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night hours close in at a fast rate
the streaming sunlight doth vanish
darkness falls in blackest of pate

sparkling stars flicker in bright spate
crowning jewels of exquisite finish
night hours close in at a fast rate

glories of splendor behold the eye and elate
as they stud the night charcoal's tarnish
darkness falls in blackest of pate

such is the grandeur of the darkened grate
having a dazzling trove with which to embellish
night hours close in at a fast rate

in awe of these gems flashy of sate
we're absorbed by their smashing varnish
darkness falls in blackest of pate

as the cycle of day to night doth rotate
its transitional tones do verily astonish
night hours close in at a fast rate
darkness falls in blackest of pate
"TIME to put off the world and go somewhere
And find my health again in the sea air,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And make my soul before my pate is bare.-
"And get a comfortable wife and house
To rid me of the devil in my shoes,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'
And though I'd marry with a comely lass,
She need not be too comely -- let it pass,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"But there's a devil in a looking-glass.'
"Nor should she be too rich, because the rich
Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'
"And there I'll grow respected at my ease,
And hear amid the garden's nightly peace.'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
"The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle-geese.'
High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears:
Plac’d on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod;
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill’d to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth! in Euclid’s axioms tried,
Though little vers’d in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill’d an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic’s ken.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil’d the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta;
Can tell, what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone’s on the shelf, neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avon’s bard, rememb’ring scarce the name.

Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope:
Not that our heads much eloquence require,
Th’ ATHENIAN’S glowing style, or TULLY’S fire.
A manner clear or warm is useless, since
We do not try by speaking to convince;
Be other orators of pleasing proud,—
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd:
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone,
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan:
No borrow’d grace of action must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the Dean;
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate,
Against what—he could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t’ obtain the promis’d cup,
Must in one posture stand, and ne’er look up;
Nor stop, but rattle over every word—
No matter what, so it can not be heard:
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest’s sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May, safely, hope to win the wordy race.

The Sons of Science these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta’s sluggish shade;
Where on Cam’s sedgy banks, supine, they lie,
Unknown, unhonour’d live—unwept for die:
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix’d within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing Bentley’s, Brunck’s, or Porson’s note,
More than the verse on which the critic wrote:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their Ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel,
When Self and Church demand a Bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
(Whether ’tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour;)
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread;
But should a storm o’erwhelm him with disgrace,
They’d fly to seek the next, who fill’d his place.
Such are the men who learning’s treasures guard!
Such is their practice, such is their reward!
This much, at least, we may presume to say—
The premium can’t exceed the price they pay.
Sam Temple May 2016
Let us consider
The walrus and the carpenter
And the plight of poor
Mother oyster and her babes
To be eaten
To be digested
To be pooed
This is the way of the farm oyster
Cultivated lovingly
For mass consumption
By those with the taste
For salty snot ***** –
The time has come to speak of other things
Like clams, and *****
Lobster and squid
Octopi and the urchin
Jellyfish smeared
On fish pate
Spoken how it is spelled
Fish pate on a date
Seems great unless grated
Or outdated…
Just leave it on the plate
Pate on a plate
For goodness sake
Kaloo Kalay
Fishing is work
Just ask the learning channel
The history channel
Animal planet
Fox will tell you it’s easy
But seriously,
What does the fox say –
I sit at work
Longing to be as the walrus
Do a little ocean fishing
And have a bit of a bake
But alas,
Cabbages and Kings
Sometimes have to work –
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Monk's shaved pate
thick pelt around edge
leans over book

                              leans over book above river
reciting lines, reading scriptures, preparing
first for his personal salvation, then
for those of other men.

                                                 He prays, sweetly
                                                 serenely, steadfastly

in the broad rhythmic thrusting of the river
and the earth.

                        Completely exposed
                 to its vibration
         he vibrates passively
yet passionately

putting effort into remembering some
        of the ancient, past taboos
                and practices

the art of total presence
and abstinence.

                             Absent from worldly
                                         life, abstaining wholly
                                                     from touching
                                                        ­         the black girl

                                         part of her beads
                             her sweaty underwear

commanding a full dress view
            of her stimulus,
                        her honey.
Terry O'Leary Feb 2014

Well, GI Jack is welcome back, he left his legs in 'Nam.
He wakes at night in sweat and fright, then drinks another dram.
He doesn't know quite where to go, so seeks his uncle, Sam.


One can't ignore - his ma was poor, and seasons sometimes cruel,
yet Jack was brave and well behaved and surely no one's fool
so joined the ranks that man the tanks, as soon as he left school

He learned to **** our foes at will (ordained a sacred rite)
then packed his bag, unfurled his flag, when sent away to fight.
And yes, the tide was on our side (for, clearly, might makes right)

Through tangled days in jungles' maze, he sought the enemy
behind the trees where, ill at ease, he fought the Yellow sea -
upon the waves of gravelled graves he sailed a killing spree

The ****** dropped and cooked the crops, charred huts along the way
and tanks, with zest, erased the rest, their villages of clay.
(Yes, turret guns are loads of fun with roaring roundelay.)

While on the hunt with other grunts, he burned some babes alive
and wondered why frail things must die, while evil's phantoms thrive -
<When folly ends, he'll make amends if only he'll survive>

With ***** traps (sticks smeared with crap), yes, Charlie fought unfair.
He hid in holes with snakes and voles and snuck up everywhere
and like a mite within the night, caught Jackie unaware

At battle's end, Jack sought his friends - their souls were washed away
and only he and destiny were left in disarray -
with bed and pan, just half a man, the man of yesterday

When Jack awoke beyond the smoke, his frame no longer whole,
he found instead some suture thread neath wraps to hide the hole,
and realized a further prize: a chair on wheels to roll

His head felt light, as well it might, at Victory Day Parade
(across his chest, you've surely guessed, his medals shone, arrayed)
for when he rolled, while others strolled, his boots no longer weighed


Well, Jack stayed home (no roads to Rome) to start his life anew
receiving dole which took its toll as largess went askew
for sure enough, when times got tough, his uncle, Sam, withdrew

To walk the streets with fine elites (or else some *** who begs)
or find a job (or even rob) requires both your legs.
And those who can't, are viewed askant like those we call the dregs.

For getting by he tried to ply and mine his medals' worth -
a wooden cup, a mangy pup, a smirk when miming mirth,
and best of all, at midnight’s call, beneath a bridge, a ‘berth’

He clutched a sign 'A dime to dine?', if anybody cared,
but soon he found, as time unwound, that victors seldom shared.
And Jackie's pride was slowly fried by vacant eyes that stared


He took to drink to break the link with thoughts of what he'd done
and threads of doubt began to flout the yarns Big Brother spun
of freedom's ring and other things, like what it was we'd won

His vague unease arrayed a breeze with words that chilled the air
and like the fogs above the bogs, they floated through the square
where people sat at tea to chat, and shrieked 'How could he dare?'

Yes, freedom's price is never nice: like storms before the flood
the Daily Rag was on a jag, was looking out for blood,
deemed Jackie's thoughts untamed and fraught, then dragged him through the mud

By hacking clues, they plucked his views like grapes upon the vine.
Big Brother came, blamed Jackie's name for thinking out of line,
shut Jack away from light of day, eclipsing freedom’s shine

The Junto Brass, with eyes of glass, were robed in fine array
to hear the words (though slightly slurred) the witness gasped to say,
while Justice snored (the waterboard awash with Perrier)

Well, Jack was charged with laws enlarged in secret dossiers
within the guise of spreading lies and leading thoughts astray -
The Jury's out... the rabble shout “well someone's gotta pay”

The Judge (who fears the mind’s frontiers) inclined his head to yawn
while making haste through courtroom waste, though slightly pale and wan.
(A voodoo Loon withdraws as soon as Night condemns the Dawn.)


While in his cell, the verdict fell - the sighs of Silence, rife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the Reaper played a fife
While in his cell, the verdict fell - the price was Jackie's life


Well Jackie's ghost, unlike the most, still mused upon the praise
for misdeeds done in victories won when cruising in a craze,
and once again upon the sin of thinking, nowadays
where, cunningly, humanity’s served lies, and trust betrays.
Then, reconciled, it simply smiled at fortune's wanton ways.


