inspiration
They are not blank, but an empty space
Untouched with the creative juices
To be filled with different moods of hues
And written on, with the most fertile thought
From a blank, we can draw a conclusion
Inspired to come up with most enchanted sketches
As artistry is the masterstroke, drawn on a blank
An abstract idea sketched, to inspire*





© Amitav (Radiance)
Nickols Nov 2018
Her body only existed where he touched her.
Twisting and writhing to his hands upon her flesh.
The rest of her evaporated into smoke.
             Dispersing into the nights air from a masterstroke
TERRY REEVES Apr 2016
O' Casey had been told where the meeting was
senior members of the IRA would attend
he didn't know and thought that MI6 would be there
duped into assassination was a dangerous masterstroke
others knew that he was dissatisfied with the hierarchy
so if it transpired, he would be a likely target
If the real resaon was found, they would never forget
the old mainland action would be re-ignited
and the Brits cleverness found to be short-sighted
the peace process was a sham, arms locked away
Adams and McGuinness in suits, smug faces
while they postulated and mixed in high places
'You realize what were doing?' The ***** said
'Rather, let them carry on with their empty head.'
Prabhu Iyer Jul 2013
I. Gray

In the dim light of the dusk
fading through the sky
an exhibit on a canvas:

a single strand of graying hair.

The arcane gallery housed
by the serpentine lake of memories.

What an awful lot of balderdash
shrieks an elderly gentleman ahead.

What a masterpiece, I think.
A masterstroke, in fact: just a strand

stuck like a line across the canvass,

this is it: time is catching up.
mortality comes calling
in pieces and strands.

II. Red

What embers, my dear, lie concealed
beneath those heaps of burned
logs deposited in your soul?

Waters healing were poured out
ages ago: was the love

too diluted, that even now the gale winds

of raging events bring those embers
burning from your depths?

I can see them burning in your eyes.

III. Black

Oh his gulf between you and me.
That you carry what is of me
before and hold what is
after I am of the ashes,
I know, in your oceanic vasts
bloom our fleeting island lives.

But what were you, before
you were of flesh? Did Aleph
bring you forth too? Tell me
friend, for this is my quest,
my mortal angst at finding you
nailed on the cross above: or
I must be a necromonger.

Are you the one who does not exist
as we know, or are you who also exists
as we can know: what are you?

That blood flows on this earth pondering
on this question.

In this is concealed the answer
to the question raised by that strand.

Tav is not the answer. Nor is it in the cross.
Mortality. The gray shades of love. The fluid spirit. This is our lot.

Aleph and Tav are the first and last letters of the Hebrew alphabet
jo spencer Apr 2013
He  pulled off a masterstroke
braiding himself to a  chair;
singing au  naturel , the  corner of the winds
picking up on the wavelets.
Pleasantries and greetings now never wear.
Grace its the time  to unwind
asking contrite  forgiveness
before hibernating,
quietly evolving.
Saumya Aug 2017
Santiago set out to catch some fish,
He sailed out further, then had his want
And waited patiently with the prayer and wish
With the remorseless lament.

For awhile the boy, Malolin
Joined this ole man, to learn fishing
But the old man was, so dreary and weak
Weak enough, to let go months resting.

Manolin  was a a fair young kid,
A kid of twelve or more
Santiago was an old man,
A man of eighty four!

The boy got annoyed,
And decided to leave
Thinking the old man,
Was disgruntled to perceive.

But one fine day, when the sun smiled at this case
The old man tried to set off his dismay
He thought to go fishing & get his bait
Like he did so happily, in his boyhood days!

He set out, set again and caught some fish
He sailed out further, and had his want.
He saw a birdie, leading him to sea
He caught more tuna,  and one bigger fish that fullfilled his want.

He relished the tunas, the sea offered as  gift
He loved how yummy, yummy it looked.
But hardly noticed the deep line,
the bigger fish had something big on it, that may further get him hooked.

He used a small line,
To snug a dolphin.
That had in it two small fish
They hid it it, Shining and smiling.

He fought his need for sleep and fatigue,
Of constantly keeping hold of line
Before he saw the bigger  fish,
Suddenly circling his boat's outline.

He assumed the fish's weight to be twice of his boat
He stabbed the fish with a masterstroke.
He used his hope to the utmost
Tied the fish to a side of his boat,somewhere thinking to take it to shore.

He let the current have him whole,
Fearing the sharks might sniff
Sniff the blood off the big fish,
In some hours or just a jiff.

