Poem | |
How do I tell you that you’re beautiful?
How can I be different?
How can I express my attraction?
When columns upon
Of testosterone filled wolves
Dressed in rented Italian suits
And discolored, mesh sneakers
Speak similar flirtatious dialect
Will this baby scented Sunflower do the trick?
I picked it from my walled Garden of Eden.
I spent 4 years mending these butterfly coated petals,
Solely for this moment
How can I express my need for your smile?
When tattered paper donations have been sent
To elicit short-term, newlywed goose bumps upon your flesh
May I have this dance?
You’ve never heard this sensual ballad.
But, it’s an element of my Spoken Word
Waiting for your translation
I await your palms,
Because this is not a Man’s world
This can be ours.
But, will you leap off from trampoline’s corazon?
My syllables are in your hands.
My book is within your misunderstood palm paths.
If you’re going to read between my lines,
Do not be illiterate to my heartbeats.
©Drake J. Eszes
Poem | |
I don't know what came over me that day - an instant of weakness after years of resistance, I suppose.
My beaming spouse leads me, a dog on a short leash, into the forbidden citadel, the sanctum sanctorum of feminine fastidiousness, the dreaded nail salon.
As we pass through the portal, we enter another dimension, one not of Man.
One of Woman.
Overwhelmed by estrogen, like Superman in the presence of Kryptonite, my strength saps.
The harpies in the salon immediately sense fresh meat, hailing my wife like Caesar in a Roman triumph, gleeful in the knowledge of the barbaric sacrifice to follow. Lightheaded, my eyes dart around, a trapped beast seeking escape.
The sacrificial altar is prepared. The torture device is like a dentist's chair, but with a tub for the feet, presumably where they will drain out my blood. Resigned to my fate, I mount the gallows.
Glancing around, it seems that all the employees are Southeast Asians. Mostly young. Reputedly, they own this territory, like Indians in convenience stores or Italian greengrocers. My personal tormentor is the proprietor, a slim pretty Vietnamese woman perhaps in her mid 50's, with cold eyes and a professional smile.
I immediately sense that I am dealing with She Who Must Be Obeyed. I am commanded in that bossy Asian way to put my feet in the tub, as she turns on the water. Apparently, like some feminine droit du seigneur, Dragon Lady reserves the right to draw first blood from pedicure virgins. My primae noctis, so to speak.
As she sits below me and leans forward to grab my feet, I get a good look at her well-formed cleavage. Maybe this won't be so bad,after all...
As my feet soak, I close my eyes and sink into a Felliniesque fantasy, surrounded by Asian houris garbed in short white Grecian gowns, catering to my manly whims.
I'm getting a semi...
Dragon Lady brings me back to reality, placing my left foot on her toweled workspace.
There's another guy here...
and that SOB is getting a manicure from one of my girlfriends!
An older lady enters the shop. She has an experienced and well-traveled look. Obviously a repeat offender, she immediately begins apologizing to Dragon Lady for her tardiness, meanwhile sizing me up like a slab of man-meat. Dragon Lady gives her a proper scolding, then the horny old biddy tweaks my big toe and flashes me a knowing smile. I wonder if she is packing heat in that big purse...
Suddenly, I become William Holden in Sunset Boulevard. As I make a break for freedom, I am plugged in the back by the scorned Gloria Swanson lookalike.
Then, a cold look from Dragon Lady and my spouse re-establishes territory and Gloria backs off.
Dragon Lady looks pleased as she draws out what appear to be farrier's tools for shoeing horses, presumably to work on my virgin toenails, which I admit are heading toward Fu Manchu territory. A pair of evil-looking wire cutters makes short work of my talons, then she pulls out a chisel and begins removing layers of yellowed nail until they are smooth and white.
Nice. I can take this.
Then she removes the cuticles and pushes back the skin.
Holy crap! I think she just popped my cherry! I see blood on my big toenail. I take it like a man. A bead of sweat runs down my brow.
She finishes the flaying job, puts the foot back into the soothing bath and begins carving up the other one.
"And women pay for this?", I think.
"You like massage?", she asks.
"Massage?" I glance at my spouse nervously, wondering if she intuits the direction of my thoughts.
She points to the control panel on the chair.
"Why, yes. Yes I would!", I reply.
Anything to take my mind off my pending amputation.
"All the way?"
I suppress my licentious thoughts.
"Warp seven, Mr. Sulu."
"To infinity, and beyond!"
She got that one, and turns on the machine. Robocop immediately digs deeply into my neck and spine with his titanium-steel fingers, plowing my vertebral column like a John Deere cultivator. My central nervous system releases a flood of endorphins. The cocktail of pain and pleasure is a masochist's wet dream.