A mind was caught while thinking thoughts neath Sammy’s prying gaze
and forced to stop by concept cops, else join the castaways.
For now it's law to hold in awe the brave new world's malaise
and cerebrate with programmed pate, adorned with thorned bouquets,
then mimic mimes in troubled times - and no one disobeys.
With freedom’s death, truth holds its breath awaiting better days.
Francie Lynch Aug 2018
I'll scale the hairs of Lincoln's beard,
Leap to the bridge of Roosevelt's nose,
Balance on Jefferson's brow,
Then plead on Washington's pate:
America, stop ******* up.
I'm slipping on the eyes
Of this granite outcrop
Bob Sterry Jul 2014
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.

The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Growing up in England a picnic was one the most optimistic things one could undertake. Hollywood picnics always seemed so unlikely.
MARY, MARY, QUITE CONTRARY: A Dreadful Tale about a Dead Anglo Mother, A Dreadful, Avenging Syrian Aunt, A Stolen Baby Sister, and a Hateful, Unfaithful, Defaulting Father.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
With people, people who hardly know
Your vices, your intrigue, your lies, and so,
You’ve ruined lives, and now I will show

How demonizing you are, with just your thinking
About your “slemly” self,  just linking [Nice in Arabic]
That self to your own, and not us--no one else
You belong in no company, your old-time thinking.
Adopting my sister, without any inkling
Of what it takes to challenge the motherless
And seeing we ended up, also, being fatherless.

Travesties galore made this woman happy
You won hearts, but you seemed quite daffy.      
Childhood, telling us we’d never be as good
As your Syrian daughters - such a strange brood!
This kind of “teaching” by a Syrian mom was kinda lewd.

She verily and surely became our ISIS
She thought who could ever, ever be like us
She raved for hours so very against us
To that red-headed family so she could easily best us!
Humiliating us at every stop
We really, really got a lot
From her, the decadent Queen of ISIS
No, she’d never, ever be like us!

Twenty years to a guileless young person
Is a forever herstory an eternity…
A lesson, an identity…
Carried on secretly, destroying our Syrian identity.
She stole that connection, filling it with confusion
She with cruel humor would **** our loving illusion
Stopped it in its growth,
Forever unseating that family oath.
To care - without any rejection.
It was She that was The Great Defection.

Mary, Mary how does your hatred grow
Picked on those who had no Syrian power
But you didn’t see yourself becoming lower
To the ends of the earth, heartless black flower.

In her mind she’d be our Mother
But as this poet, I did not know it
Things would be better if we like sheep
Worshipped Mary, into the deep
Quite similar to the rest of her Keep
Then mayhap we’d enjoy their fully undeserved sleep.

Taught my dear baby sister like her to hate
Would I had the power to shut up her pate
Her mouth was evil to the core
I never, never could stand more.
Her hatred entered me, made me sore.

Screaming at us to keep us out
Stupid Daddy joined her in this falling out
She, successful -as any lout.
By God I thot I must be evil
Their strange behavior was not legal.
Would that she’d accept me, that dangerous eagle.
I lost my sense of self and ‘came very sad
Would that I could be like she so glad.
‘Tis fifty years now, and I can’t stop crying.
No one ever heard this “mother” sighing.

Hell, Mary, full of Face
Recognizing only your Syrian race
Did anyone else matter? Just your primitive face?
Everyone one was hurt, except you and your nace
There’ll be no one, ever, that could take your place.
Laughing to destroy our wanted Arab destiny
Which you did, and did, successfully, with your fantasy.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
Like plants, you lined us up all in a row
One good, two bad - you did the choosing
And what did you leave?
Only us, who did the losing.
You didn’t water those two plants.
Treated us two as if we were ants.
Watered sissa so she would grow
Your dreaded deeds no one would know
Judgement is left only to God.
But you and Dad should’ve returned to your sod.
Your behavior to the motherless seems very odd.
My sister and I two tossed peas in a pod.

Deserting us suddenly knowing only this hateful group
There’s nothing to which she wouldn’t stoop
Her sick obsession to hurt the powerless
Speaks of a very worst yes, cruel foulness.

We lived at a convent school very protected
Visiting weekends this aspiring ****,
Two sisters know she made a very strong mark
She was not our blood, we couldn’t take part
Of this constant coldness on her part.

And another Aunt with two daughters, good
They were always with us, always stood
The opposite of this wicked would-be aunt
This family, Americanized and very sane
Never did play the ancient Ottoman game
These Aunts were our world - our windowpane.

Two aunts - endowing us with a Syrian heritage,
One, the bad one, with too much leverage
The good one to teach a cheerful Syrian beverage      
With balance, love, and the length of days
Not like the other, the one who dismays.

We represented that bad woman’s target
What it came from. Could it be her precious Margaret?
No, not at all her peaceful daughter
But the other, gladly joined in on the slaughter
Making serious and even much more, fodder.

We had no tools to breach this hate
I guess that it would have to be our fate.
To live our lives just disenchanted.
Our hearts broke, as if forever lancets.
With Syrians there’d be no more dances

Taking my sweet sis turning her against us
She did truly give strong heed to finally fence us.
What ever could we find for our defenses?

Dad, real Dad, inebriated dad,
Fell in with them: became this negative father
Sought their pity--likening me as a foreign daughter
He was in love with them, weakly turning
But in turn, the two of us, spurning
Back to his Syrian fold back, not farther
Unwittingly, unrepentedly, uncaringly, joining the laughter
Discarding his American daughters to a mental slaughter.

At his picnic - family there - he called us foreigners
Foreigners we were, surely, when with them
They couldn’t ever believe in us,
Dad influenced them, peeved at us.
Made us feel like little fools.
No, we never had the tools
To fight this ignorance - Change these mules?

Punishing, punishing us as wedded women
Accused of all that they gossiped about
What did they say? And this truant dad a lout
Speaking of us in downing tones
I’d feel far better had they broken my bones.

Closing his relationships to his
Two lesser liked non-Arab sisters
Would there would be a better mister
He considered us two a mere sinful blister.

We ran away from this horrible drunk
He hated his daughters and he stunk
And then we suffered the worst of any they would dunk
Uncomfortable at their Arab-speaking home
We stopped visiting long before their moan
We were “no good”  said our Syrian family
Would that we knew that we’d be anti-Family.

They had something to hate and did they do it
We had no idea we were just a joke
Their words, their disgust, far more than a poke.
Their anti-American provincial views
Made little sense - such perverted mews
All we loved, we would really lose.
There was never any right to choose.

That Family didn’t speak, avoided us
At sissa's Syrian wedding. It was all mined
That scene returns to me all of them lined  
Winding its way into my unbidden mind,
They were so, so truly unkind
We always would be to them the “Other”
Yes, us, us, us, without a mother!

We lost three mothers, our real one gone
Also our good step-mother quickly on
Add Mary to that three, glad she is gone
Perhaps Dad guilty of the first two deaths
I shan’t continue - you’d lose your breaths.
But Hail that Lady, she would change our world
Sending us suddenly into a whirl.
How to change the young with screaming?
She’d not change but destroy our dreaming
Waking horribly from our Syrian dream
We just didn’t fit their shady crème de la crème.

Everyone was fooled by this greedy witch
She and her daughters I’d deem as *****
What was in them, caused their making?
Taking away, taking, taking, taking.
Good cousins now, have seen an awakening
My work of writing revealed Mary’s faking.

Hail Mary full of Face
Only using her charms to erace
The sisters she wished not to embrace
With threads of lies an unrevealing face
Syrians’ acceptance of her goldarn place  
No one ever will she replace  
In every way she used her mace
A clever poison to keep her place
Successfully, she’d snidely hid her dreams
Wearing a mask to hide her themes.

She’d always hated us through and through
We didn’t know it till she did what she’d do
Her masque did work, from dusk to dawn.
Hatred of us was what she would spawn
She would definitely **** our spirits
Would that I could reveal all her lyrics.

Our Syrian sissa’s wedding put us in place
That even there we could have little space.
No other family events could we be included.
Engagements, baptisms, we would be excluded
Their intentions now were completely nuded.   deluded!

You stole our little baby entering the world
Through our Mom’s Death
You stole my Dad’s affection
He also her straw man, worshiping Mary‘s fiction
Her stand could only be that of affliction.

Hail Mary full of Face
Face that faced nothing exçept winning the Ace
Did no one ever tell you - you were a case?
Using your screams to stuff our mind
And even more shrieking to clog our mind
No other Syrian family could be so unkind.

Always filling us with her delicious food
Only to turn against us, trussing our good mood.
I’d like to regurgitate all that poisonous food
Anything about her became totally lewd.
She bragged of her daughters - were they really that good?
When we were children, told us we’d never be like them
We never wanted to be like those hurting us.
Took our Dad’s affection, he also deserting us
We never but finally saw that they were into hurting us.

