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Said The Raven
To The Raven
Which Raven are you?


I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.


And I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Edgar Allan Poe.


Apparently there's a rave on -
Shall we go?


Yes - let us go then you and I
As the evening is spread out
Against the sky.


But not like a patient
Etherised upon a table.


Let us like Thunderbirds
Not gentle go into this dark night.


So dressed in sable
White gloves
And whistles
They went on their way -
Not looking forward
To conversations about
Michelangelo at all.


For as we all know
Old age should rave and burn
At close of day.
And not just fizzle out.


More big shout...........................................


And rave until you fall.
Both Edgar Allan Poe and Samuel Taylor Coleridge did both write poems called The Raven. The latter's is one of the most dispiriting and disconcerting pieces of vindictive revenge in the English language.T S Eliot and Dylan Thomas did write poems called The Love Song of J Alfred Purfrock and Do Not Gentle Go Into That Good Night respectively and lines from both poems appear here in various guises. If you know niether both would make most anthologies of 20th century poetry.

And honestly white gloves and whistles were common on the rave scene in the early days.
Captain Scarlet
Had a weakness for harlots
Who always wore scarlet as well.

This could sound
The death knell
For the show
Thundered Gerry.

It's so deleterious
I'm deadly serious
Less of the hoes
And more Thunderbirds Are Go.

Captain Scarlet's
Favourite starlet
However
Was no harlot
Even though
she always wore
Scarlet as well
But it was quite difficult to tell
That she was not so
Even if one was very clever.

Unlike Bobby Shafto.
Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
Bobby Shafto
Went to see
Queens Of The Stone Age

Without Me.

With your silver buckles
On your knees -
The Navy's answer to
Dita Von Teese?

And you think it highly likely
That you're gonna marry Kylie
When you next come
Home from sea.

Please.

You are no longer
My Facebook Friend
Bobby down a mineshaft go
Bobby Thunderbirds are go
Bobby HomeAlone on your mobile phone?

You poncy little princess
But I digress.

Have I mentioned
You're no longer my Facebook Friend?

Bobby.
Dobby.
Shafto
India Chilton Jan 2012
I walk down the pier,
All sea-salt dreams and hand-spun darkness
The buildings are bent from the wind
As are the people inside them
But it is voluntary,
So they still appear strong.
A man sits on a corner
Wearing only his clothes and half-moon smile
I think he must have been born
Before the flood took Kwakwaka’s voice
And thunderbirds were more than midnight cries
Of feathered laughter on the Chinook
I think he must know that for which I search
He calls me over to his barnacle throne
And says in a black-bear voice
“If its fish you want,
Be here before the rain
That comes on the heels of daybreak
And buy from the man with the golden tooth,
His fish are good
And his hands honest.”
That night I dream of lighthouses
And the way the stairs wind like a promise
Out of the toss and turn of the night
And the way they hold boats and the men inside them
All those tangled strings
In a fist of yellow light
And the way that light becomes a phoenix
To those who choose to give the land a second chance
Or a third, when the sea proves more fickle a friend
Than the women who have given up hope
Of being more a lover and less a lion
Than the blue-dress lady with a red-dress song.
At daybreak there is a black bear at a fish stand
His arms are laden with bodies like silver coins
I know he does not fish for wealth
Besides that of the wisdom brought
By knowing your home and purpose.
I think he must know that for which I search
He calls me over
And says in an old-man voice,
“If its love you want,
Be here before the sun
That comes on the heels of the breaking tide
And watch the one true glory of the earth
Give birth once again to forgiveness.”
I believed what he said because I could still see
The sunrise reflected in his eyes
Like a prayer.
At dawn there are two figures on the horizon,
Hand in hand,
Brothers maybe,
They jump into the breathing chaos
Of the still-dark waves
And become the fish that beat in their mother’s chest
Become her heart and her blood,
Her veins and
Her children
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
Shooting stars bloom in the womb of infinity,
**** on the wings of the Thunderbirds,
a trail of fairy dust gracing their fiery tracks
as they sear through the gloom of the night skies.
I amble through the folds of the sullen clouds,
collecting the stars
as they wrap me in their cherubic dazzle.
The champagne flourish
of a Pink Diamond Star
flares up in my soul
livening me like the fireflies
that carry me on their blushing wings
as I saunter through the dusky skies
collecting the falling stars
to brighten up my dreary horizon!
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Hopefully if you're unfamiliar with that song google will comply and locate it for you.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXXVI)


