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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
Edward Laine Sep 2011
The old green door creaked when it opened. The same way it always did. The same old pitiful, sad sound it had made for years.
Sad because, like the rest of Jimmy's Bar it wouldn't be broken the way it was if someone would only take the time to fix it, in this case to grease the hinges, and then maybe the joint wouldn't be such a dive.
But that was the way it was, and the old green door pretty much summed up the whole place before you had even stepped in.

It was an everyday scene, this dreary November afternoon like any other: the glasses from the night(or nights) before were still stacked up on the far end of the bar, waiting to be washed, or just used again. The regulars, as they were known really didn't care if they were drinking out of a ***** glass or having a shot or a short out of a pint glass or beer or a stout or a bitter or an ale or a cider or even a water or milk(to wash down or soak up the days drinking) out of the same old ***** glass they had been drinking out of all week long.
Anyway, when the door creaked this time, it was old Tom Ashley that made it creak.
He shuffled in like the broken down bindle-stiff he was. Yawning like a lion and rubbing his unwashed hands on his four day beard. His grey hair as bed-headed and dishevelled as ever.  He was wearing the same crinkled-up blazer he always wore, tailor made some time in his youth but now in his advancing years was ill-fitting and torn at the shoulder, but still he wore a white flower in the lapel, and it didn't much matter that he had picked it from the side of the road, it helped to mask the smell of his unwashed body and whatever filth he had been stewing in his little down town room above the second hand book store. It wasn't much, but it suited him fine: the rent was cheap, and Chuck, the owner would let him borrow books two at a time, so long as he returned them in week, and he always did. He loved to read, and rumour had it, that a long time ago when he was in his twenties he had written a novel which had sold innumerable copies and made him a very wealthy man. The twist in the tale, went that he had written said novel under a pen name and no soul knew what it was, and when questioned he would neither confirm nor deny ever writing a book at all. It was some great secret, but after time people had ceased asking questions and stopped caring all together on the subject. All that anybody knew for sure was; he did not work and always had money to drink. It was his only great mystery.  T.S Eliot and Thomas Hardy were among his favourite writers. He had a great stack of unread books he had been saving in shoe box on his window sill. He called these his 'raining season'.

But for now, the arrangement with Chuck would suit him just fine.
He dragged his drunkards feet across the floor and over to the bar. All dark wood with four green velour upholstered bar stools, that of course, had seen better days too.
He put his hands flat on the bar, leaned back on his heels and ordered
a double Talisker in his most polite manner. He was a drunk, indeed but 'manners cost nothing'' he had said in the past. Grum, the bartender(his name was Graham, but in the long years of him working in the bar and
all the drunks slurring his name it gradually became Grum)smiled false heartedly, turned his back and whilst pouring old Toms whiskey into a brandy glass looked over his shoulder and said, ''so Mr. Ashley, how's
life treatin' ya'?'' Tom was looking at the floor or the window or the at the back of his eyelids and paid no attention to the barkeep. He was always
a little despondent before his first drink of the day. When Grum placed the drink on the bar he asked the same question again, and Tom, fumbling with his glass, simply murmured a monosyllabic reply that couldn't be understood with his mouth full of that first glug of sweet,
sweet whiskey he had been aching for. Then he looked up at tom with
big his shiney/glazed eyes, ''hey grum,
now that it is a fine whiskey, Robert Lewis Stevenson
used to drink this you know?'' Grum did know, Tom had told him this nearly every day for as long as he had been coming in the place, but
he nodded towards Tom and smiled acceptingly all the same. ''The king of drinks, as I conceive it, Talisker, he said'' Grum mouthed the words along with him,  caustically and half smiled at him again. Tom drained his glass and ordered another one of the same.