She has attacked us screaming, screaming on end
Never an explanation, never to end
She took money, stole sister too, not a lend.
With this cruel treatment, we were not able to fend.
I’ve never heard such venom in any human voice
It seared through both my ears, such an odious noise
Those first twenty years were so very splendid
But later with her actions - all was ended
With her allotted time this is how she would spend it.

Sister, affections stolen, obeying by fear
Couldn’t counter - with a mere
Stand up to this fraud of a Mother Dear.

Our baby sis had became her clay
She would remake her through many a day.
She owes us much, this lying thief
No family tree would know, not even a leaf
She stole and changed our beautiful blood
Returned nothing except a bad bad flood
Of making our names into family mud.

She then gave out inimical messages
The taunting that came from her mealy mouth
From Damascus, that lousy mouse.
Couldn’t discuss, but only scream
What ever, ever, did she mean?
This Family into which father bought.
Their apathetic “reasoning” I was never taught.

Her daughters conscripted to the Mary core
Following her words, her iron ore
Inflated us with much heavy criticism
To fill our sissa with a lack of witticism

Lying, lying she always, always hated us
For twenty years, she consistently slated us
For slaughter, just like little lambs
Motherless, she took our little lamb
She won, didn’t she, in her sham?
Mary & dad really fated us with their sick flim flam!

She’d tackle anyone, anything in her path
And she did, with her oh so dreadful wrath.
What powered this extremely devilish mind?
She had never, ever, been really kind.

Our sodden father turned to her
She was Goddess, he deemed Something
While we were nothing, nothing, NOTHING!
It didn’t happen till twenty years after
From kindliness to hypocrisy
One would not believe.
Our real selves never to retrieve.

A sweet child, sissa, full of love
Knew they were cold and she let us know
After those years, sadly though
Turned into another hateful *****
Forced to be like them, else be ditched.

Dad, dad, the precious Syrian lad
Embraced the family gatherings that they had
Youngest of the Ikmuks - he was mad
Allowed them the desecration of our pad
They could say anything--made it their fad.

He wouldn’t speak to them of their travesty
Worshipped them, and ever drastically
Wanted to be Them, lest he be
On the Outs from the Family Tree
Ousted, married out of the Tribe
Hardly now, when this happened, few are alive.
He refused to tell them we both should be here.
He would never, ever, play it fair.
“Dad, if you go, I’ll never be the same.”
He would never, never take the blame.
Of his paltry stabs at being a human
Go stuff him in a jar with more rotten cumin.

Never defended us, never, never
Always took their part like a mismatched lever.
Usually a Dad with a daughter would stay beside her
But then, he gave Mary a far wider rider.

Gatherings went on, by the family Mare.
All our lives had been spent with them before
But Iron Lady with Iron Ore
Came through later and before.
She would win, so well connected to her vile kin
Change, girl, change, you’re just an Anglo fem.
Don’t, please, don’t pay much attention to them.
Sudden hate - my thoughts now were dashed.
I changed - they took all I had and then they smashed.

They brought us into their sickly Ottoman lives
But all of them acted as if we had the hives
They, centuries‘ habit, it was the mid-1950’s why so bold?
They were too much, too much very, to behold
We were stricken, treated as in days of old
We would never be part of their unhealthy mold  [Mould?]

Regular at Church. What kind of God could she worship?
You know who should have been told? The Syrian Bishop!
The She-Devil not even relishing the Church script
Eternally, she would always, rip, rip, and then grip!
Instead looked to those after Church who would serve her!
She did just this with a total fervor.
No Communion, no worship, but her only feats
To seek and add to gossip in the streets
Afterward. When-Where everyone meets.

Se enjoyed the Devil of Power over those she knew
Verily, she should have been thrown in the loo.
Few new. Only the rejected two.

Mary, Mary full of Mace
You never did achieve much grace
Wish you could have finally
Fallen on your ignorant Face
There’s really not going to be any space
To explain your bad translation of a very good race.
The Syrian families I always know very well
Would never have made this kind of hell.

The Syrian race is good, except for this “mother”
I speak from my place as the dreaded ”Other”
You are and were a terrible, mother
You’re a crude example of this Middle Eastern  race.
Very few of them did see through your face.

In that family I barely gleaned this toxicity
But, never, ever, did I witness much felicity.
They llaughed and laughed about any Other
Played well their acts as if they cared
They knew Syrian-like we would not fare
We, Dad, all sisters three - fell for her snare.

What think you, God, of these poor children
How il-ly this Family thoroughly tilled them
Two non-Arab daughters’ given bad repute
Their shocking beliefs really made us mute
All that came from her demented mind
All that encountered Mary’s “kind”
She destroyed our conception of self
This hypocrisy would make one melt.

She infiltrated us, her daughters, and my Sissa
That we were not as good as she - but she lost her mister
Had Uncle [our blood] lived, this would never have occurred.
But Auntie [not our blood] surely had demurred.
Her hooked-nose criticizing, and simple daughters,
Psychologically--against us-- they joined in on these slaughters.
Kindness for two decades to rent, later they spent
Hell on the motherless, but hiding that intent
Taught her daughters: “Don’t be involved with them”
We really do know some of what she did, or said,
This is the kind of meal that she constantly fed
Her masque nearly hiding her evil bent.
Too bad she wasn’t forced back into her Syrian tent.

Mary, Mary quite contrary, How does your world work?
You won, you won, you ignorant, piece of work
You demanded respect from all of us, treacherous,
She got it, didn’t know it, then she brought down the two of us

Sneaky, low-life, hypocrite witch
We always thought we had a niche
But lost kids like us did never snitch
We wouldn’t, didn’t open up about that *****.

We had a twenty-year comfort zone with her
Deserted at last by her flying fur
Stolen, deserted at last by Dad--that foul mister
Stolen, deserted, lastly by our pretty baby sister.

This left us changed by this She-Devil
Would that there’d be a way to counter her evil
We couldn’t - she was always far too strong
An ISIS for us - this would last too long.

After these years, I could not grow
Was I a real woman? -  I didn’t know!
Being a mother couldn’t show
That this Family created a list of woe.

When Sissa had babies & a mom to help
We did this alone - all this we felt.
Her faulted hatred never did melt.
I didn’t know how to take a stance
Nor could I find out how to advance.
We had to oppose Aunt Mary’s dance.

That Sissa could not bo
This poem represents many years of my life. It is all true.
Carol Rae Bradford, M.Ed., Author, "Mayflower Arab: A Memoir"
Thank you for accepting my poetry. April 16, 2015
Rising into Love Nov 2014
It’s less than an hour
before you’ll be done
but I wonder what time
you’ll really be home

This house is quiet
everyone is asleep
I’m tortured by silence
and the company I keep

This gum is stale
my jaw is sore
there’s a purring *****
taunting me like a *****

She’s a flirt; she’s a tease
She smells sweeter than candy
this green eyed monster
she sure is dandy

but don’t be deceived
by her charm and ease
this cat will surely skin you
if you forget her pate and cheese
Nota: man is the intelligence of his soil,
The sovereign ghost. As such, the Socrates
Of snails, musician of pears, principium
And lex. Sed quaeritur: is this same wig
Of things, this nincompated pedagogue,
Preceptor to the sea? Crispin at sea
Created, in his day, a touch of doubt.
An eye most apt in gelatines and jupes,
Berries of villages, a barber's eye,
An eye of land, of simple salad-beds,
Of honest quilts, the eye of Crispin, hung
On porpoises, instead of apricots,
And on silentious porpoises, whose snouts
Dibbled in waves that were mustachios,
Inscrutable hair in an inscrutable world.

One eats one pate, even of salt, quotha.
It was not so much the lost terrestrial,
The snug hibernal from that sea and salt,
That century of wind in a single puff.
What counted was mythology of self,
Blotched out beyond unblotching. Crispin,
The lutanist of fleas, the knave, the thane,
The ribboned stick, the bellowing breeches, cloak
Of China, cap of Spain, imperative haw
Of hum, inquisitorial botanist,
And general lexicographer of mute
And maidenly greenhorns, now beheld himself,
A skinny sailor peering in the sea-glass.
What word split up in clickering syllables
And storming under multitudinous tones
Was name for this short-shanks in all that brunt?
Crispin was washed away by magnitude.
The whole of life that still remained in him
Dwindled to one sound strumming in his ear,
Ubiquitous concussion, slap and sigh,
Polyphony beyond his baton's ******.