The surgery going on downstairs dissolves into the background...
Dragon Lady puts the second foot back in the tub and removes the first. She pulls out a big cheese grater and goes to work on the bottom of my foot. I don't have thick calluses, but she produces a pretty respectable pile of Parmigiano. Makes short shrift on foot two. My smooth feet now look like a baby's.
Not too bad, not too bad.
My spouse shoots me the old Told You So look and smiles.
Dragon Lady now pulls out the pumice for the final polish. As she goes to work on my foot, nerve endings now exposed after many years return me to infancy.
It tickles! Oh Momma, does it tickle!
I'm giggling like a young girl. I can't stop, and I really don't want to either. The entire salon joins in my giggle fest.
Dragon Lady doesn't let up for a second. She is giggling too, and for the first time I see the young, innocent Vietnamese girl buried deep inside.
Then I see the napalm and burnt village.
And all the rest of it...
I see and she sees. We each have seen... too much.
She smiles sadly. As do I.
My next appointment is in a month
I'll be there.
September 11, 2014
Poem | |
slicked with sweat,
and hearing the locusts’ cries deep in my neck,
I stood over the remains of Sal Paradise.
The spotty grass around the tombstone
was browned and littered
with trodden Camel filters
and corroded bottle caps.
I reached into my inspired rucksack
and discovered a Deutchmark,
forgotten like a sleepy drunk at a tavern.
I ceremonially placed it on the granite-
amid the years
and a crusty half-empty whiskey bottle
a different friend had left.
I hunched over the grave,
my head bowed,
but not really praying or thinking
And now I sit across the street,
seated by the window
in a little Italian restaurant.
I am the lone customer,
ensconced by piped-in light FM muzak.
Poem | |
Die Scherben des Lebens lassen sich nicht kitten. (German)
The shards of the life cannot be cemented. (English)
Los fragmentos de la vida no se puede enmasillar. (Spanish)
Les éclats de vie ne peu pas être à nouveau ensemble. (French)
I frammenti di vita non può essere di nuovo insieme . (Italian)
Die skerwe van die lewe kan nie weer saam wees. (Afrikaans)
Ang mga tipak ng buhay ay hindi maaaring simentuhin. (Tagalog)
Cioburile vietii nu pot fi cimentat. (Romanian)
Poem | |
This recently happened to me.
I didn’t recover very well from it.
I just sat there
while my partner got dressed
and walked out on me.
She was shaking her head
in disbelief on the way out.
Here is what happened.
We are in the throes of
I am twisted up like a pretzel
with my tongue here,
my fingers there,
you know what
than Chinese mathematics.
I mean my tongue is doing a Spanish Tango
my fingers the Watusi
my center an African Tribal Dance
and when I say African Tribal Dance
I mean my ass
is shaking like a belly dancer
with a vibrator up her ass.
I could hear that sharp female voice
yelling like a soprano in an Italian Opera
and she’s yelling too
but with that deep voice of hers
like a banshee out of hell.
Oh no, oh no,
oh yes oh yes,
oh oh oh oh...
like fireworks on the fourth of July
boom...boom, boom, boom, boom...
I do it
at the peak of orgasm
I do it.
I really blow it.
No pun intended.
I mean we've all done it...
instead of saying her name
At the peak of orgasm
I yell out
my own name!
Knuckle Head Yvonne
Poem | |
I sat down to study the Netherlands tried to gather all the scoop
Entering every contest cause I'm new to Poetry Soup
I read all the poetry masters to grow I must surely invest
What I've discovered in almost no time is why Soup poets are the best
Zerbst wrote an anthem with some amazing poetic twist
Made me wish I was from Freisland this sprawling sealand really exist
Dr. Ram wrote a history thesis he even quotes the great Shakespeare
The Netherlands in an Italian sonnet another masterpiece was here
Cornish obviously did his homework in couplet form he holds command
Displays the heart and pride of the people when I read his words I want to stand
Andrea's the Soup contest master so you knew she'd draw her pen
With perfection her ode to Freisland, Ms. Dietrich has done it once again
I could go on with the works on Netherlands a shout out to John, Ralph, and Tim
A descriptive write by Huberta van Akkeren, these odes will make sweet Elly grin
So I learned all about the Netherlands another ode wasn't needed from me
To be proud of this majestic country... May she ever be beautiful and free!
Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
Contest Name: Your ode to 'my' Netherlands and/or 'my' Friesland
*Happy Birthday Elle!
Poem | |
The difficult translation of first Canto of Divina Commedia is here completed
In the part published before, Dante imagined to find himself in a dark forest where he met three beasts.
Now he is going to meet the poet Virgilio who will bring him through the Hell and Purgatory.