A few more drinks, a few hours and a few more drinks again
passed, Tom put them all on his tab like he always did. Grum,
nor the owner of the bar minded, he always paid his tab before
he stumbled home good and drunk and he didn’t cause too
much trouble apart from the odd argument with other customers
or staff but he never used his fists and he always knew when
he was beat In which case he would become very apologetic
and more often than not veer out of the bar back stepping
like a scared dog with his tail between his tattered trousers.
Drinking can make a cowardly man brave but not a smart
man dumb and Tom was indeed a smart man. Regardless
of what others might say. He was very articulate, well read
with a good head (jauntily perched) on his (crooked) shoulders.
By now it was getting late, Tom didn't know what time it was,
or couldn't figure out what time it was by simply looking at
the clock, the bar had one of those backwards clocks, I
don't know if you have ever seen one, the numbers run
anti-clockwise, which may not seem like much of task to
decipher I know, but believe me, if you are as drunk as tom
was by this point you really can not make head nor tails of
them. He knew it was getting late though as it was dark
outside and the  lamp posts were glowing their orange glow
through the window and the crack in the door. It was around
ten o’clock now and Tom had moved on to wine, he would
order a glass of Shiraz and say ''hey Grum, you know Hafez
used to drink this stuff, used to let it sit for forty days to achieve
a greater ''clarity of wine'' he called it, forty days!'' ''Mr Ashley''
said Grum looking up from wiping down the grimy bar and
now growing quite tired of the old man’s presence and what seemed
to be constant theories and facts of the various drinks he
was devouring, ''what are you rabbiting on about now, old
man?'' ''Hafez'' said old Tom ''he was a Persian poet from the
1300's as I recall... really quite good'', ''Well, Tom that is
truly fascinating, I must be sure to look in to him next time
I'm looking for fourteenth century poetry!'' said the barkeep,
mockingly. ''Good, good, be sure that you do'' Tom said,
taking a long ****-eyed slurp of his drink and not noticing
the sarcasm from the worn out bartender. He didn't mean
to poke fun at Tom he was anxious to get home to his wife
who he missed and longed to join, all alone in their warm
marital bed in the room upstairs. But Tom did not understand
this concept, he had never been married but had left a long
line of women behind him, loved and left in the tracks of his
vagabond youth, he had once been a good looking man a
''handsome devil'' confident and charming in all his wit and
literary references to poets of old he had memorised passages from ,Thoreau,Tennyson ,Byron, Frost etc. And more times
than not passed these passages of love and beauty off as
his own for the simple purpose of getting various now wooed
and wanting women up to his room. But now after  many
years of late nights, cigarettes and empty bottles cast aside
had taken their toll on him he spent his nights alone in his
cold single bed drunk and lonely with his only company being
once in a while a sad eyed dead eyed lady of the night, but
only very rarely would he give in to this temptation and it
always left him feeling hollow and more sober than he had
cared to be in many long years.
The bell rang last orders.
He ordered another drink, a Gin this time and as he took
the first sip, pleasingly, Grum stared at him with great open
eyes and his hand resting on his chin to animate how he
was waiting for the old man to state some worthless fact
about his new drink but the old man just sat there swaying
gently looking very glazed and just when the barkeep was
just about to blurt out his astonishment that Tom had noting
to say, old Tom Ashley, old drunk Tom took a deep breath
with his mouth wide, leaned back on his stool and said...
''hey, you know who used to drink gin? F. Scott Fitzgerald''
''really?'' said the barkeep snidely ''Oh yes'' said Tom
''The funny thing is Hemingway and all those old gents
used to tease Fitzgerald about his low tolerance, a real
light weight! He paused and took a sip ''but err, yes
he did like the odd glass of gin'' he said, mumbling
into the bottom of his glass.
Now, reaching the end of the night, the bartender
yawning, rubbing his eyes and the old man with
close to sixty pounds on his tab, sprawled across the
bar, spinning the last drop of his drink on the glasses
edge and seeming quite mesmerised by it and all its
holy splendour, he stopped and sat up right like a shot,
and looking quite sober now he shouted ''Grum,
Graham, hey, come here!'' the sleepy bartender was
sitting on a chair with his feet up on the bar, half asleep,
''Hey Graham, come here'' ''eh-ugh, what? What do you
want?'' said the barkeep sounding bemused and
befuddled
in his waking state, ''just come over here will you,
please''
the barkeep rolled off his chair sluggishly and slid
his feet across the floor towards the old man ''what is
it?'' he said scratching his head with his eyes still half
closed. The old man drowned what was left of his
drink and said ''I think I've had an epiphany, well err
well, more of a theory really w-well..'' he was stuttering
. ''oh yeah? And what would that be, Mr Ashley?'' said
the bartender, folding his arms in anticipation. ''pour
me another whiskey and I'll tell you''
''one mor... you must be kidding me, get the hell
out of here you old drunk we're closed!'' the old man
put his hands together as if in prayer and said in his
most sincere voice, '' oh please, Grum, just one more
for the road, I'll tell you my theory and then I'll be on
my way, OK?'' ''FINE, fine'' said Grum ''ONE more and
then you're GONE'' he walked over to the other side
of the bar poured a whiskey and another for himself.
''OK, here’s your drink old man, and I don't wanna
hear another of your ******* facts about writers
or poets or whoever OK?'' Tom snatched the drink of
the bar, ''OK, OK, I promise!'' he said. Tom took a slow
slurp at his drink and relaxed back in his seat and
sat quite, looking calm again.
The bartender sat staring at him, expecting the old
man to say something but he didn’t, he just sat there
on his stool, sipping his whiskey, Grum leaned forward
on the bar and with his nose nearly touching the old
mans, said ''SO? Out with it, what was this ****
theory I just HAD to hear?'' ''AH'' said the old man,
waving his index finger in the air, he looked down
into his breast pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes,
calmly took two out, handed one to the barkeep,
struck a match from his ***** finger nail, lit his own
the proceeded to light the barkeeps too.
Taking a long draw and now speaking with the blue
smoke pouring out his mouth said '' let me ask you a question''
... he paused, …  ''would agree that everybody
makes mistakes?'' the barkeep looked puzzled as to
where this was going but nodded and grunted a
''uh-hum'' ''well'' said the old man would you also
agree that everybody also learns... and continues
learning from their mistakes?'' again looking puzzled
but this time more  intrigued grunted the same ''uh-hum'' noise,
though this time a little more drawn out and
higher pitched and said ''where exactly are you going
with this?'' curiously.
''well..'' let me explain fully said Tom. He took another
pull on his cigarette and a sip on his drink, ''right,
my theory is: everybody keeps making mistakes, as
you agreed, this meaning that the whole world keeps
making mistakes too, and so the world keeps learning
from is mistakes, as you also agreed, with me so far?''
the barkeep nodded ''right'' Tom continued ''the world
keeps makiing and learning from its mistakes, my
theory is that one day, the world will have made so
many mistakes and learned from them all, so many
that there are no more mistakes to make, right? And
thus, with no mistakes left to learn from the word will
be all knowing and thus... PERFECT! Am I right? The
barkeep, now looking quite in awe and staring at his
cigarette smoke in the orange street light coming t
hrough the window, raised his glass and said quite
excitedly ''and when the world is then a perfect place
Jesus will return! Right?'' ''well Graham...'' said the old
man doubtingly ''I am in no way a religious man, but I
guess if that’s your thing then yes I guess you could be
right, yes''
He then drowned the rest of his whiskey in one giant
gulp, stubbed out his cigarette in the empty glass
and said ''now, I really must get going ,it really is getting quite
late'' and begun to walk towards the door. The
bartender hurried around the bar and grabbed Tom
by the arm,
'' you cant just leave now! We need to discuss this!
Please stay, we'll have another drink, on the house!''
''Now, now,Graham'' said the old man, ''we can discuss
this another night, I really must get to bed now'' he
walked over to the door, and just as his hand touched
the handle the barkeep stopped him again and said
quite hurriedly,'' but I need answers, how will I know
everything is going to be alight? You know PERFECT,
just like you said!'' the old man opened the door
slightly, turned around coolly and said ''now, don’t
worry yourself, I’m sure everything will turn out fine
and we’ll talk about it more tomorrow, OK?'' the
barkeep nodded acceptingly and held the door open
for the
old man, ''sure sure, OK'' he said ''tomorrow it is,
Mr Ashley''
Just as Tom was walking out the door he stopped
looked at the   barkeep with large grin on his face
and said very fast, as fast as he could ''you-know-an-interesting
-fact-about-whiskey-it-was -Dylan-Thomas'
-favourite-drink-in-fact-his-last-words-were -"I've-had-18
-straight-whiskeys......I-think-that's-the-record."­!! HAHA '' he
laughed almost uncontrollably. Graham the barkeep looked
at him with a smile of new found admiration and began to
close the door on him.
Just as the door was nearly shut, the old man stopped
once
more, pulled out a roll of money, looked in to the
bartenders
eyes and put the money into his shirt pocket, then putting
his left hand on the bartenders shoulder said ''oh and
Grum, one of those great ol' women I let get away, once told ,me:
''if you are looking at the moon then,everything is alight'' and slapped
him lightly on the cheek.
. Then finally, pointing at the barkeeps shirt pocket said ''
for the bar tab'' then went spinning out the door way with
the grace of a ballroom dancer(rather than the old drunk
he had the reputation for being) and standing in the
orange glow of the street and seeing the look of sheer
wonderment on the bartenders face still standing in the
old green door way and shouted ''LOOK UP, THE MOON,
THE MOON!'' The barkeep, shaking his head and laughing,
peered his head out of the door and took a glance at the
moon and grinned widely then closed the old green door
for the night. It made the same old loud creak when he shut it.