The first shark took the hefty bite,
Before he got stabbed by Santiago's harpoon,
The  second one took just a quarter bite,
But before these two got dead soon, they took with em the half harpoon.

The old man fashioned a yet new harpoon,
Fixing the knife to an oak stick,
He used it then for the sharks to come,
But , oh! It split on a new shark's skull click.

He fought, and fought, but oh, at last,
The old man won, with the major loss
He returned to the shore in moonlit night,
& Found the fish just had a residual skeletal mass.

He reached the shore, with tears of remorse
Oh, how bravely did the old man fought!
Though it was a ' Victorious loss'
He thought while dragging the mast to shore while  Monolin  came running, discussing how he fought.

The boy smiled at the bravery, the old man showed,
He smiled at the old man like he saw a hero,
He hugged him tight, &  smiled in delight
And called Santiago,  'His  brave hero'!


And so you see , this sad story
Ends
Santiago tried to help himself,
But he needed the help of his
Friend,
To provide him with some worldly wealth.
This is my first attempt to ballad :) lemme know how it was to you? If you've anything that I need to know bout editing this, please send me your suggestion through ur messages.

Thankyou
Ainsley Jan 2016
When the seventh salvo of silver flashes
cued the blue floaters for the seventh time,
blotting the smaller letters from their sashes,
I mispronounced “Miss Reading”—made it rhyme

with “misleading.” ******* her press agent,
Miss Information, who steamed out to smoke.
But the style writers covering the pageant
called it an unconscious masterstroke.

So I became the Master of Near Misses.
The work kept coming. “You must be Miss Taken,”
I transproposed to the Pork Products Princess
panel, and you should have seen Miss Bacon.

They at it up, though. It was liberating.
Within a month I didn’t even need
my malaprompter. Cheating was creating.
Believing anything I couldn’t read

I crushed my quadrifocals. People shed
their crosshairs and acquired a layer of fuzz.
Consequence came uncoupled. What I said
I saw, and what I saw was what I was.

*just a cute, funny little poem
Eric McHenry is the Kansas Poet Laureate. I attended one of his readings, and he is so spirited and lovely to hear.
Babatunde Raimi Aug 2020
A Poem: "Amotekun Dee"

"Kere oh, Omode gbo. T'agba gbo"
"Oba ni kin wi fun yin oh!"
"Amotekun deeeeeeeee"
"Eyin omo Odua, ee gbo mi bi?"
"Irorun de, omi tun tun wo lu"
"Eyin temi aji lala osho. Eyin Omo okun Esin"
"Won ma sare kabakaba"
"Mo wi re, tabitha mi o wi re?"
"Amotekun deeeeeee"

We will block the gap and protect all and sundry
We'll patrol with Eagle eyes
It shall be "No nonsense here" in our region
With robust intelligence gathering and network
And we will proceed with extreme caution
Within the ambits of the law shall we operate
There shall be no sleep for the wicked

Peace, it has long eluded our lands
We have been invaded by uncircumcised Philistines
But not anymore, "O to geeee"
Who else knows our terrain better than our locals
You got a pass mark my Governors
And I am proud to be "Ofe mmanu""
"Ejo, ema je wo ni owo osu oh!"
Lest they begin to see friends as foes

"Amotekun de...Oju eje...."
"Iyalaya gbogbo won"
"Koni kaluku di omo Iya re mu.."
"A ko fosi rara nile Odua"
"Awi fun won ti ti, won jo gbo"
Odua a gbewa ooo.
"Oya, awon daaa? Gbefunwon kososhi"
Why carry guns when we can enchant them?
We have been pushed to the wall
Our hands on the plough, no going back

"This one no be se re se re"
"Omoluabi is a talk and do"
We stoop and let them trample on us"
Little do they know we are fooling the fools
Those who thinks they are fooling us
Watch it, we can be cunning and deceitful
But when it comes to our collective goal
The bond that binds us strong
And our walls, a mighty  fortress

In a nutshell, "Ki eku ile gbo o"
"Ko si so fun to ojo oh"
We are regional and not tribal
We will listen before we judge
We will treat all fairly as our ancestors did
We will not allow the "Cobra Effect" permeate Amotekun