Could Crispin stem verboseness in the sea,
The old age of a watery realist,
Triton, dissolved in shifting diaphanes
Of blue and green? A wordy, watery age
That whispered to the sun's compassion, made
A convocation, nightly, of the sea-stars,
And on the cropping foot-ways of the moon
Lay grovelling. Triton incomplicate with that
Which made him Triton, nothing left of him,
Except in faint, memorial gesturings,
That were like arms and shoulders in the waves,
Here, something in the rise and fall of wind
That seemed hallucinating horn, and here,
A sunken voice, both of remembering
And of forgetfulness, in alternate strain.
Just so an ancient Crispin was dissolved.
The valet in the tempest was annulled.
Bordeaux to Yucatan, Havana next,
And then to Carolina. Simple jaunt.
Crispin, merest minuscule in the gates,
Dejected his manner to the turbulence.
The salt hung on his spirit like a frost,
The dead brine melted in him like a dew
Of winter, until nothing of himself
Remained, except some starker, barer self
In a starker, barer world, in which the sun
Was not the sun because it never shone
With bland complaisance on pale parasols,
Beetled, in chapels, on the chaste bouquets.
Against his pipping sounds a trumpet cried
Celestial sneering boisterously. Crispin
Became an introspective voyager.

Here was the veritable ding an sich, at last,
Crispin confronting it, a vocable thing,
But with a speech belched out of hoary darks
Noway resembling his, a visible thing,
And excepting negligible Triton, free
From the unavoidable shadow of himself
That lay elsewhere around him. Severance
Was clear. The last distortion of romance
Forsook the insatiable egotist. The sea
Severs not only lands but also selves.
Here was no help before reality.
Crispin beheld and Crispin was made new.
The imagination, here, could not evade,
In poems of plums, the strict austerity
Of one vast, subjugating, final tone.
The drenching of stale lives no more fell down.
What was this gaudy, gusty panoply?
Out of what swift destruction did it spring?
It was caparison of mind and cloud
And something given to make whole among
The ruses that were shattered by the large.
Geno Cattouse Nov 2012
Ah here sits the stone on the ground
The shrub on the hill. A
Natural state of affairs if you will.
Retched Earth, abominable stone

Why the nerve of the rag tag tree
To perch ones self in stark relief
Blocking the skyline, space invader.

Why the unmitigated gall.
Of the rain to fall on withered

Tis the empty barrel that rumbles profusely.
The shallow stream that muddles  at the bottom.

Pyramid craniums, issues forth babble.
Slackjawd mouth-breather.
Knee ****, Buffoon.

Perched in perpetuity,howling
at the moon.

The my way or the Highwayman, astride a cocked horse.

The cant see the beauty of  the  Forrest for the treeman.

Bull headed, Ram goat Salty old ******.

Failure to Communicate.
Rush to excommunicate
Monolythic seer

Cotton eyed joe

Constipated thinker.

Oh the comfort and surety
of riding in the ruts.

A Child’s Story

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
“’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;
And as for our Corporation—shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you’re old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence:
“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—
I’m sure my poor head aches again
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!”
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?”
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
“Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

“Come in!”—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in—
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire:
Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”

He advanced to the council-table:
And, “Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the selfsame cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?”
“One? fifty thousand!”—was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stepped,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
- Save one who, stout a Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out ‘Oh, rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce and inch before me,
Just as methought it said ‘Come, bore me!’
- I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
“Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!”—when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest **** with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!
“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried
“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!
I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Calip’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.”

“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I’ll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!”

Once more he stepped into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by—
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
“He never can cross that mighty top!
He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!”
When, lo, as they reached the mountain’s side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,—
“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me:
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings:
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!”

Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
“And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six”:
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children’s last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street—
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great Church-Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don’t understand.

So, *****, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men—especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
Vineeta rai Apr 2019
Ek ldki apne pure jeevan Me kya kya sehti hai ish kavita ke madhyam se batana cahti hu....

Waise to Laxmi, durga, saraswati kaha jata hai ladkiyo ko..
To kyu uske janm par mara jata hai ush masum ko....
Ladka hai to hamara chirag hamara vans aur ladki hai to sir ka bojh...
Jara yaad kro aise soch walo ladki na rahe to kahan se laao tum apna vans apna chirag...
Jo tmhe har khusiya De uski jra izzat ni krte....
Samjhte pair ki jutti **...
Are suno bewakufo...
Bina aurat aage ni badh sakte **....

Ladki ka to pura jeevan hi aisa hota hai... Ladki kabhi apna nahi soch sakti suru se maa baap Ka kaha manana aur fhir pati aur saas sasur ka... Apni khusiyo se jada pariwar ka sochna khud ki khwahiso ka Gala ghot sabki baat Manana....girls don't have life of there own... Chaliy aage dekhte hai.... Jb ldki ki saadi ** jati hai...

Ladki ko to suru se paraya dhan samjha jata hai....
Kyuki ushe vida hokr dusre ka ghar swarana hota hai...
Apni maa ka anchal chod...
Kai nae rista nibhana hota hai...
Kisi ki bahu kisi ki biwi kisi ki cachi 1000 riste bn jate hai...
Un sbko pyar se nibhana hota hai...
Ladki ka to naam hi tyag hai...
Kyuki suru se usne apni khusiyo ko tyagna sikha hai...
Kabhi maa baap ke majburi ke karan..
Kabhi society ke karan...
Aur fhir apne maa baap ko chod sasural jana hota hai...

Jara puchna cahti hu un ldko se... Kya tum apne maa ka saya chod reh skte **... Nahi na... To socho ek ldki kaise rehti hogi.... Wo tumhare liy apna har kuch chod skti hai... To kya tumhara farz ni ki uske khusiyo ka khyal rkho... Itna hi to ek ldki mangti hai.. Aur afsos tum log ushe wo bhi Ni de skte... Ldke bus apni jimmedari saupte hai apne faisle thopte hai... Ldki ke saadi ke baad to ushe apne mayke tk jane ka haq ni hota jbtk pati raazi na **... Kya ldki ki koi life hi  nahi...
Hum niyam to nahi badal sakte par itna to kar sakte hai na ki uske khusiyo ka bhi dhyan rakh ske...Kabhi socha hai ek ldki ke andar kitna kuch chlta hai par itne risto Me wo bandh kar kuch nahi keh pati.... Jara samjho ushe jo tumhe ache se samjh jati hai...
Tum kya khate **... Kya pasand hai... Kya kaam kb krte **... Tumhare kapde se lekar jutte tk har cheez ka khyal rkhti hai... Aur tum uska bhi khyal nahi rakh Pate...

Waqt chlta hai ldki maa banti hai....
9 mahine kya kuch seh ke ek bache ko janam deti hai....
Ush 9 mahine wo kis daur se gujarti hai wo wahi janti hai...
Sb kuch Sehti hai par chu tk ki aawaz nahi nikalti...
Aur ladki ka dard koi samjh ni pata...
Ek bache ko achi parwaris deti hai ushe Bada karti hai...
Ek ladki ki puri lyf ek battle field se kam nahi hoti...
Ladki janam se maut tak bahut kuch jhelti hai...
To apka bhi farz banta hai ushe samjhna....
Uski khusiyo ka khyal rkhna...
Ajj jada nahi ek baar Akele baith kr socha what a Girl do for uhh...
As a mother, sister, wife even ur girlfriend...just think ND try to understand her....
Ek khusi ushe bhi dekr dekhiy... Sach Me ldki ishse jada kuch nahi cahti...

Last Me itna hi kahungi...ladki dusro ke liy jeete jeete apna antim saans leti hai....
Pls I request to all boys and men.... Stop to hurt ur wife sister mother or gf just respect what they do for you.... And app bhi kuch krna sikho... Unke liy...
John F McCullagh Mar 2016
Let the curse be invoked, let ghosts gibber and moan!
It appears the Bard’s skull is out and on loan.
Although long protected by a malediction dread,
It turns out Shakespeare’s body is missing his head.
Some Victorian fans thought it quite the lark
to make off with his skull; a deed done in the dark.
Alas poor Shakespeare whose works I know well
Your skull now a paperweight where miscreants dwell.
Like Crassus the Roman, you serve as a prop
And your moldering bones are missing their top.
If Poor Yorick had heirs they are under suspicion;
Subject them to torture to obtain their confession.
According to reports Shakespeare's skull has been stolen from his grave
ORLA Dec 2012
Once upon a time, there was me:
A simpleton of no account,
A dunderhead by word of mouth,
An addle-pate, a cracking crock,
A crazy who deserved a lock.
Not pretty, brainy, or well-bred,
Bespectacled, a short redhead
With hands too small and far too pink
Who’d trip or fall as soon as think.
Not many prospects, they declared
With such conviction I was scared.
But the cast was short one role,
The one who’d make the halfwit whole . . .