Blue skies out West look deeper in a sense
Than Illinois e'er knows, clouds in betrayl
'Non floating laz'ly in such vast seas they'll
Assure ye rare pools know, til I from thence
Half ache to be in those dear prairies hence
As childhood fondly knew, swept to avail
Clean of these houses clustered sans aught bail,
And where the Thunderbirds roar through fr'intents.
I said I'd join the Air Force, but Dad fer
All that said: No.  And that is better too.
Yet oh! the Rocky Mountains!  O those pure,
Unfathomed bluest skies!  What is't that'd woo
Me from their depths?  I feel it 'non bestir
My soul, just watching from afar.  And you?

31Mar19d
Or mebbe I'll record myself singing it one of these days...only the chorus, though--"Colorado, THAT's King Sooper's Way, That's King Sooper's Way...." Is it called Aldi's in the armpit?
Julia Leung Jun 2010
Sylvia speaks to me in tongues
That no one else understands.
And the words she whispers
Collectively poison me.
slowly.

She speaks of love songs
And of thunderbirds that
Do not return,
And I wonder if she was
Speaking about you
and me.

But Sylvia, unlike I, did not
Understand that there
Was more to life
Than diaphragms and
Of forgotten lovers -

she did not have you like I do.
Sylvia Plath - my favorite poet.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
pronunciation? the diacritic over the one o, as in the polish language, is intended to be pronounced as a          u - i.e.: hue hue coo yotl - and i mean it as a furthering into the question - no wonder dyslexia is pervasive in our orientation of the tongue, i mean, come on - hue and Hugh are chiral, but share the same pronunciation!

i know i live in a society that's also a nanny
to the fears of George Orwell -
i know i live in a society where
women wear the trousers and men the nappies,
or at least that's a stereotypical woman
talking about the "stupidity of men";
i'm fine with that - and i'm fine with
the excess surveillance, 9 c.c.t.v. cameras on
a single bus, the many c.c.t.v. cameras in
the supermarket - i get it, i don't
mind this out-in-the-open voyeurism,
because i've been going to the same supermarket
for the past month if not longer,
and they've switched the products i always
bought religiously...
that everyday value whiskey 70cl at £10.30
with that cheap cheap logo of packaging?
gone... replaced by the more eye-pleasing
70cl £10.80 called *scots club
,
and the beer also, it used to be £1.25 bottles
of sant migeul, the offer ended and the price
jumped up to £1.99 -
but then they replaced the choice of beer,
a downtrodden west ham fanatic (football team)
choosing a tasty bitter, a tasty ale
with two packets of crisps prior my revision
of the cooler's shelf -
now they nailed it... Amstel (i always had a fetish
for that beer when they sponsored the
champions league, don't ask me why)...
but today... ha ha... it was stacked on the shelf
so pretty... amigos - tequila flavoured beer
with a hint of lime... dedicated to... as the title
suggests... an ancient Aztec god...
the god of dance, of mischief... auspicious meaning
he was always successful at what he did,
there was no party if huehuecóyotl wasn't there,
a bit like the hindu god shiva -
shame the phonetic encoding of the Aztec people
didn't survive, if it did, like the phonetic encoding
of the greeks via α through to Ω -
still a shame that the poets had so much influence
on demoralising them, not entitling some of them
more than just a mirror, or a lighting bolt,
or the lava lamp of hades of perpetually fluxed remnants
of bodies encapsulated by a stream of souls
readied for reincarnation - no deus 'apiens -
shame it all became a grizzly ghoulish crucifixion
affair - but all i'm saying... take it or leave it,
but i'm sure chris rea says is much better:
you can go your own way -
doesn't matter what the others say -
'cos you can go your own way -
and yes, the fabulous thunderbirds'
                                                  ­               powerful stuff
revised for the cocktail soundtrack sounds, so so
much better than what they originally intended...
got to thank the producer of the revision.
There is no 'Skippy'
no more kangaroo
it was traded as bush meat
so you kids
could eat.

'Flipper got put in cans
sans flippers,
tasted like fresh
kippers,
they tell me.

TV's responsible for
killing our dreams.

but I still see them when I sleep
'Clarence the cross eyed lion'
is there to keep
me company

another safari
one more
'Daktari'

I'm on a different page
'Lady Penelope and
Parker
are all the rage

watching 'Thunderbirds'
seeing Gilligans isle
while Popeye and olive
give me a smile
and I know it's for me


It's on the TV.
JB Claywell Apr 2017
Whether you believe it or not,
my original arms dealer was
a Buddhist.