                                       FIN
David Nelson Oct 2011
Don't Worry Nell

I sometimes get confused and I'm not real bright
but my heart is of gold and I'll do what is right
chasing down bandits and doers of evil
like Snidely Whiplash but not Evel Knievel
I ride thru the country on my gallant steed
searching for damsels who are in need
I don't know why but it seems somewhat bleak
some of these ladies get captured each week
like my girl who I love her name is Nell
sweethearts since grade school out in the dell
her daddy is my boss he's the chief inspector
and it is my duty my charge to protect her
but in every episode of our little cartoon
she gets captured by that honry baboon
Snidely Whiplash trying to cast his spell
I'll save you again don't worry Nell
  
Dudley Do-Right aka Gomer LePoet ....
Dana Colgan Jan 2016
Sickness listens to us sigh.
Sniggering snidely as we die.
Seeking our soul as we comply.

But still I live
And yet I am not alive.
WhyamIaSpoon Nov 2012
flesh smirks cautiously
silent beehives squelching elk
leaps glumly, mules snarl

bluebird builds, rigid
foundlings disappear lamely
incarnations peck

raw conjurers acts
devious shady agile
rosemary boasts, stare

starflower hovers
depression gives birth snidely
harps romping mustang
Marshal Gebbie Jan 2011
She arrives in high stilletto’s
And a miniskirt so taught
That the boys are all distracted
And our job becomes a rort,
And the office girls get ******
And production spirals down
So then our new Middle Manager
Rolls up her sleeves and goes to town....

She sticks her oar in frequently
And stands with jutted hip,
She’s territorial dynamite
And serves us gloating lip.
She often curries favour
With Department Heads and such
And makes a fuss at our expense
Which irritates so much!