Once upon a time, there was you:
A lord of state, of high esteem,
The answer to each maiden’s dream,
A strong man, raven-haired, and tall?
No, not this person, not at all.
You had glasses just like me,
And freckles where your skin should be.
Your clothes were rumpled, torn and tattered
Not as though that even mattered:
You walked on set and came to me
You got down on one gawky knee
You took my pink hand in your red
And, as you fixed your glasses, said:
“I love your hands, your height, your hair,
I love you up, down, everywhere.
And I hesitate to ask you this . . .
But could I maybe have a kiss?”
And, for once, my tactless lips
Did not resort to stumbling slips;
I gave you one, I gave you two,
I gave every kiss I had to you.

Once upon a time, there was us:*
Two simpletons of no repute
Two dunderheads whose names were moot:
Prince Not-So-Charming and his *****.
And much as cynics tried to drench
The flames of addle-pated glee
I found in you and you in me,
As much as they enjoyed pretending,
They could not harm our happy ending.
Something I wrote a few years ago - forgive its awkwardness, the sentiment still applies.
where do old people go to find ***? their sagging wrinkling barnacled skin easily torn or bruised thinning wispy hair dry tongues raspy voices gray teeth wobbly legs malformed brittle spines rickety stance shaky hands misshapen arthritic fingers foul stale odors itchy scratchy orifices ***** stained underwear where do old people go to find ***? their vanishing generation locked away in reclusive lonely dusty rooms creaky dim apartments when i was young i thought old people were unburdened of lust no longer bound by libido urges somehow grown free of base desires needs this constant horniness i suffer where do old people go to find *** is it wrong to politely ask or beg a younger person indecent to plead for a little charity where do old people go to find ***?

there is a wooded area outside Paris where some couples drive and park man behind the wheel woman in passenger seat her window down clothed anonymous men approach with exposed penises in hand staring at woman’s fingers massaging between her thighs spread as she watches the men stroke themselves sometimes she kisses licks even ***** these strangers' erections the driver sits composed empowered sharing his companion amused aroused admiring her lasciviousness oh the French they are so ****** with their stinky cheeses pate de foie gras rich sauces refined wines briny scented ***** tresses seductive lingerie licentious literature DeSade Zola Rimbaud Foucault Derrida Deleuze Deneuve Belmondo Goddard Truffaut Depardieu

the oppression of money in every gulp of air we breathe all the secret arrangements sick crooked associations complicated deceitful ***** deals the great divide between gated community and ghetto slum how can we feel proud knowing our insatiable self-absorbed hunger greed oil carried in ocean channels spreading evaporating into atmosphere air rain groundwater rivers lakes vegetation animals us poisoning killing off everything the oppression of money i hang my head

the oppression of time memory longing for that which we once knew felt i remember running into a very **** pretty girl whom i had not seen in a year carrying bag of groceries in her arms on street asking why didn’t i call her back she repeated why didn’t you call me back wide smile tempting eyes ***** blond hair dark roots enticing bush exquisite floppy lips lanky cowgirl physique narrow hips i did not know what to say said nothing simply stood there looking with sad eyes at her i remember several different girls hinting to take them more seriously i thought to reveal i am too weird tainted ****** up do not want to ruin your life each one of you with my wounded heart troubled thoughts twisted feelings searching stumbling soul my uncertainty do not know what to say said nothing just stood there looking in stupid silence the oppression of time memory longing for that which we once knew felt where do old people go to find ***?

dance with me lift your spirit listen to your heartbeat rhythm of your breath lift arms roll shoulders flutter fingers loosen hips wag **** bend knees tap toes make animal sounds pretend we are young with time to waste whirl around until you feel dizzy forget gravity imagine bliss dance with me
There was an Old Sailor of Compton,
Whose vessel a rock it once bump'd on;
The shock was so great,
that it damaged the pate,
Of that singular Sailor of Compton.
Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
Why should men make haste to die?
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
Bears the falling sky.

Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever:
Think no more; 'tis only thinking
Lays lads underground.
Kayla Whipple Oct 2012
Sometimes when I see what people have the capability of doing, I wonder if there is anything else besides blood and bones.
Sometimes when I like a boy. He always likes to twitter pate my friends hearts. Sometimes if my friend has no desire, the boys still come crawling, right past me.
This is not just a one time thing. This is a reoccurring event. kind of the like the bickering that goes on at my house during the weekends.
Sometimes it gets sad.
Sometimes when I open my heart and my love flies out like a bird leaving its cage for the first time, something goes wrong. My bird's wings maybe don't work. Maybe there was a killer just waiting to shoot down the newly free creature. Or maybe, my bird just can't handle the pressure and is crippled. Whatever it is like, and it is different in every situation, My heart is become such a raw sore. This is not because of one event. Let me be clear.
This is the build up of heartaches after letdowns and broken wishes.
Sometimes, on chilly nights like these. When I am cuddled up sipping hot coco and eating warm chocolate chip cookies, I just wonder. Why have I let my feelings control me for so long?
Why have I put myself through this? The only solution I can come up with is that all of these times that my feelings are torn apart by these creatures we call MEN, are just preparing me for my infinite love that I will have someday.
Sometimes I smile because I KNOW someday, I will be greatfull for the broken winged heart because I will have never had the chance to meet this future peice of my puzzle.
Teen, sixteen, gazing into the mirror, adoring
Her smug self afore that vanity espying glass.
At her well favoured features she's ogling
With ****** grins, sans ****** feelings.

Everything was still in a pink state,
Like morn, from her sole to her pate.

"Time's winged chariot" flashes by, and she's
Turned sixty. That same structure luscious
Like seasons, from summer to winter,
sooner changed: gray hair hath taken over
With wrinkle surface, shelving ******* on
A frame frail. Her cherished hot form
Has sunk, as the sun, down the horizon
Of beauty for ageing, which doth man transform.
Yenson Sep 2018
I saw Agnes outside Harrods
Looking tres chic, le chic
I say darling, what's happening, sweetie
where's your Wainpatrik from the sticks
our erudite writer who thinks aspic is pate

I gave that hick the 'go find your level'
Agnes replied with a smile
You know how it is with him and his drivel
that coarse, crude, pretentious oik without a shovel
He tries to be intelligent but his head is full of gravel
bathes once a fortnight and has a todger like a weasel

You can't beat good breeding, she continues
those reconstituted barrow-boys
with  B-Tech English thinking they are now genuine
Lacks confidence, style, self assurance, wet as the Rhine
******* in the boudoir, sloppy kisser, todger like a string
Bully and a coward trolling on his stolen PC, has no spine

Hey, lets **** down round my pad, she purred
You may be out of shape at the moment
But who's cooler, more charismatic and interesting than vous
Do you know you're the best I have ever had and I mean it too
You're head and shoulders above Wainputrid and that's so true
The twerp is so envious of you, he and his barrow mates stew
Tales of your exploits and size just leaves them aghast and askew

Hahaha...haha..she laughs as she linked arms, a glint in her eyes!
Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
Why should men make haste to die?
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
Bears the falling sky.

Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking
Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever:
Think no more; 'tis only thinking
Lays lads underground.
Brent Kincaid Apr 2015
Waiting my turn to pay
For the items we need today;
The beans and the chili
And some picklelilli
And costly imported pate.

A headline that says glaringly
What some starlet does daringly.
What I see before my eyes
A big edition full of lies
They put here to tempt me daringly.

Where childbirth oddities
Are viewed as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.

We all know these stories
Are anecdotal glories
Made up by the magazines;
The tawdriest ever seen
And they don’t mind getting gory.
It’s yellow journalism
A sort of print format ****
Intended for the kind of fool
Who never finished school
And falls for jingoism.

Where childbirth oddities
Are views as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.