He armed me to the teeth
with a desire to destroy
the darkness
of my teenage thoughts
by firing bullets
filled with ink
into those wretched silhouettes,
turning them into
poetry.

He sent me,
filled past full
with bluster and
*******,
to the mustiest
den on Felix Street.

But, I couldn’t stay.

I hadn’t quite lived enough;
I’d learned even less
despite being so well
weaponized.

Instead,
I’d find The Black Box,
staying there until
The Paper Moone would
rise above my horizons
and that large sergeant
would offer me more ammo
from the armory.

We fired tracers down those alleys
until the shells were all spent.

We pause now to reload.

The Buddhist’s ordinance
is expended.

Little has changed
despite everything
being different
than it was when we first met.

Now,
the firing range
is nested by
Thunderbirds.

We are well-armed.

*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017
If you want more, click the link:  http://www.lulu.com/shop/jay-claywell/gray-spaces-demolitions-and-other-st-joe-uprisings/paperback/product-23035217.html

Thanks.
JB Claywell Apr 2018
Oh, how I wish
you could see
and hear
what was done.

Today we spoke
of what has become
history, the present
all at once;

of how Thunderbirds
have lined their nest
with feathers of fire,
and decorated nest walls
with leather laces,
strung with beads
bummed from a
Summer-school
Social Studies teacher.

It was the best kind of lesson.
(A history lesson.)

Robert Frost and John Coltrane
were present,
but you were missing,
lost this last year.

However,
you still live
inside of your
Never-forgotten instructions:

“Go down to Felix Street and see a man named Hans. He’ll show you what to do.”

(I did as I was told.)

Neither of us
knew it then,
but what I’d heard was:

…”he’ll show you who you are.”

He did.

And, I still know.

Because of a lesson
well taught.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018
For: C. Kelley, who is missed in the mist.
JB Claywell Feb 2021
Sometimes I wish I had one thousand midnight hours all at once
or better yet,
a wristwatch full of the ticks and tocks of
all of the pre-dawn smallnesses for the next
decade or two.

These could be used to converse
with owls or coyotes,
foxes, hawks, ravens
or
river trout.

Our talks could be remembered
sweetly,
in the heat of a summer day
or
the dreariness of a wet, fall afternoon.

It is wished to not rely
on window sill,
moonlit memory,
mimeographed message
folded in half.  

No;
my boots would rather
chew earth,
pebble,
and
puddle,
seeking out strange nutrients.

Monday morning stanzas
are well and good,
yet
Saturday night
sonnets,
soliloquies;
those are the real
meat and potatoes
of a weekend
word ******.

Thursday night poems
are pretty ******
impressive too.

The Thunderbirds,
the phoenix of
the composition notebook.
Thursday poems and poets
ask for a sidecar of whiskey…
it shows up on the house.

Words and the working of them
should be fearless, eventually.

The best stories,
poems,
come from shadowed,
pained,
or
pining places
anyway.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Evidence O N Jun 2019
The rain is your heart
It drenches me momentarily
And it delights me swimming in it
Every time comely

I dance the old children dance
Under the sweet rain
The rain is your heart
I shall drink it for it's joy

Where the rain touches
Where the heart touches
Right at my left ******
It alights as thunderbirds

Softening the dry throat
I shall love to drink again.
Bows N' Arrows Sep 2020
You're just visiting on the weekends
suffering from lunaphilia and searching for the All-Mother (Purnavasu)
Our Lady Sorrows with the golden chord around her waist and starlet tears begins again
(Achey blue-black Kali knows it)

If I had something to nurture-
A baby being bathed in the kitchen sink and that orphan who becomes apart of the background married to the foliage-Growing ivy all around the room...
Sharp green leaves of palm trees
clinging to a semblance of security
Illuminated by drops of twisting Sun
Kaleidoscopic light spread across insular rooms

Daemonic-feathered creatures dancing on an acid lake
Marble headed and frothy bearded
Chipped-painted
Proportionate forms of fleshy architecture
Chewing gum until it looses flavor
I can’t sit here for forever
Pinning is for the crows
Dusting it off like my old memories in December
Living in a snow globe
The reflection is stained by a Thunderbirds long sleek fang
JV Beaupre Oct 2022
T'was the day before aluminum.
And all through the towns
Steel fantasies did roam,
All finny at thousands of pounds.