She has a way to circumvent
The types she will not face,
In using her authority
To snidely put them in their place.
Her manner is too sharp
And too dismissive for my taste
And the condescending smile
Has me grinding teeth to paste.

And the way she stands and taps her toe
And glares beneath her brows
Has the office juniors panicking
And avoiding, as allows.
There’s an issue over paper
And the telephone account
And the petty cash, though balanced,
Is a questionable amount.

Historically our working week
Has employed a give and take
With an easy flexibility
That allows us all a break,
But the new Middle Manager
Has reversed the mode of work
So that everyone competes
And the roster’s gone beserk!

Her manner’s often strident
With a whiplash to her voice
And the snarl of her vindictiveness
Leaves us all with little choice
But to bend our backs to labour,
Work our fingers to the bone
And suffer her till knock off
Then, thank God, we’re fleeing home!

There’s a memo in the “In box”
Rumour has it, from on high,
That due to overdue restructuring,
That some redundancies are nigh.
And though there’s great reluctance
And some measure of regret...
It seems our new Middle Manager
Has got her notice...Sorry Pet!


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 January 2011
Jennifer Weiss Dec 2014
Why do we ignore all these spoken words?

We've had
poets,
rappers,
artists,
and actors
tell us as
it were.


Now I, myself, have spit one or two verse
and I need to let you know
  
I will be heard.*

You call for a social media blackout and
there they sit thinking, " How absurd!"

But when it comes down to it
what do you do when there is
no reaction* to your tear-filled  words?

Is it because we have adapted to being so passive,
when there's ****, murders, lynchings, and theft
we just take it in passing?

Or is it because we can look the other way,
when the hands of a white man
take the life of a different ethnicity away?

Is it in relation to power?
We close our eyes
and pray.

But where is the action
for justice in this final hour?

What is it that you do to help this land?
Other than observe and comment snidely
on your fellow man?

It is no tragedy for a loss of life?
While you ponder your "newsfeed"
via social media
via your Iphone
via your wifi
....
Consider the point when you lost touch with real life.
PUT DOWN YOUR CELL PHONES.
JOIN HANDS.
COMBINE FORCES, WE ARE THE ONES WITH POWER.
let us use our love for one another.
let us try and save each other.
PLEASE.
C J Baxter Jul 2015
They dance tae boots n' cats
like ants being crushed by boots:
Squirming, wriggling, writhing
wae jaws scraping the flare.  
They scurry like wee rats
under the ground in cahoots:
snidely sneaking, snitching
under the boots n' cats they blare.

"Boots n cats urr booming doon yer ears.
 Boots n cats huv been oan repeat fur years.
 Boots n cats will perforate yer ears.
 Boots n cats huv been oan repeat fur years"

But then sumday changed the beat:
         It Came in oan the and.

And everyone forgot how tae dance.
Nathan Squiers Mar 2014
You chided and misguided--
Sighed and chided snidely--
While I stood there and deified:
Your opinion was once so sanctified
That it petrified and putrefied
'Til I was drawn to suicide.
And I won't lie,
I doubt that you'd have even cried.

Now this patricide's not emblemized;
Not glorified nor a source of pride.
It's just that I've been rectified;
I'm satisfied and verified.
You see, old man, your claims have been denied.
I stride beside a stronger pride,
We're unified, not terrified,
And, were you here, I'd just...

Laugh.

Sure,
We simplify and vilify,
All that we fear, but I--
I can't bring myself to cry;
I'll no longer will myself to die--
Because, in the end I'm just too high
To even look you in the eye.

I've modified and purified.
And, while you're compelled
to sit and hide,
I'm glorified--self deified--
And your podium's is now occupied
By the one who you once toxified.

And NONE of it's been for you.
No, old man, it's not for you!
Needless to say, my father and I aren't on the best of terms. Jotted this rap-style piece a while back as a means of creating some closure and satisfaction.
Heike Borgard Jun 2014
***** the wil-'o-the-wisp sadly sat at home
for he was young and much too small
to roam the swamp alone

He wanted to be an elusive light
mysterious, misguiding and haunting the night.
„Oh swamp“ he whined „it all goes so slow
I don't want to stay home – please help me to grow!“

„Shut up, little ones, enough of that weeping“
bubbled the swamp and then started sleeping
„Oh not again“ the old tree moaned  as ***** burst out in tears
and raised his branches left and right
to cover up his ears.

Meanwhile a burglar with Police had a battle
with a big bag of loot he had to skedaddle
into the swamp  and lost the way.

He watched out for a guiding light
but all he found was crying *****
(wil-o'-the whisping really not bright)

„What's that?“ the burglar snidely asked
„a lousy glooming firefly?
can't even light my cigarette
get out of my way  little bug“
and  proceeded to pass by.