Brent Kincaid
Shrivastva MK Mar 2018
Bachpan ka samay kabhi na lautkar aata ,
Har waqt bus yaadon ka aasma reh jaata ,

Khelte the hum bhi khub dhul ko udel ko,
Maaf kr diye jate hamare sabhi galtiya aur bhul ko,

Jab chaha has lete they ,
Aur jab chaha ro dete they ,

Chhote chhote aankhon me sapne bade hote the,
Na kisi se bair,sare log apne hote the,

Par ab tou aansuo ko chahiye tanhayi ,
Chehre par sirf jhoothi muskaan hai chhayi ,

Zindagi ki tapish mein kab bachpan guzar gaya ,
Kab bachhe se bade ** gye zindagi ki daur mein nazar hi nahi aaya ,

Kya din they chalate they baarish mein nao 
Ab khud ko chupane ke liye sochtey hain kha jao,
Na kuch paane ki aasha thi or na kuch khone ka drrrr,
Mast rehte they jaha apni hi dhun idhar udhar,

Koi lauta de bachpan ka sawan
Fir se mehak jayega mere dil ka aangan ,

Khelte they khilone se aaj khud khilona ban gaye ,
Bachpan ke sunhere pal na jaane kha kho gaye,

Maa se lipatne ke  bahane bnate,
Maa ke aanchal ke chav me hi so jate,

Chhote se kadam se saitaniya bde karte the,
Papa Ki pyari daat pr bhi ro dete the,

Jab bhi rota mai,Maa apne sine se laga leti thi,
Sahlake haath sar pr mere muskura deti thi,

Maa ka dudh jaise amrit ka pyala tha,
Sach me hamara bachpan bahut hi nirala tha,

Amrit ka Ek ghut pi kar bhi khush ** jate the,
Duniya ka sabse bda sukh maa ke aanchal me hi pate the,

Yaad hai hume wo khubsurat bachpan ke pal,
Muskura dete hum jab bhi yaad aate wo sunhare bite kal........

4th collab. Poem composed by
Sonia Paruthi & Manish Shrivastva
For sonia Paruthi creations visit
Table For Two Dec 2016
They all miss the pothole,

While I'm much too busy wondering how I got stuck in it to begin with.

I never understood how I ended up here,
And that they never did.

How they found the way around,
And I never found the way out.
I will never forget that day. For that is the last day I saw you.
Ankit Dubey May 2019
yun to khush hu mai bahut,
k tum pyar jo itna karte **,
rahte ** door bahut mujhse to kya,
tum pyar bahut karte **,
mai jab bhi kabhi rota hu tumhe yaad kark,
tumse kahta hu k paas aa jao mere,
tum nahi aa pate **,
mai rota hi rahta hu,
tum bahut samjhate **,
apni majboori batate **,
par mai nahi samajhta ,
aur fir bhi rota rahta hu,
to kya,
tum pyar to mujhse karte **...........
kabhi kabhi jab dil karta hai k tumhare paas aaun,
tumhe apni bahin me bhar loo,
tumhe apna bana loo,
tumhe khud me basa loo,
sari duniya se door hokar tumhare sath ek alag duniya basa loo,
aur tumse kahta hu k sath mera de do,
aur tab kisi aur k sath tum hote **,
haan tumhari marji nahi hoti,
fir bhi tum kisi aur ki bahon me hote **,
vo tumhe choota hai pakadta hai,
mera har hak apna bana leta hai,
aur kahte ** k meri majboori samajh lo,
aur mai nahi samajhta hu,
rota hu aur tumhare oaas aane ko tadapta hu,
jab fir bhi khwahish poori nahi hoti,
tab mai rota rahta hu,
to kya,
tum pyar to mujhse karte **.......
jab mai khush hota hu,
to tumhe dil ki har baat batana chahta hu,
vo khushi khud se pahle tumse bantna chahta hu,
tum tab bhi nahi hoti **,
kyunki kisi aur ki chahaten poori kar rahi hoti **,
jab bhi dukhi hota hu,
to chahta hu k tumhara hanth mil jaye,
tumhari god me chup jana chahta hu,
aur ro rokar sara dukh mita dena chahta hu,
par tum nahi hoti,
kyunki tab tum kisi aur ki dukhi hone ki wajah mita rahi hoti **,
aur fir mai rota hu jqb tak tum nahi aati,
jab tum aati ** fir se apni majboori batati **,
mai cheekhta hu chillata hu,
pal pal tumhare paas aane ko tadapta rahta hu,
par tum nahi aati,
aur mai rota rahta hu,
to kya,
tum pyar to mujhse karte **......
Terry O'Leary May 2016
Come join the unraveling circus
quite soon to be passing our way,
with the clowns in a clamor to twerk us -
line up as they lead us astray!

Arriving, the elephant trumpets
agendas of aberrant acts
while the donkeys drool, dunking their crumpets
and twirlers spin, twisting the facts.

The big top’s now open to breezes,
so pundits soar spreading their wings
to convince us to tread the trapezes,
for it's they who'll be pulling the strings.

The merry-go-round’s so amazing
(black horses bound, chasing the cart)
as the brass ring of change wanders wildly
till stealing straight back to the start.

The moldy old model of Ptolemy
(at the hub of this three ring domain)
mixes marvels of magic with alchemy
in the bowels of the mastodon’s brain.

Neglecting the gulls who’ll be eating
stale crumbs that have dropped from the plate,
the vain vulture of virtue’s oft tweeting  
of Circus Land once again great.

The tamer, adorned in fine trumpery
(pate garnished with fiery mane)
has endeavored to wall the ring's boundary,
keep millipede migrants in rein.

The dwarves and their antics are funny
while juggling to balance the books,
so the titans laugh, grappling the money
extracted by hook or by crooks.

The sideshows provide a composite
of fails of the frizzed billionaire,
some disclosing the bones in his closet
caught clutched in the arms of the bear.
From towers the trumpet is blowing
fake messages, fetid but full,
but as long as the cattle keep lowing,
he’ll hasten to serve them the bull.

The masses, persuaded to follow,
float foolishly into the fog
overwhelmed by the vapors they swallow,
choked up like the ruff-collared dog.

The snap of the whip as it whooshes
maintains the domains of the dupes
so the cats won’t escape to the bushes,
refusing to hop through the hoops.

With the promise to call out the cavalry,
the hearts of the crowds beat athrob
for in spite of their struggles and rivalry
the Don’s still controlling the mob.

Humbled Empress on *******’s hilarious,
parading her ***** and mules,
with her fabulous tales (mostly spurious)
wagging only the naive and fools.

Mounting ponies in circles, she rode 'em
through lobbies where influence crawls
with her claws clinging tight to the totem
while seals on the banks balanced *****.

Yes, the pack’s still pre-paid by the PAC men,
some wolfing their ways through the maze,
while fey fables are hawked by the packmen
who canvass our eyes with a glaze.

The pretender defender of females
is actu'ly one of the hawks;
secrets hidden in spills of her re-mails
means pillory, stuck in the stocks.

The swine in the central arenas
(immersed in the fat of the throne)
begin dancing like wee ballerinas
’fore pitching the proles a bare bone.

Jesters Cruzo and Bozo, while boozin'
(dealt cards which were ******* by the ****),
ruled “not winning the hand would be losin’
and need for an armed Minuteman.”

Well the ray gun's still loaded and toted
(the gall’ry forbidding all bans)
and the NRA gang’s become bloated
shooting **** in the face of the fans.

One day when the mad house has folded
and sawdust’s been wafted aside,
Human Race will be racing, remolded,
surmounting life’s hurdles in stride.
King Tutankhamun Aug 2015
All i know is the ghetto
And scandalous tricks
In stilettos ya know
Jealousy follows that the
Black society creeds
N i bleed
Through pressure and pain
Since i took the throne
I embraced the reign
Heir of my past pioneers
Listen clear
J Hendrix dropped a tear
Out the sky catch the purple haze
Buzz contact
So all you haters get off my bozack
My folks dont know how to act
Quick to react
Bad temper with the barrel of a gat
Facin' death
Heartbeatin' faster than humming bird
Yup i seen a man die
So **** what you heard
This is for homies thugs drugs dealer
Murderers to serial killers
Representin' real hits
Penetrate the heart of the beast
WASHINGTON aint never been fair
So if you see us mobbin' yo hood
We dont care

But this is for my homies

I got a tear stained letter
From my one of my homies homies
Who got murdered by a 9 baretta
Cuz he came up short on the cheddar
Instead cuttin' em slack
He wanted his life back
But aint no reasonin' with a gat
Pointed at ya pate
Seen death servin' on his plate
Two shots execution style
The killer smiled he knew it was foul
But thats the way it is
Things will never change
It makes my skin mange
Wish i could rearrange
The game
But fools rather remain the same
Wither it be pistols to glocks to shot guns
There's always a soul on the run
I bet i can dance underwater
And not get wet
So go ahead and send ya death threats
Cold covert mission is eyeing me
Keep my ******* to society quietly
Riotin' the scene
Takin' enemies along with me
If ya know what i mean??