Lots of metal, heavy and sculpted.
No custom kits, just regular Detroit iron,
The Mesabi Iron Range leveled and scalped.

Fins, I say, fin, fins and finny.
You could stab yourself on a '57 Chevie!

Sleek, but massive,
Caddie fins with bullet tail lights
Rare Edsels and Packards

Thunderbirds, killer headlights to match the fins
Remember the Rambler!

Knife edges everywhere, the Studebaker Fury
Corvettes, vruum, vruum, VRUUUM.

Beloved Impalas, Rocket 88's,
Imperials and Mark III Continentals

Where did we go in these steel confections...
Drive-ins, both food and movie,
Down Main Street to be seen,
Back to be seen again, groovy

We had pimples and ducktails, 
hoping to meet girls,
but the cars had fins of steel!
And they were the magnets.
There is probably a magic marker that makes the daylight turn a little darker,
yes m'lady, said Parker, but this is Thunderbirds where words don't match precisely to our actions and scenes change less fluidly,

Lady Penelope smiled, and thought to herself,
Parker really needs to keep his gob shut,
then said,
good point Parker but why can't we see the magic marker?

Parker replied, because it gets darker, m'lady.

this wasn't about that, someone must be pulling my strings.
Michael John Nov 2019
be careful heart you know the drill
those that make infinite
hole
that burn and tear years on

those that join up great continent
in between all space and will
stolen
my heart done-

for!
those who take for sport
those who can´t help it
those who will be caught
those who are just bored


those permanently ******
those dentists
those oil merchants
those experiments

in forgetfulness
those who walk through doors
those who soar
those who die

but pick and shovel
from one side to t´other
beware!beware!
small time

thunderbirds
the collectors
more holes than
blackburn lancashire

who wait for a knock
on their faces more
who store away tears
along with all the rest..
Elmer Fudd
weren't those cartoons good
him
chasing the wabbit
trying to grab it
catching hold of
my imagination

and then
Supermarionation
when
Thunderbirds
were go

I wanted to live in
Marineville
meet up with
Atlanta Shore
but
Commander
Sam Shore
put the block
on that.
Those days when it seemed real.
albeit modest word zealot

Writing prompts burst asunder
snap, crackle, and sweet Mary poppin
within me scrambled noggin
witnessing yours truly to blunder
blindly along this dark and stormy night
deafening soundcloud roared
with apocalyptic thunder
'course only audible to yours truly,
I did dumbfoundedly bred wonder...

At some o'clock
tick tocking hours brisk
(quite chilly temperatures)
April seventeenth -Easter Sunday
two thousand twenty two
when Church law
obliges Roman Catholics
to receive Holy Communion
simultaneous blinding fiery kindling
quickening xing risk
within winkin blinkin and nod,
I feared full light of day brainstorm

snatched away courtesy invisible whisk
broom all those potential
ideas sprung while
Messiah by George Frideric
Handel's never out of style
within cerebral nooks and
crannies (think Ohiopyle),
whereby Youghiogheny River
bubbles, gurgles, fuels river mile

after mile harnesses and doth generate
approximately twelve Megawatts
of electricity per hour, to alleviate
domestic counting eight
thousand homes necessitate
distributed across western
and central Pennsylvania
nearly pristine land
where many local legends
never go out of style.

Bigfoot looms large here,
but other cryptids, or animals
also believed to inhabit the state.

Featured prominently include:
the gigantic Broad Top Snake,
the bizarre Dogman
of Westmoreland County,
and Bessie, Lake Erie’s resident monster.

Reports of giant attacking thunderbirds,
bloodsucking wolfmen, and mischievous,
mine-dwelling Tommyknockers
round out the list.

Analogous catching
courtesy goo goo dolls barenaked
ladies hands spawning
salmon slippery as an eel
(if curious don't take my word,
which might not appeal)
though yours truly
offers no guarantee,
you could easily fall

overboard as ye kneel,
which subsequently offers
live human meal
to hungry sharks, impossible mission
to escape no matter
how loud you squeal,
bouquets delphiniums and daisies
designate watery grave site
dissolving blood amidst the color teal.