This now was too much for *****'s pride
(teenagers often  freak out)
He drew himself to his fullest height
and he shouted loud:
„listen you mean and human thing – I am no dim-lit light!
Beware of the rage of an wil-o'-the wisp!“
and then he run completely wild

„Hear what I will bring to you
first death then pain and sorrow
I'll **** you first then chase you down
for you there's no more tomorrow
I'll lead you into deepest swamp to a puddle of mud
and when you start to drown in it – I'll watch you in cold blood“

(if we were picky in logic and order we surely now have to complain
but let's close an eye for he is still very young – back to the story again)

Inspite all efforts and *****'s threats
the burglar did not catch a word
(wil-o'-the-wisping as language is not very common
and therefore not often heard)

Let's say (to help our ***** a bit)
the burglar was slightly confused
so nothing much happend
until the swamp woke up
and swamp was not amused

„Who dared to disturbe my holy sleep?“
he blubbered with utmost grim
*****'s finger pointed out to the burglar then
and he sheepishly squeaked „that was him!“

Swamp did not hesitate too long
burglar sank into swamp to a place deep and stealthy
(for medical reasons we have to admit  
this can't be considered as healthy)

In the next days ***** did not no more complain
to spend some more time at home
as he learned one thing this very day:
there are many ways that lead to Rome.

(©Heike Borgard 2014)
humor smile  Wil-o'-the-wisp swamp burglar
Denel Kessler Jan 2017
Evelina’s fence of lichened cedar
slouches at the wetland border
her willows wildly weep
on silken cattail shoulders
the neighbors say she’s crazy
snidely call her Javelina
she's sane as any one of them
this brilliant winter morning

Evelina speaks of weather and dogs
hers, a Chihuahua named Fawn
mine, a Frenchie named Sparky
the weather, typically Northwest
in parting, sculpted driftwood
spiraling tornadic rings gifted
between palms roughly
worn by time and sea

Evelina’s yard is thick with trees
the neighbors want cut down
for now, she’s doing all she can
just holding swampy ground
each morning wakes triumphant
to beachcomb on the shore
pockets weighed with treasure
this moment, nothing more
Joseph Valle Aug 2013
The walls drip yellow.
My teacup is ridden
with thoughts driven
from buzzing and Queens.
They claim glory.

A skyscraper tastier
than dew from street sewer
with gray, AM haze
as people jut sides
to climb, slip snidely
atop, cut voices in lies,
rushed by without flicker,
a thought for
ever-blackened drop
of dark roasted, cig-toasted
coffee drowned by a cup.

So, taste it now,
your lips of grounds
in café chair
on dirtied walk
is unaware
of rays in sky
and earth below
and earth below
the pounding thump
that make World go.

Grabbed honey-stuck tips
from a table of glass
and sweet, sutured lips
from ignorance.
David Nelson Oct 2011
Dastardly Deeds

I love doing dastardly deeds
capturing damsels creating distress
tying them to the railroad tracks
while sneaking a peek up there dress
I'm evil and cruel and just so **** mean
I love making them cry and scream
holding them for ransom my ill gotten gains
while having my tea with strawberries and cream
if only I can hide them from the annoying mountie
who is always saving them and spoiling my bounty
yes Dudley Do Right he is my curse of foil
I'd like him feathered and rolled in oil
many things please me like baubles and beads
but nothing quite like dastardly deeds
  
Snidely Whiplash aka Gomer LePoet....
Jo Fo Jul 2013
Do you know me?
"But of course! Where are my manners? I am what you make of yourself. I am what your greatest lusts under silver sheets. I am the Boogey Man. Simply put: I am desire."
I thought you would be more...
"Evil looking? Would you have me look like Snidely Whiplash with devil horns?"
But why are you here? I live a good life. My wife and children adore me, I am doing well at my job and my golf handicap s almost as good as the Pros!
"You want something! You always want something!"
(So I found out)
"Now was that so bad?"
No comment
Paul M Chafer Jul 2014
Hmm, Christmas season has gone, good:
Presents shoved in drawers, some used, some abused,
Some never to see the light of day, until thrown away,
Others worn with delight, played with, till dawn’s first light,
We never even saw church, or thought of god, any god.
Why should we? Religious? Nah, not us, Darwin rules,
We had science in schools, we mocked the fools,
Who even imagined an all seeing deity, with awe,
Punishing and rewarding, everything he saw,
But we ate our fill, partied with skill, just avoided,
The need to ****, especially to ****, so messy,
Never allowing our own family blood to spill,
The clean up is swallowing, such a bitter pill.

Hmm, Easter approaches, we do it all again,
Stretching our family, what an awful strain,
Pretending we like, adore, the snidely sneers,
We just ignore, avoiding the drunk, such a bore,
While those of us, who are close, watch the chaos,
Feel the undertows of love streaming among us,
Binding the salient parts, making a family work,
For the kids, you see, a duty we, must never shirk,
Our only legacy, from the lives we have built,
Making us continue, regardless of the guilt,
Emotional alloys in alcohol flux, so easily spilt,
Another religious festival, who gives a toss?
A land of empty churches, not such a loss.