This, we all know, is peace at last!
Passing Amotekun bill is a legislative masterstroke
For all who saw this to fruition
May "Eledumare" grant you all your "positive" heart desires
"Mo wi re, tabi mi o wi re bi"
Amotekun deeee"
Austin Heath Apr 2014
I missed the party but not really "missed"
as in I "believe" I would have fun at these things but
I just can't. My hand sways over a house of cards.
My fleeting potential is not realized.
Watching the rain fall from the kitchen sink
and imagining acoustic guitar strums from the 70's.
What a ******* gorgeous cliche.
My heart is sound, my hand waves over this house of cards;
every ******* mistake I can make to hold this in place
is a victory made holy made sainthood.
The veritable laundry list of mistakes I've made,
and the shopping list of **** I'm going to do.
I'd hope I'm appearing as if there is a masterstroke
to all this chaos, except, I'm not even a minor influence.
A gentle wind rolls by.
Edward Coles Jun 2014
Let's set our minds to a consequential meeting,
a first-hand account of a new lovers' greeting.
In a time span new, fast, and fleeting,
it is to you I gape, with my heart still bleating.

I miss the kiss of 'hi, who are you?'
of a question mark over the ocean view.
My arrow will fall so straight and so true,
once you release me from the binds
that I have long since outgrew.

Will you take me from the taste of beer?
From sensations false, and to paradise near.
I want to greet the daylight without a fear,
to kiss your footprints, to keep you here.

Please reach for the hand inside this glove,
this car park wreckage, this artefact of love.
Will you be the branch beckoning my dove?
Will you separate the seas
from the skies above?

I'm waiting for you beneath the smoke,
mixing whiskey and vanilla coke.
I'm half-drunk and half-missing
in my masterstroke,
of vanishing entirely
within evening's cloak.

Let's set our minds to white wine in the sun,
to tracing the playgrounds where we used to run.
You'll signal to me when you're feeling done,
then I'll wilt in my twilight,
and let breath come undone.
c
wichitarick Sep 2017
FEELING INNER ENERGY

Often what we need is all around ,falling light,simple sound,lost until we actually look

Splash of rain momentarily a pain is the life's blood for most all living

Strolling into the wind are we  flustered  as it makes us bend or thankful for the coolness as we walk

Life is dealt in spades ,take pleasure with each treasure,tokens accepted then gladly given


Practice makes perfect is our daily plan,what will work,made in haste or taken from a book

When will we see to set our own stage ,break free from a cage,watch our narrow path widen

Accepting but still hesitant ,await what could be bright or will it bring us down,something hidden, wanting to revoke


Strength from within harnessed,finding new drive,  watching it build ,maybe something new on the horizon

Reflections in hindsight build inner muscle,Lessons earned when willing to uncloak

Who pays the penance, where will we retrieve the vigor when left lacking  will we see the vision

Finding more room in our soul becomes an unforeseen role ,adjusting each day
like an artist from a simple sketch to that final masterstroke. R.C.
We often need something extra to rely on,it often isn't the others we can reach out too, finding that hidden inner strength can be a real growing experience
I appreciate your reading your thoughts are helpful. Rick
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2020
Night withdraws
and I alone inhabit
those Spanish eyes

We sit upon the hill
where El Greco once regaled
the arts with a masterstroke

We listen for dawning chimes
as she picks flowers
& passes explicit love notes

I catch the shadowed
reflection of erstwhile
against her naked back

How it resembles curiosity
& imperial city bells
ringing forth

A klaxon
a clarion
the siren call

To passions both painted
& fleshly achieved
by the same inspired hand
I imagine little house on the prairie
(bordering Lake Woebegone),
a place to hang cloak
most bucolic, edenic, idyllic...
apropos place for this poetic cowpoke,

who at present day trumpets
himself as token panhandler
of Perkiomen Valley, a
genteel, gentile, and gentle
Semite with friendly okie doke

demeanor easily mistaken
for dishabille and disheveled drunk,
nonetheless harmlessness, I evoke
espied by any man, woman and child
in these parts predominantly

non kosher festive folk,
(especially at Old Pool Farm
August 16, 17, 18 2019)
quick witted with zealous
wordplay, quips and/or

oy gavalt hexameter innocent joke
adroit, capable, das strict
test electrifyingly
faux gerrymandered,
incredible ventriloquist

nsync with karaoke
reaching within my
rabbinical bag of tricks
succeeding with flying colors
par excellent masterstroke

or sometimes more'n one ministroke
never abracadabra prestidigitation
to insult nor poke
fun at anybody but yours truly,
though even lampooning

self could provoke
unwittingly etiquette revoke
king welcome as town
pauper, inscrutable hobo
(phobic) figure, beggar