Aforementioned depiction, whereby
former commander in chief
(er scoundrel forty fifth president)
admittedly no gent
till man nor scholar, and
he cavalierly lent
and nearly fin hushed nearly
(possibly already) rent
asunder high crimes and
misdemeanors, he casually spent.
Paula Jeffery Jun 2019
Before home time, every day
That sleepy, can't write any more
Time of day
Low sun picks out chalk dust
Suspended in air, over kids,
who only want to meander
Across the park,
For tea and Thunderbirds.

Most kids.  Not all kids. Not us kids.
We were Mr Gardener's kids
And the slowest of us perked
Eyes bright, legs crossed
At the end of the day
Warm with anticipation
Home was not pressing
On our nine year old minds

Unexpected Mr Gardener
Generous, mild and
gentle sharer of knowledge
balancing on the brink
of retirement
who, at the Christmas concert,
awed us, floored us
with soaring solo Emmanuels.

Before the bell we gathered round
He held the book aloft and cracked open our little worlds
With Beowulf
No diluted, convoluted picture story form
This was all ****** battles,
dragons, a severed arm.
A teacher transformed
Animated, passionate, Mr Gardener
Held us all in thrall

We went home through the cloakroom
Summer air heavy with the smell
of plimsolls and sour milk
Minds alive and buzzing with heroes and monsters
Chasing sword play across the park
I thought, imagine you can have all that
with just words.
These national treasures
are ghosts in your head
the new order is here
the old one is dead.

The ancients knew
what we do not.

Spasms.

Blind canyons,
cable cars crossing
chasms,
things we never
dreamt about.

Full of dullness
the morning pours
with rain,
this feels like the
ghosts again.

Even Thunderbirds wouldn't
go today.

The good thing is
and there's always one,

this particular show
carries on and on,

It used to be Summer and
the corn filled with gold,
no mention then of
being old?
but the ancients knew

they always did.
John Bartholomew Nov 2020
He believes that one day we'll all travel in super speedy cars
Hitting speeds that'll burn up the roads tar
That we'll fly from country to country among the night skies
Landing a thousand miles away for American burger and fries
We'll speak through glass screens that he once saw on Thunderbirds
Have portable speaking devices invented scientists but used by nerds
Will break the speed of sound and stop fighting with swords
Only he dreamt this up now asleep on Concorde
What ever you believe just think it to come true
Because whatever you believe in then that dream is in you.

JJB
Anton Angelino Dec 2023
Baby, I’m soft like candle flame.
For I allowed myself to waver and wane.
I thought that was the trick to ignite the lights inside their stupid, pretty heads.
Alas, it was all in vain.
They could never love me for my poetry and late night whereabouts, the way I make my bed, the way I watch the stars.
But you, sweet as revenge, you came into my heart cause I let you in.
I could’ve chosen somebody next door, but I didn’t.
I could’ve listened to Sylvia Plath and loved a thunderbird instead of him.
Instead of the easy way back into poetry, I chose to fall deep for you,
and willingly I fell
into its whirl.
I’m fearless for this and for that and for what it’s worth I’m proud of myself more than ever.
Every lover I wished I could keep by my chest at night is now my enemy, but they’ve given me more than they know.
I ruin everything or maybe I’m too smart to chase thunderbirds, listening to abrasion taking place in earshot, time is running low.
It’s a long shot, but I think I might be right and despite the unfortunate events, I have more time than I know.
I’m only sweet and hot like summertime and I don’t dare throw my best days to the wind chimes’ tinkling.
I’m head-deep in my vulnerability and it’s feeling so **** sweet, swimming in debris, having more than I asked for.
San Juan, love me, please.
I’m still waiting for love to happen to me.
Patiently, enduringly withstanding summer breeze extinguishing me.
I’m open again to a new pair of arms to guard me from wind eroding me, erasing me off the face of Earth like sandcastles left to be.
I’m soft like candle flame, Juan, love me deeply, please.
Deep like the deepest point of the ocean, that’s how deep I wanna delve into you.
I haven’t loved anyone for more than a year, can you change that, please?
At least now I know it’s not me.
Can you love me, please?
Do you see yourself next to me?
Don’t you mind me asking?
It’s not like I’ll be this young and eager for dozens of summers, so I’m emptying this glass that happiness is until I find my peace,
find somebody to share it with.
Just tell me I’m not unfit to be loved.
Juan, I understand I’m not the problem, but can you verify that though?
Poem #4 off “Bella Goth” and the fifth promotional poem off the collection.

— The End —