The original italian is omitted for simplicity.
I ask readers to comment even negatively this hard work.
And such as guy acquiring with decision,
And comes the time which brings him then to lose,
So that his thoughts with sorrow find collision;
Similar the peaceless beast with strong abuse
Coming against me direct bit by bit
Constrained me with shadow to confuse.
And while compelled to slide down and quit,
Before my eyes just the faint view appeared
Of who for long hush seemed to have no fit.
When I saw him in the wide desert cleared,
“Miserere of me”, I screamed to him,
“If you to shadow or to man adhered”
Replied: “I'm not now, man I was not dim,
Lombard my parents just certainly were
Both from Mantua, their home with vim.
Arose sub Julio, even late occur,
And lived in Rome under August good
In times of liars false gods and faith blur.
Poet I was, and sung of that with just mood
Anchise’s son who came in a trip from Troy,
When superb Ilion burned as a wood.
But why you follow of trouble the decoy?
Why the delectable hill don’t you rise
Which is the start and cause of a full joy?”.
“Are you now that Virgilio source wise
Who spreads of words a so ample river?”.
I answered him with my shameful eyes.
“O of other poets light and honor giver,
Might I have gain from long study and love
Which made me look for your work with quiver.
You are my master who inspires above,
You are the only one from whom I took
The stile admirable of my honor shove.
The beast which made me run away now look;
I beg your help, indeed famous wise man,
‘Cause me a trembling in veins and pulse shook”
“To take another trip better you can”,
He answered, when saw my weeping pain,
“If out of this savage place you want to scan;
Since this beast , which causes your complain,
Nobody allows its way to align,
But fights against him until is slain,
And its nature is so ruthless and malign,
That never fills in its greedy will,
And is hungrier after than before dine.
Many are the animals with which joins still,
And even more will be, until the hound
Will come, and shall it painfully kill.
This one by richness will not be bound
But by wisdom, love and virtue alone
And between two felts will come and found.
Might help that Italy to humble prone
For which lost life Camilla virgin pure
Eurialo, Turno and Niso killed as known.
This one will hunt it hard in every moor,
Until it will fall in the deepest hell,
Just where from it started envy impure.
So for your sake I think and judge well
That you should follow me, your guide,
And I will shepherd you in endless dell;
Where with desperate shouting you shall collide,
You shall see ancient spirits in their pain,
Who are all shouting to be again died;
You shall see those who happily sustain
To stay in fire, hoping to come back
No matter when in the blessed domain.
Where you can climb following the track,
A more worthy soul than me will be:
With her I will leave you, this is my tack;
Since the great emperor who there up can see,
'Cause I was a rebel against his law,
To guide you there forbids that I be free.
He commands everywhere and puts his awe;
Here resides his domain and lofty throne:
Lucky the people elected to this joie!”.
And I to him: “Poet, my need is here shown
In name of God you did not even know,
To escape this evil maybe not alone,
That you now bring me where you told to go,
So then I see the true saint Peter’s gate
And also people you tell afflicted so”
And when he moved, him I followed straight.
Poem | |
Tom Turkey’s tender meat waits
Lasagna’s served first
Enticing garlic scent wafts
Melted, fresh mozzarella
Layered with rich sauce
*Written October 26, 2014.
;D My brother-in-law’s family has no room for
turkey after eating the lasagna!
Poem | |
HANDS IN THOUGHT
Paganini, with his bony, white hands,
In the graveyard,
Playing for the dead
What a thought!
All that cold, weathered stone,
The few leafless trees,
What a diseased sort of scene
And the great Italian violin virtuoso,
So thin, so hook nosed,
So they thought
Hands of old grandfather disturb,
Reminding the hour,
For sure, the fiddler,
Weird, stick of a man,
Was headed south,
Or so they thought
And so this crazy fiddler thinks,
At his late hour,
Hands hanging limp
Hands clasped in prayer?