Hmm, Whitsun lies beyond Easter: what?
What is, Pentecostal; exactly? More rot?
Fifty days, oh yeah, makes sense, sure,
Makes nonsense, have faith, no defence,
We don’t care: get it! Got it? Well good!
No nailed-god; for heathens like us; we hijack,
As Christianity hijacked our paganism, yes!
Copied and pasted their festivals over others,
Took our sacred places, chanted in dulcet tones,
Where we gathered, running naked around stones,
Leaping cleansing fires, bumping ugly bones,
How’d you like that, preacher folk; in shock?
Burn in your created Hell; let heathen Earth rock.

© Paul M Chafer 2014
Written for one of my favourite poets on here, he knows who he is.
Saddam Husen Dec 2014
AN EVENING


At the time of evening
She was at opposite roof of him
And he was other side of road
Eyes were on each other
They were smiling for no reason.

Aware with the others, yet…
Hearts blooms when he sends flying kiss
She catches it
Cover her face with same hand.

When mislead wind play with her hair
That time her DUPATTA hovering
Making trouble
She tries it to hold properly
He smirked on her blend behavior
Girl snidely got angry
Stumpy turn around
Then he caught his ear with queer face
And she burst into laugh.


©copiright
SAddAM HuSeN
2014
Daviaso Sep 2018
An angel and a dog sat on a ridge.

Sun set before them;
Cloud stretched from earth to heavens;
Wind came up behind them;
And tousled their fur and feathers.

Said angel to dog,
"You lucky creature of earth.
You never made a choice,
Never had to doubt,
Never bore the burden
Of knowing what life's about."

Replied dog to angel,
"You lucky creature of heaven.
You got to make a choice,
Got to help a man,
Got to soothe his pain
As I but wish I can."

Said once more the angel,
"Of words of thanks
I have been deprived;
Yet you are scratched
And given rawhide."

Replied again the dog,
"Those same hands of man,
That pet and pacify,
My brothers sadly learned
They can beat and vilify."

Shouted angel at dog,
"Consider yourself lucky,
That body is all they mar;
You cannot even fathom
Torturous souls lost to dark."

Evenly dog to angel,
"Am I not of creation?
Am I not creation speaking?
I suffer the blood of my grandfathers,
And of my grandsons.
I know naught else,
But this I know completely."

Snidely angel in retort,
"I see suffering of thousands6—
All the world to lament;
Your grandfather and your son
Are not even a percent."

Somber the dog,
"And you are not an angel,
That is most evident.
Of your choice you live now,
As you died then.
Please leave me now this view,
And my destiny to man's kin."

The angel dropped to the raging sea below,
And flopped in the snow;
In rage he threw the hailstone back,
And before the tempest flew.

The dog sat a while longer,
And admired the peaceful scene;
Till a call came from the woods,
And he sped back with glee.
Not fantastic, but original.  Having just read Grendel, thoughts about placement in the heavens spring into my mind.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2023
Pushing back occlusions,
opening the shame shed,
I said, If I could, I would, love my enemy...
Our... inspiring wedom myth or mystery
bring your least worthy self, knowing
only we
prayers, never having heard me prayers,
save from dying folks on telly,
pray…
------------- times and time, and a half a time
memorial days to come,
during some poor soul's error,
finding I am as alive as ever was,
thinking we imagine life without us
is as if no life were, but we know better.

Ersatz Earth and Star maps from Griffith Park.

Life with no beat, buzzing, humming cicada rate
when do we assume the mind frame, cicada rate

cycles subterranean, staggered emersions, cosmic
clocks synchronized, some when, once, aha, we all,

us cicada, concentrations, thinking we don't have
cicadas where I live, so my ears are in a realm older,

if, in fact, fiction is not an art, fitting future hope
where now, hate and envy and incredulity hold hostage

truths we never speak of in church.

One way I have told the greatest story ever told,
the story bound within the covers on the book of life.

Lo', a bystander waves, signaling all clear. Tabula rosa.

Right on, some where, higher on the pain share meter,
O, Danny Shapiro, the pain, the pain, a toothache in 1873.

As the conditions were, but for a rural farm project 'lectric,
one light bulb, one refrigerator, one resistance coil burner.

A rather Spartan lifestyle, as reported,
in the Washington Star, the Moonies Newspaper,
sa sa lederlin sa, we lost our way in 1983, woke here, as
ware
with python variables accessible by original Hypercard scripts.

Imitating Life, the entirety of living things, non-infinite things,
ones,
onces upon times,
not this one, then those days,

solitude, subtlest fortitude, iron cage, bricked in,
put away in penance in some hyper holy cult of killers.

Here he comes, to save the day!
That means that Mighty Mouse, is on the way!

Who financed Snidely Whiplash?
Who floated Wiley Coyote's single satisfaction source
of never ending creative means to fail, for a laugh,

Slap stuck without the embarassment you see in comics,
assment so wise it feels too cheap, freedominion wedoming.

Give me the children, for three hours each Saturday,
I'll give you certified boomer level consumers, trust me.

Three Musketeers was big enough for you and two chosen.
Who is it who gets it,
the girls, boo, old advertising boom repercussing, whamo!