pummeled By George with
thoroughly good soak
king courtesy rotten tomatoes
if gibes overly saucy

subsequently shuffling off into sunset
emulating Charlie Chaplin
encountering wealthy patron
as blessed thunderstroke
before getting struck by lightning!
Bo Tansky Jan 2020
Laughter and rueful tears
Welcome to the party of pity  
Where all is not, not as it appears
Where there, come as you are
And not as you appear to be
The child is clinging to you
Warmed by the fire of your fears
I have felt the chill
In your stone-cold eyes
Telling me
Not to come near
But nay
Pass the event horizon
A confluence of consciousness
Beckons me there
Like vapid air
Felt the nothingness there
Swept without resistance
Where the fires of love’s ardor
Threaten your very existence
While the abyss of your lair
Laid bare
Loves insistence
The coat closet of your don’t-mind
Where there
Is no room there
To let
Nothing to know
Nothing to let go.

A cosmic joke or masterstroke?

Squeezed between now and forever
A rosary of pearly nows
Denizens of now
Needless
Of refection, reflect
Somehow
Lost in the dark abyss of nothingness
You find your way out
Somehow.
After experiencing a severe,
albeit violent near lethal bout
of irritable bowel syndrome
(yesterday night August 30th, 2023)
triggered courtesy dulcolax caplets plus
healthy portion of lentils,
I (a beatle browed, foo fighting,
night ranger needing nirvana)
imperiled me to twist and shout
as a whirling dervish analogous
to F5 tornado bread a deep purple
to kiss earth, wind and fire
hopscotching across terrestrial plain.

Irritable bowel syndrome
in my pinion wracked
lower abdominal area (mine)
bubbled, gurgled and ballooned
sub stomach gastrointestinal tract
vis a vis flatulence crooned
in tandem with subsequent expulsion
explosively eliminated ***** waste
witnessed this scribe forcibly
zipping, sprinting, jetting to bathroom,

self propulsion (a race against time)
nsync with contraction of sphincter muscles'
spasmodically, desperately braced
body electric of mine hurled
at light speed across the universe
courtesy unpleasant symptoms
that mimicked anxiety/ panic attack,
which tortuousness, odorousness, insidiousness,
horrendousness, gaseousness, arduousness...
played mean game of (gastrointestinal
knick knack paddywhack havoc.

Ofttimes in the past
irritable bowel syndrome
affrighted, afflicted, and affected me,
hence yours truly no stranger
to making light of offal plight
and even managing to craft poem
else my alias not mister rhyme stir,
who found himself held hostage
self barricaded in the water closet,
where thoughts about mooning

did not crack a smile,
more explicitly baring derriere
tubby more exact
humor did little to cheer me up -
matter of fact
no source of laughter manifested,
(despite usual presence of chuckles
from this fan of good humor) hijacked
for what seemed a maternity leave
from all mothers tub be

thus envision, a bevy of pregnant gals
aching with cramps heave
ving (times square of the hippopotamus)
with ****** fully dilated key
ping alert, when mother nature ready
to pull out all stops (via umbilical cord)
to deliver bundle of joy followed
in quick succession with after birth re:
placental sack, hence
said effort to expel newborn

the closest scenario
experienced ill suited
to Saint Vitus dance
afflicting this anxiety prone
lovely bones, an all expense
paid (seat of the pants)
accursed bane of proletariat grants
no truce to attend
found me pampered doubled over stance.

Modus operandi to distract
against acute pain crisis
yielded impossible mission
exhibited courtesy haphazard poem  
awaiting unsolicited feedback
across rock of ages woke
beguiling ghostly ***** spectre
courtesy Marie-Antoinette,
(i.e. bride of France's arty choke
King Louis XVI) bespoke

let him eat cake, and (sic)
send back the ****** bloke,
aye suddenly begot idea rye
Jack Corner of zee desk
didst impale and provoke
moderately painful injury
right side rib cage
analogous to intriguing
unfortunate circumstance
mysterious secret shrouded

as dagger and cloak
(think Alfred E. Neuman,
viz MAD Magazine), yes no joke
lovely bones of me body electric,
(particularly right side rib cage)
severely traumatized, nailed, injured...
crucified oft told umteen times,
yet omitting key mirrors and smoke,
significant Dorian Gray parallel,
when former antique,

viz secrétaire looking glass reflection,
spider hairline fractures radiated
resembled bay of pigs in a poke
ham handedly oinked,
quaked, shattered... broke
into bajillion pieces
deafening, exploding,
glowering thunder stroke
jagged shrapnel size shards
unleashed cosmic force
lacerated, gnashed, beribboned...