But this is for my homies
too much interference
has been extensively run
by those who hold
the kingmaker's gun

as a consequence
of this kind of thing
the democratic process
is under a clouded ring

the flow of votes
which were meant
for the out in front candidate
got subverted somewhere
in the ballot box's victory pate

foreign countries meddling
with other country's domestic autonomy
so the results of elections
will satisfy their sovereignty

transgressors are employing
their technics from nations far away
to determine who'll wear
a crowning array
Robert Zanfad Nov 2013
these things are yours:
the leather sofas, paintings and mantlepiece chachkas
marked with pink post-it notes
that defined this houseload of secrets to outsiders

as I wrote glories for you in forced smiles garnishing
black and white stories for a world you craved
our home groaned beneath the weight

pink notes

they feel like garottes, the
crafty complaints to strangers
duly noted in a ledger somewhere...

I never noticed 'till now
that even our children have been plastered with them,
sorry little heads bobbing under their wires,
stiff armed puppets, like me
facing ruined toys or threatened death of a pet,
love served contingent like dessert after dinner

my powder blue lips were ever too meager to say anything

I suppose the sofa your cat peed
on is mine to sleep in,
though bleach wasn't enough to get her stink out
no chairs around my foldout dinner table

I never had a stack of blue paper to paste on furniture or people

my meager parts were abandoned by curbside at night:
clothing, computer, tools;
broken finger, blood-crusty nose,
bruised psyche;
memories of a mother and father;
old desk, contents drenched in murky wash water
treasures to be gathered in an Easter egg hunt
before morning

I'm *****, broken on the street
to live in the van again and *** in a cup

yet I elate in this paucity of things; it makes me lighter
I embrace its freedom
like when I used to sleep in park trees
to avoid river vermin, hungry
(yes, pate´ in Paris was divine - I ate the serving you’d have wasted )

or on train station benches with foul-smelling vagrants
you wouldn't understand that interaction …
this devil knows names, shared their bottles and pains
(the view of Prague’s rooftops from the castle veranda -
marvelous over glasses of wine and slivers of brie)

I learned hope is thin, frail skin, aetherial
my scars are hard, heavy, battle-earned wings that will never fly

as to things I do own:
love of self left after your half-portion spent;
poems scorned because
you never understood how they could be born without you

soon enough
we'll both be ashes or dust;
I’ll go in puffs
of swirling cigarette smoke and cheap bourbon
you under soil, I think
while words and our children
will both outlive the good sofa you sit on

I want them to be happy
r Jul 2013
Back when I was a follower
I had a good friend Ed
He grew up amongst the Alps
His Pops worked for the Ambassador
Details left unsaid
Ed could climb the steepest crags
Like a mountain goat on ****
And ski the steepest slopes
Like a rocket on a sled

As I said
I was a follower back then
And my friend Ed
With his prematurely balding pate
Would chuckle at my dread
Following him up a sheer rock face
Free style climbing into outer space
Rappelling down the other side
No belay to slow my glide

I remember the first time
Ed led me wrong
Clinging tightly like a lover
Halfway up the face
Hugging tightly a giant rock
Like a gambler hugs an Ace
No holds left or right, up or down
Too scared to breathe or shout for help
Till there was Ed like a monkey scurrying round

A smile of reassurance
Laughing at my plight
“Left hand here, right hand there
“Right foot to the left, left foot to the right”
Till finally at the top
Sweating, swearing, trembling
Lying on my back
He sitting there without a twitch
Thanks Ed, you *******

And then we hit the slopes
Ed starting with the Black
Piece of cake he said
I thought I had the knack
First mogul flying high
Second one I kissed the sky
Third I began the tumble
All head and *** and skis
Face buried in the freeze

I knew it would come one day
Ed asking me to dive
He didn’t mean the water
Ed loved to dive the skies
Finally I decided
No more the follower to be
I repeated the grunts number one rule
The only things that fall from the sky
The snow, the rain, bird **** and fools

We shed our uniforms
Said our goodbyes and headed home
Me to the South and East
Ed further West and North to roam
Last I heard my friend Ed was dead
Jumping from a bridge
The final dive for my friend Ed
Deep into a river gorge
I think he just got bored
February 2013
Brian Oarr Aug 2013
In the harbor of my sixty five years,
The tide is going out beneath the dock.
Ragged barnacles **** up my piers;
Gulls circle my bald pate in a flock.
"Cammina, su, non fare resistenza!"
diceva 'o brigadiere, e 'a strascenava.
"Sta storia adda fernì,è un'indecenza!".
"Chi sa c'ha fatto"- 'a ggente se spiava.
"C'ha fatto?" - rispunnette nu signore.
È na povera ddia... è na mundana".
"E 'a porteno accussì?Gesù, che core!"
murmuliaie Nannina " 'a parulana ".
"Lassateme... nun aggio fatto niente!".
"E lass' 'a jì - dicette nu cucchiere -
ma vuie 'e vvedite quanto sò fetiente?".
"Nce vò nu core a ffà chillu mestiere".
"Sta purtanno 'o brigante Musolino-
se mettette alluccà Peppe " 'o Fravaglia" -
Si 'o ssape ll'onorevole Merlini
'o fa 'a proposta p' 'o fà avè 'a medaglia".
Quase ogne ghiuorno, 'a povera figliola
approfittava ca na caruzzella
a Nnapule scenneva d'Afragola
pe nu passaggio fino 'a Ruanella.
'O nomme?Nun 'o saccio.
Saccio sulo ca 'e ccumpagne
'a chiammaveno " 'A pezzente".
Pe sparagnà, 'a sera, dduie fasule,
e, spisse vote, nun magnava niente!
Cu chelle ppoche lire ch'abbuscava
aveva mantenè tutta 'a famiglia;
e quanno 'e vvote po'... nun aizava,
steva diuno 'o pate, 'a mamma e 'o figlio.
'O pate, viecchio, ciunco... into a nu lietto
senza lenzole, cu na cupertella.
E 'a mamma ca campava pe dispietto
d' 'a morte e d' 'a miseria.
Puverella! A piede o lietto, dinto a nu spurtone,
na criatura janca e malaticcia,
pe pazziella 'nmano nu scarpone
e na tozzola 'e pane sereticcio.
Nun appena fuie 'ncoppa 'a Sezione,
se mettette alluccà comme a na pazza.
'E strille se sentivano a 'o puntone.
"Ch' è stato, neh? Ched' è chisto schiamazzo?
Avanti, fate entrà sta... Capinera"-
dicette 'o Cummissario a nu piantone.
E 'o milite, cu grazia e cu maniera,
'a votta dinto cu nu sbuttulone.
"Ah! Sì tu? - dicette 'o funzionario-
Si nun mme sbaglio, tu si recidiva?
Si cunusciuta cca a Muntecalvario.
Addò t'hanno acchiappata, neh, addò stive?".
"All'angolo d' 'o vico 'a Speranzella.
Steve parlanno cu nu marenaro,
quanno veco 'e passà na carruzzella
Cu dinto don Ciccillo 'o farenaro.
Don Ciccio fa nu segno: "Fuitenne!
Curre ca sta passando 'o pattuglione".
I' dico a 'o marenaro: "Iatevenne.
Stu brigadiere 'o saccio... è nu 'nfamone"
."A legge è legge - dice 'o cavaliere
Nun aggio che te fà, ragazza mia.
I' te cunziglio: lassa stu mestiere,
e lievete pe sempe 'a miezo 'a via".
"E che mme metto a ffà, signore bello,
'a sarta, 'a lavannara, 'a panettera?
Spisso mm' 'o sento chistu riturnello"
."E truovete nu posto 'e cammarera!".
"Signò, dicite overo opuro apposta?
Vulite pazzià? E nun è umano.
V' 'a mettisseve dinto 'a casa vosta
chi... pe disgrazia ha avuta fà 'a puttana?!".
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
I am but the flower
nigh the wild fox's den
I feel earthen worms
that crawl about
my sultry toes and then

they move the dirt for me
relaxing me
I stand *****
in wait for thee

I watch the *****
nurse her pups
and though she has quenched
my love before
I desire a name and
something more