No fee poetic licentiousness' eh? Free for the reader's attention

in the realm of musing minds joining when winds tighten
to force a flush from the wetlands to feed the fish,
who feed the people who feel better thin than fat.
This is a real effort to not demean the art involved in giving verse free forms.
It never works until some time is spent to read this far...
Terry Jordan Jan 2017
You pillage our planet for profit
While Fake Fox News snidely jokes
An Inconvenient Truth is made-up
Calling the science a hoax

Climate-denying allies in congress
Big Oil’s purchase-every one
Selling our children’s future for profit
No turning back once it’s done

Rip the last drop of oil from our Mother
Privatise all our Public Lands
Open all wild places to destruction
Blood money into so few hands

Deny all the earthquakes and forest fires
Damage from your chemical fracking
That secret formula legislated
Without a majority’s backing

For those who work to safeguard our planet
I support the Standing Rock Sioux
So many assaults our outrage must save
Bristol Bay-stop Pebble Mine, too
This feels like a work in progress, expressing my environmental worries.
That dormant feeling of insecurity arose,
when travel journal got ****** adjacent
     to my tattered (holey tattooed) clothes
while I knew with crossed eyes

     aroused anger from peaceful doze
my younger sister felt about her
     globe trotting exploits, an over expose
jour ever since voyaging out on her own

     after graduating top of her class
     where mine hatred glows
indirectly snidely sneering
     at ma dough less brother hoboes

(a 1979 Methacton High School alumni),
     unanimously chosen valedictorian
     dressed in Calvin Klein
     Harris tweed, couture

     and silk ***** hose
like me prolonging, promoting
     on par with quasi staff sergeant, who knows
artful disciplinarian gingerly launching
     Cider House rules,

     asper formerly commanding G.I. Joes
     and pronouncing, predilection
     exhaling natural highs no lows
traveling solo, with surviving Wilburys,

     or just mows
zing nonchalantly
     (though a foreigner) with swarthy skin color
     easily camouflaging as civilian
     all points on the compass,

     where minute needle doth nose
upon returning home (being honorably feted
     at once glorious estate of Glen Elm,
     where she did propose

to the Lord Taylor (swiftly), which location
     situated at 324 Level Road, Collegeville,
     Pennsylvania 19426),
     thence a great huzzah a rose

an immediate nauseousness welled
     within from me head tummy smelly toes
I did not want to here, or see any details,
     which would accentuate personal woes

popping, snapping, and smarting,
     and slapping skin raw tib bits,
     ache'n to yanked strings
     of mama's heirloom yo-yos!

Poet Script:

trials and tribulations,
     visited upon head of young
concocted ("FAKE") gusty and gutsy
     kid sister enterprising ingenue,

     christened easy on the tongue
Sharodd (not her real name),
     to top off talents sung
like a professional opera singer, which rung

a shiver along small hairs of spine did tingle
heard all the way to Lake Woebegone
where bachelor farmers did mingle

every Christmas, a decreasing
     number donned Kris Kringle
hit with blitzkrieg of yawping brats
     hoof pranced to bell weather jingle!
Jemma May 2016
A river flowed from the most inner depths of my soul
Tainted scars fixated themselves onto my already blemished face
The improbable transpired as my once wholesome heart sat on the floor aloof due to the fact that the one being that once breathed oxygen into my lungs now nefariously tore at my skin with his nails that were stained from the fluorescent blood that slowly escaped my debilitated body. He snidely smirked at his destruction

Before taking my final breath, screams escaped from my torn lips as I recounted the years of agony he bestowed on me
Then my motionless body was comforted by the fact that the suffering had finally ceased...
Jermon Jun 2018
You and I know very well, my ludicrous front yard
Maybe that's why you always are very very ******
Plus maybe it's also the fact that I am your best friend
That made your old fashioned brain go for a new trend
I know that whatever this is is making you go mad
Not the ballistic kind, just the craziness, makes us very glad
That on that golden day we met
And talked about things we haven't yet
Fully analysed, examined, evaluated
Or interpreted, investigated and completed
I know this thing sounds total *******
Utter gibberish and kinda tubbish
But it's from a real friend
You'll just have to comprehend
That there is something behind this script
That says that that superfluous uncalled for rift
Need not have happened, for it broke a chain
The result being a destructive reign
Of fate, of hope, of never ending loss
Begone, reborn, an off the cliff toss
And don't be angered, oh pretty please
That I've given this hamper, all in threes
And just say, 'Oh and thank you kindly,
But next time, please, don't do it snidely
                - Rizna M. Rameez (12 yrs)
                         June 2015
June 2015 - One of my first poems, a good bye poem to my BFFs. Which, by the way, I haven't given to them yet because I haven't seen them afterwards.
Michelle M Dec 2017
Dad
My last memory of you,
is watching you walk through a crowd,
not realizing who you were,

Having lost you momentarily,
thinking snidely,
as I watched you,
bogart your way through the herd,
"Why is this old man in such a hurry?"

Then I recognized the hat,
That shaggy hair,
once spun cornsilk,
now grayer than I'd realized.