impeaching flesh with
one engulfed masterstroke,
no rhyme nor reason aiming to choke
off promising poet (ha) of corpse
resembling scrambled egg yolk
posthumous fame besmoke
salvaged mine besmirched reputation
courtesy humble cartoon character
bugs bunny and kinfolk spoke
daffy fully goofily
eulogizing humor did evoke.
Unsolicited feedback
across rock of ages woke
beguiling ghostly ***** spectre
courtesy Marie-Antoinette,
(i.e. bride of France's choke
King Louis XVI) bespoke

let him eat cake, and (sic)
send back the ****** bloke,
aye suddenly begot idea rye
Jack Corner of zee desk
didst impale and provoke
moderately painful injury

right side rib cage
analogous to intriguing
unfortunate circumstance
mysterious secret shrouded
as dagger and cloak
(think Alfred E. Neuman,

viz MAD Magazine), yes no joke
lovely bones of me body electric,
(particularly right side rib cage)
severely traumatized, nailed, injured...
crucified oft told umteen times,
yet omitting key mirrors and smoke,

significant Dorian Gray parallel,
when former antique,
viz secrétaire looking glass reflection,
spider hairline fractures radiated
resembled bay of pigs in a poke
ham handedly oinked,
quaked, shattered... broke

into bajillion pieces
deafening, exploding,
glowering thunder stroke
jagged shrapnel size shards
unleashed cosmic force
lacerated, gnashed, beribboned...
impeaching flesh with
one engulfed masterstroke,

no rhyme nor reason aiming to choke
off promising poet (ha) of corpse
resembling scrambled egg yolk
posthumous fame besmoke
salvaged mine besmirched reputation
courtesy humble cartoon character
bugs bunny and kinfolk spoke
daffy fully eulogizing humor did evoke.
Courtesy garden variety/generic common Joe
who strives to achieve becoming
(even posthumously)
an esteemed writer likened to outstanding poe
whit – perhaps illusions
of grandeur must be reined in
courtesy horse sense and Whoa!

A short time ago today
(the ides of March 2021)
upon returning from nearest LIDL
(located at 1831 E Ridge Pike,
Royersford, Pennsylvania 19468
Latitude: 40.1845 Longitude: -75.5360),

I realized too late the opportunity
to exchange pleasant greetings
with another resident (a young man,
who shares a similar physique
to yours truly).

Preoccupied removing comestibles -
predominantly nine plastic
gallon jugs of distilled water
(tightly packed within large suitcase,
which luggage formerly
belonged to Boyce Harris - papa)
the notion occurred
(ex post facto).

Cursory aforementioned observation,
(viz forfeited interpersonal opportunity)
unexpectedly impetus awoke
regarding said unnamed bloke
(who I've seen scant
number of times before)
friendly exchange thus didst evoke

idea to craft poem,
cuz pleasant demeanor
generates figurative chain reaction
livingsocial among other
(mostly elderly) folk
here at Highland Manor
this credo to befriend others I invoke

(by Dickens) with little
or no great expectations
motivates me to risk
playing game of life no joke,
but good humor a masterstroke,
one generic American notes tis oak
kay for yours truly not to poke

intrusively, (albeit rudely
he thinks) and possibly also stoke
antipathy by ignoring
formalities of pleasantness
in either case saddle and yoke
me with unflattering
nom de plume.

Additionally I will allow
enable, and provide tolerance
if recipient of mine genuine
companionable intent
declines overture as potential
future ***** buddy
and/or sounding board,
plus will defend self
against blistering, excoriating, scathing...
metaphorical nonetheless hurtful assaults

against mine brow
will not figurative undermine
paltry self esteem, but endow
redoubled effort to risk
making acquaintance(s) and consort
with persons who cross my path
their nose in the air
trumpeting arrogance and how
never be deterred toward livingsocial
such personal promise I vow.
Satsih Verma Feb 2018
Will I know you―
by unknowing myself in bleak―
moments of giving
wings to you?

Raising your legacy; losing
my words, I block
a masterstroke. Something
was wrong. I was walking alone.

Disrobing a covered
statue, the anguish of
incorrectness hangs.

Enduring a song of―
drums, calling the sun from clouds
for a wounded earth.

What was truth
in jungle of beasts? Any
humming left on the lips of trees?

— The End —