I so desire the honey bee
without her I feel untended
much unlike the tended progeny
of neighbor mother mending me

though standing guard
I wait for thee
to call my name
and fall on me

to drone a tune
and dance on me
and rob of me
the toil of seed

for a wildflower
by another name
should thenceforth
be deemed
a ****

'til the
falls atop
mine pate as
favor of the

∘ ⊱‧⌍  ⌈✞⌋  ⌌‧⊰ ∞
Third Eye Candy Jul 2013
Rod Serling In The Blue Finch Foie Gras
went peacefully when the proper Authorities arrived
to escort Him from the Pate' to the Patio
but was overheard trading barbs with a flat foot
florid with Aqua Velva; both eyes -
without Harps, Utterly.
murari sinha Sep 2010
you’re not adams apple

the  fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil
in the centre of the garden of eden
in genesis

yet at you
the round oranges of this afternoon-town
i stare

and my pate gradually
becomes pregnant

the  wind that comes after
having a touch of your lips
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead

and my guava-leaf begins to melt

thus my hardware-business is going
into liquidation

the physician to the king is telling
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body

used… and used… and used…

your smile has not yet become

so from where the lamp-posts of the
town start

there are the cutlets  
and the bolster

they are not the only ones
to utter the last words
about the pill

i’m too
in this summer
trying to  decorate
the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony

if any silent dew-drop comes
to prepare and feed me
my birth-day frumenty

but i’ve no tongue
at all

all over the face there are only the eyes

and to the fate of my staring-at
has ever
so much blessings been available
King Tutankhamun Feb 2015
As tha vinyl goes round and round
Put my vocals on the sound
Make minds astound
Like they blazed a pound
spiritually buried in a ground
Many awaited so many hated debated
But ya only created
A bigger badder mc flawless the rawest
To ever touch a beat leave ya off ya feet
Ya in high heels drink Dom P no spills
Ice chills windmills sittin' on the 22s rims
Tilted brim far for slim lights dim
Smoke sessions prepare for the aggression
When fools hear my sound they'll start a recession
Lyrically insane off my brain
No pain no gain pushin' weight in differ states made estates hold ya pate
Cuz it's bound to get popped off ya soft
As Doughboy check my rhyming ahoy
Gettin' girlies made joy don't act coy
My apparatus the baddest yours the saddest
A **** without Gladys
I'm on the Midnight train to Georgia
Got some led for ya
Caps I peelin' more than onions
Leavin' nigguhs holy like funions
Funk baby born in the eighties
I'm the shadiest of the shady
Hate me now but it's all gravy
Burnin' emcees like Monks thai skunk
Put the funk
In my mind always on the grind
Watch for one time and I'm
Never gonna die from this
Respect ya royal highness
Check my pedigree ya gonna wanna
re-re-re rewind this

****** stop pretendin'
The masquerade is over
I thought David Porter told ya
The massacre just begun
When my guns bust fools begin to run
Into four-corner hustlers street jugglers
And stick up mugglers
Bounce my **** I'm the hardest to hit
Guard ya **** this a blow harder than Tyson
Sweep up the street call me Dyson Slicin'
Competition to pieces for stereo thesis
As my brain increases droppin' feces
That cant eradicate or debate
End up bitin' they own death date
Ivs' pumpin' from the leds dumpin'
Blood clots bumpin' body humpin'
This is a take over I don't pull til the nut is over
Never see me sober refer to me as Jehovah
Positionin' plots when emcees touch the spot
End up mad shot???
Askin' who shot ya? Nobody knows
It's the Htown ****** raw and hyper
160 kills with out the trickle of a sweat
I make more threats than a terrorist
George Bush couldn't even stop it
Mass mayhem slam opponent til they open
Dilate pupils after the loot principle
***** tricks haters can *******
Neck slit now ya can't talk ****
No love I'm in it Cuz im greedy
Don't feed the needy I'm black as Nefertiti
Yall can't see me
Even if yall wanted too
Chumps talkin' like they smoke me
But I'll have stunned more than Haitian Voodoo

A-frame bridge, no.254.
Why did they send the cavalry of the Crown,
not a chef adept at jigsaws?
Ontologically opting out of the
Damocles' fleatouch 1st person pronoun.
Ache kind of socialow luckemia
has culminated in this reckoning,
this personal brevima, the scheduling
of my release from this 40-year-old-****** hellhole.
Milk slit strike at the coconut shy of souls.
From a brittly hylic, embittered high place,
velocity tenderises me once & forall outofplace.

Such a beautifulday I must be serious,
the sun
Pipistrelle Daddy Destro:
for a few seconds, equals. The News Of The World won,
David Scarboro.
To spite the 1 I pined for ad infinights,
outofhiding in my vespertalactite,
to go down cyancowled
l/ sunnier owls,
down down t'azure turnups o'er ******
sock clouds of birdman w/ deflated waterwings.

We're not talking flash-flight, falling w/ (sky's
cramped) style, Golden Gate weightlessness, wirefu
knotted matter maquettes in jazz gravity.
More SPLAT! l/ birdcrap or a crap bird,
claret scree, ****** mannequin. Blue
hamon of a sayonara
impales the seppuku diver upon
broadestsword, the East Anglian plateau alone.
Or fool's gold fall. Quadriplegic at end of the rainbow
(******* ineluctable rainbows).  

Join the fall & fall & noyade of lemmpires
on the mal voyage to clay again.
Out of der freie geist & into the fire
via impact, if we bolt this bottomless hollow
to be chastised by childabusers Charlemagne
chartered. But who's playing follow
the leperdoctrinist anymore?  I'll chin
the sun heavier than Hedd Wyn's
mourning cloaked Chair, as I take the earnest lemming way,
prince des nuees, rather than walkaway,
crippled for life.
Keep albatroshin'? Ol' bor, toss yourself off

a cliff rident that fits & locks clithridi-hate.
Or the Iron Bridge or some other local highledge
for the coming true of weight
when local legends exit cute.
Nice hand aids swigs for cynic the edge
hugs, but, lo, Green Hill Zone's killzone. Put
on a happyface l/ Spike at the asylum
or do it, dona nobis pacem.
Raspberry suicide notables,
gooseberry suicide notables,
for whom quiet
chap fallen finds his pizzazzphalt.

Fast brakes of champions prefer their egos sunnysideup,
but my last basket, she left w/ the very 1st *******.
Tell my mother it wasn't suicide: 'oops!'
Ego squeals creanced to a limping quacker,
human Kohoutek who fuzzily thuds
into circus teacup of Wensum, pate de parkour.
From a phrontistery
for emo dodos, sneerical bartizan,
I'll vertically powerflounce, pronk like Zebedee Zyban
at the speed of gary t'wards bananaskindeep peaceofmind
over precipice of all the cabinwalls I've feverishly climbed.

Tell my mum it wasn't suicide,
I was Brodie Fayed.
& that the Deep State was behind my head-
er off the Iron Bridge or some local highledge
(all the birdies flyed
from a beachy hedge).
had a nightmare I could fly.
The peace that passes all understanding
is not a soft landing.
Gravity, be
my supercomputer of mahasamadhi.
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
There were disappointed faces
on the students in the quad
The professor’s classes cancelled-
illness  had struck their mortal god.
A literary lion, A scholar
world renowned.
Pneumonia, favoring old men,
was the disease that took him down.
The Professor got the best of care
and had a private room.
His favorites brought him roses
to brighten up the gloom.
He was in an out of consciousness,
oblivious to fading blooms.

His true friends
were dead poets
and he imagined them about:
Blake, with his wild head of hair;
Bill Shakespeare’s pate without,
Byron, dripping from the Hellespont,
and Dylan Thomas chugging  stout.
His breath was shallow, rasping
His heart would skip a beat
His mind would wander mercifully
back to when the past  was sweet.
He recalled playing the Wolf
with a beauty named Naomi.
Had she ever thought him handsome?
Had he come across as phony?
The monitor went flat line then
They would save him, never fear.
Naomi's accusations were still
ringing in his ears.
This is a fantasy piece about an aging College professor, a female student whose life he touched, and serious bout of illness.     It is not based on fact and no living professors were harmed in the making of the poem. It is more of a " what if" type of poem.
Sam Ciel Nov 2015
Two brown stars alight with fire fill my heart
with wanderlust. I'm aching to explore
the cosmos she creates within her art,
Galaxies expanding evermore.

Autumnal tones reside upon her pate
And winter's temperance somewhere in her gaze
With summer's passion lurking in her gait,
Spring's abundance in her creative ways.

The seasons below join the stars above:
A marriage of both mortal and divine.
Exploring and chronicling new love
Amidst these cartographic words of mine.

And if, by grace, my journey isn't  bare
The borders of my heart shan't keep her there.
The expression head over heels doesn't quite do it. Odds are she won't find this and if she does, well, she already knows I'm a romantic.

— The End —