The trousers,
baggy on your thin frame,
less than thin,
gaunt.

I couldn't shake,
The way your skin hung,
like parchment on jagged bone.

Frail...
The word ricocheted in my mind,
like a rogue pinball...

You had been under the weather.
Dimly,
I understood that.

There had been a battery,
of tests.
A barrage of them,

But for every differential diagnosis,
came a negative finding.
There was and all clear,
nothing to see here,
kind of trend.

Of course it was so.
You were indestructible,
A legend,
A mythical being,

A titanium Phoenix,
rising ever from the ash,
leaving steely slide guitar riffs,
and cold fire in your wake.

I never saw you again after that day,
my birthday.
The next week,
I forgot to call.
Father's Day.

Not because I hadn't thought of it,
The time just always gets past me.
It haunts me still.

We made plans later,
I would make it up to you.
Grilled steaks on the rooftop deck.

You were even on your way,
to reconciling with Dave,
making amends at long last.
The ship was righting itself.

I slept soundly that night.
Groggilly ignored my phone,
in the morning,
But it just kept ringing.

Reaching in the early light,
clumsily,
to check the time,
I thought,

"There had better be something wrong..."
Ilene Bauer Oct 2018
Plan on online purchase?
Well, just click on the reviews.
It helps to hear what people say –
What have you got to lose?

Your mind, perhaps, for you’ll find out
Opinions vary widely,
From those described most glowingly
To others penned most snidely.

The bar graph gives percentages
Of how the ratings fare
So follow the conclusions
Or reject them, if you dare.

For everyone’s impressions
Will be different and distinct
And those who thus ignore them
Will be very soon extinct.
Ken Pepiton Jul 2020
Watch this, a wish
I wished that barking squirrel would shush,

not cease to exist,
but
it did, so far as you may be concerned.
The silence is seeping into all
around me,
far away, I hear machines, mechanisms,

witty inventions formed from fine points
once made,
proven,

for the edge to be honed its honest best
sharpest test is
splitting hairs,
as seen on Mighty Mouse, done by Snidely Whiplash,

who lives on in in spirit in Uni-Kitty's Nemesis, to this very day.
enjoying the quiet after losing a boistrous UNO game with Dominic and Delany Pepiton, two of the seven most uncommon grandchildren in their generation.
Not by choice this average
     bonehead configured Earthlinked
     went kicking, and screaming
     into refuse bin
naturally (no questions asked,
     nor guffaws uttered) with chin
clamped tight, since the missus
     (by some rare, min

ness school, one in a
     bajillion chancy pin
in a haystack fluke
     of circumstance) sin
gull handed dropped,
     the entire set of keys (YES) vin
**** heave lee into
     the morbid, horrid

     and fetid weeks old
     garbage filled dumpster,
     this an absolute zero - no win
ning situation, roundly pitched
     against a cosmic malicious yin
hmm..., a hunch shot
     thru my mind, that she,
whose first name simply Abby

blithely, casually,
     and deliberately tossed
     the only set of keys free
lee (for sole access
     to our apartment, plus
     the singular way to start our car,
     a 2009 Hyundai Sonata

     as if that makes sum difference),
     and with her sinister glee
fully, excitedly, and coquettish lee,
plus maniacally, preternaturally,
     and snidely wanted me
to sink deep into the
     junk yard rabid dog gone,
     maggot and rat

     infested stinking pit pre
venting no more violent
     fisticuff altercations getting re
tally lit tory revenge e'er since
     (I readily, stoically,
     and tacitly admit),
     this blowhard good
     for nothing husband drunken deal

O meg odd, Sigma Epsilon
     former frat boy,
     who weathered
     volleyed unspooled evil
epithet laced expletives  
both of us suffering fools dell
lose hen null, asper
      this match made in hell

yourr truly inflicting (measure
     for measure) un intel
ledge gent till hurtful heaping
     glomming pell mell
     more'n a death knell
feline times nine
     lifetimes of misery hard sell
tum ma crony's, a

     worthless corny soul
     shucked aye tell
     each of our base grotesqueness
     equally receiving our
     deserved respective weltanschauung
headstrong shouldering keel well
ling kneecaps, and toes
oven angry papa

     no match for an absurd
albeit, one petsmart mama bird,
twittering cruelly, emasculating    
my manhood, curd
dill ling, and excoriating
     thine ego, gird
ding mine entire being
     with accursed damnation heard,

this side of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
     sans her blistering, unswerving,
     and weltering wicked wrathfulness,
     yawping fiendish zeal,
     she malevolently espoused
     with every scathing word.
topacio Apr 2020
you were brilliant
but it came with a cost

for every 5
lines
i was given
1 insult

you were really good
at the art of
sandwiching
two compliments
in between one insult,

you lathered the treatment
so earnestly
as you whimsically would touch my hair
and bow down to my
choice of shoes
only to, on the way up
snidely remark
about the one hair i had
forgotten to shave on my leg

it is a price you pay
he said as he looked into my eyes
i will give you the highs
but also carry to you the lows

for i am the rollercoaster
you have willingly paid admission for.

— The End —