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Tryst Aug 2014
Rita bustled busily,
To decorate each room
With jack-o'-lanterns, giggling ghouls,
And grinning ghosts with dribbled drools,
And moonlight glimmered spookily
On ghastly painted tombs;

She went to fetch her costume
And hoped it wouldn't itch;
She grabbed a strange and pointed hat,
An odd shaped broom, a stuffed black cat,
And in the mirror of her room
She turned into a witch!

A sudden tap-tap-tapping
Came from her green front door;
She opened it excitedly,
A-wondering who it might be
And then she started clapping
And dancing on the floor!

Her good friend Fox was outside,
He wore a long black cape;
With plastic fangs, he danced about,
But when he sang his fangs fell out!
They laughed so hard, then went inside
And had a slice of cake!
For Joe Cole's "MAGIC" challenge.

Originally inspired by Joe Cole's "Freedom" challenge, the story of Rita continues!
A Mareship Sep 2013
(Give me a London girl every time…)

- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -

(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)

So she got her phone out and

Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,

Fine lines floundering

Like speech marks

Either side of her mouth.

So romantic!

A girl with a face of

Punctuation!

***** pennies,

she said,

Your eyes are

*****

*******

Pennies


She would finger the holes

In my tatterdemalion

Charity coats,

And my shop-bought medals.

She would jab her fingers

Against each point

Of the Burma Star,

Spookily,

As though it were a

Pentagram.

She’s a washboard,

Her ******* are  thumb-tacks

In a cosmetic shade of

Gold,

With a crucifix stamped

Like a dagger glyph

Right between them,

like a silver sneer,

on her precious metal chest.

- I want to take your photo -

I want you in Pippi Longstockings

And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -


I’ll never forgot when she told me

She owned a leopard-skin

Pill-box hat ,

And I said

* “You’d have to be dead

Not to fancy that…”*

I’m not sure how aware she is though,

Of how many people

Tongue- to- the -floor want her.

She plays bored on purpose!

I’ve watched beautiful boys

Go to pieces

Trying to entertain her

With a curly straw.

She’s a real cheekbone feline,

And around her pupils

Rages a ring of jagged orange,

Like a jester’s ruff.

And I think of all this,

Whilst she stands there,

Moving from toe to toe

In her zig-zag heels,

And wooden bracelets,

And her little lycra

Landmine that

Shop assistants sell

To girls like her.

And then she clocks me.

and she doesn’t say a thing -

she just swims smilingly  over

Through a parted gaggle,

Letting me grab her

Like I mean it,

Spanning her waist with my

Hands like

A corset -

And the fairylights

Are  just smudges

Across her sequins,

And her mottled shoulders are

Ten shades

Of mostly white.
Fred McCarthy Nov 2010
He is eating you alive.
Feeding on you so rife.
Still you embrace him.
Still you put up with him.

Love does hurt but you have choices.
It's your brain you should use not your face.
He has got your heart in his spooky tapering hands.
Smiling his face is spookily gaunt.

You're making love to a monster...
You're seducing a hearteater...
Poetic T Jul 2018
Seasons greetings go with a cheer, who will be the
Winner of this nights festive fight club, now here.
Starting with Santa the Easter bunny with his
Whipping ear, Santa starts with a hoho... startling
The bunny as he gives him two to the ear.

No rules in this game we come to see, as the Easter
Bunny drops two eggs, does something smell rotten
In here, eyes watering he can hardly see as the whipping
Ear screeches and straight across fathers tummy.

In pain he shouts I'm so jolly, is this the end of Claus,
No as Santa jumps up higher than the bunny can see,
Landing on Easter knocking him cold with his enormous
Belly, with a hoho.. and I feel jolly,
any one for rabbit I'm starving.

Easters out Christmas is in next round
Let it begin, Halloween enters the ring
Chills down the spine the fights about
To begin. Then explosions around guy
Fawkes jumps in will this end with a bang
Or bewitched the fight is about to begin.

Guy goes for a punch but misses his swing,
Less of a BANG more a wet match fizzle, then
Trying to light his powder a flame needed
But none to be found, Halloween does come
Back skeletons grab through the ground, as
Possessed is Fawkes as he jumps up and down
Madness has taken him whispers say around.

This was a match of two but only one is around,
As guy runs with speed and knocks him self
Out a corner post face print seen all around,
Not the explosive finish we were expecting to
See, then like a ghost Halloween reappears
With a ghoulish laughter the round
                                       Won spookily it seems.
Mark Bell Apr 2017
Fishing on the bank
Of the river side
With my line and bait
An incident happened
A cruel twist of fate
I began to flounder
And promptly fell asleep
This is the quirky bit
I had hooked two sheep
It was quite unusual
This peculiar weird dream
See spookily I had died
And been swept down stream
Fishing by the riverside
With my line and bait
My life was taken,cut short
In a cruel twist of fate.
The will is stronger than the can't.

Life is somewhere between being born and the dreams we all dream.

I dream of Jeannie on the Jubilee line.

Colder this morning or maybe it's me
just dreaming a dream on the Jubilee.

And how quiet it is,
spookily so
where did everyone go?

She's eating a tangerine which
is more green than orange
I'm green with envy.

Misery guts arrives,
he always gets on at
West Ham,
what a sour faced man
but
we all have our crosses
to bear.

I think
today is a long way
today is a hike
today
i should have taken a bus
or a bike.
Arlene Corwin Jan 2020
When I write poetry - anything really, I try to express essences of the fiercest kind in a respectful way.  Online is an especially ‘exposed’ medium.  It’s about being honest and detached at the same time.  A hard thing in the easiest of times. When it’s about someone you especially dislike, hate and ferocity have to be handled artistically up front without the hate or ‘ferocity’ standing out.  I assume my readership is an informed one who can draw their own conclusions.  I’m neither adding to nor taking away feelings that are already there.  Just reinforcing...
     Still awake at 5am last night, (coffee too late in the day, I suspect) this  odd idea came spookily into my head.  Scribbled it down in the dark and worked on it, refining and completing it this evening.

                    Mr Trump

Will you die having denied your whole term through
That climate change is factual?
The floods, heat waves, intensive fires,
Melting Arctic, water higher?
Will you keep detaining children behind wires
Never calling, naming it for what it is:
All in the name of business?

Misogynistic haters of the female role,
What kind of deadly symbol is a Mexican?
A woman doing all she can
To have a life as rich as yours,
Who works for peanuts scrubbing floors?
Mr Trump, she cannot hurt a single soul
Except to help the whole.
Instead, you mine for, mine more coal,
Employment a most unsound goal.
We’re all in danger
And you seem to see yourself as guardian angel
Or some kind of Texas ranger.

Mr Trump, you’re on the throne, you’ve got the crown,
A folk has put your name down.
Have you made the world a safer place?
Stopped the race for rule by force?

You’re tough,
But you’ll pass through this bad world soon enough.
What will you leave that’s not been thieved?
I must say, in some way you are a strange one.
One whose legacy, I pray will be a good one.
When we add it up and deed is done
I see you golfing in the sun,
Monetary interests first.
Do you quite understand this thirst?

Mr Trump, I wish you well.
With hope my native USA is not for sale
Or on its way to concrete hell;
That some transcendent hand has planned
To help this land
To interests that will help us all
Before a global fall’s
Upon us.
Mr Trump 1.3.2020  Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

— The End —