Just a chuckle
At the outrageous thought
Of being no more
Poem | |
NINETY AND NI
NE YEARS TIME
IS WHAT IT TOOK TO BUILD
THIS TOWER IN AN ITALIAN
CITY BEHIND ITS CATHEDRAL
THIS FREE STANDING TOWER
IN THE CITY OF PISA WAS FOR
THE CATHEDRALS LARGE BELL
THUS BEING THE BELL TOWER
THE TOWER BEGAN LEANING
DURING THE CONTRUCTION
LATER ONE SIDE OF THE BASE
WAS DISCOVERED TO BE TOO
SOFT A FOUNDATION FOR IT
SO GUESS THEY NEVER READ
THE STORY ABOUT BUILDING
ON SAND OR WAS IT THEIRS
IT STARTED LEANING MORE
AND MORE OVER DECADES
THEN IT LOOKED LIKE THIS
THIS TOWER HAS BECOME
VERY FAMOUS OVER THE
YEARS AND IS KNOWN AS
THE LEANING TOWER OF
PISA FOUND IN THE CITY
PISA IN TUSCANY ITALY
Poem | |
She is ancient, tall and wise
Her slender frame so frail
Skin so smooth, but deathly pale
Bright against dark skies
Against her soon the wind will rise
Against her let it rail
I pray the lord she does not fail
As with the storm she vies
And thus begins an epic fight
To beat the mighty gale
And as she heads into the night
Who knows where she may trail
Dawn breaks at last it’s such a sight
As once more she sets sail
Contest : Italian Sonnet
Contest : OLD CONTEST ENTRY
Poem | |
(Christmas Day in Italian Culture)
as a snowy blanket of white caresses in Winter's glow
and frosty icicles kiss windowpanes in glazy show
a silent atmosphere embraces a starlit sight
while magnificent choir of Angels sing Hosanna O! Holy Night.
Church bells chime in twilight mist to welcome Christmas day
wishing holiday greetings while children glide on sleigh
glorious festive mood captivates inspired light
as heavenly Angelic voices praise Hosanna O! Holy Night.
decorations adorn to honor the precious Infant King
candlelight illuminates the Manger Scene as carolers sweetly sing
the scent of fragrant pine cones creates an aura to ignite
hymns of worship as heralding Angels proclaim Hosanna O! Holy Night.
soon family gathers to partake of traditional Christmas meal
"Feast of the Seven Fishes"prelude to tree trimming feel
the fireplace mantle glows where stockings smile so bright
and hark the herald Angel hosts greet Hosanna O! Holy Night.
Joseph is the patriarch who shelters newborn babe
a gift of God from Heaven sent to Earth to save
a glorious time for celebration in precious moment of delight
majestic music from Angels chanting Hosanna O! Holy Night.
sheer warmth of having a personal relationship with the Lord
a unique experience enlightening as He is adored
sharing love with everyone, the human spirit takes flight
melting their voices with holy Angels singing Hosanna O! Holy Night.
*For Cyndi's Season of Lights, Delights & Enlightenment Contest.
*Nov. 14, 2012.
in the Italian culture we begin our Christmas celebration ...
Christmas Eve - Feast of Seven Fishes Dinner for good health & prosperity
Tree trimming ceremony with music and singing toasting wine
Midnight Mass at Basilica in Rome or at Church in N.J.
Dessert Party after Mass with eggnog
Christmas Day exchanging gifts and visiting children and seniors at hospitals
Pasta dinner with salads and baked stuff shells with meatballs
Desserts of creme puffs laced with rum, cannolis pastry filled with chocolate
Wine tasting from orchards of Italy imported with olive tray
Candlelight ceremony where all hold a lit candle making a wish for a
Happy New Year.
Poem | |
Infused with coffee
Layered, rich, cheese filled delight
I long for your taste
My Italian love
And your rum
Poem | |
(Inspired by the brilliant new avant garde
Italian film: "I Am Love")
Could she shatter vows, and is she the one
who’d relinquish everything just for love?
If it meant that all she knew would come undone,
could she shatter vows, and is she the one?
If she knew that those she cared about might shun
her, could she go against her God above?
Could she shatter vows, and is she the one
who’d relinquish everything just for love?
For the Contest: Is She the One?
sponsored by Tavarus M. Moreland
Poem | |
This was only our second date...
A Black Tie Affair...
...Set against an incredible view,
a plentitude of flower beds,
all just outside a charming postcard Town.
This indeed was a serious event,
anyone who was anyone...
and my date...were here.
A live Jazz Band filled the air
with a symphony of soothing sounds
we all took our seats as
The Annual Fine Pie Tasting Festival
My first nibble was an
Orange Blossom Grand Marnier Silk Pie.
I cleansed my palate with a sixty seven French Beaujolais
took my tiny fork and partook of a slice of heaven.
The pie had a fine bouquet with a peach raspberry scent.
It was a nice blend, moist, with a fragrant overtone
of fermented grapes...
just porked down her first slice...
...in one swallow.
and added "can I have some more wine,
and fill the glass up this time,
Ah the wonderful charm of youth
(...luckily no one heard her.)
Now came the second offering a
Vienna Chocolate Lace Kaluha Pie.
My date grabbed three slices complaining
about the size.
(...Thank God no one saw. I
enjoy my ranking in this
exclusive social group)
If she asks for more wine
I'm going to hand her the bottle
tell her to swig that.
The next offering is a
Dulche De Leche Italian Rum Pie
I dread the thought she might
try to wring a slice in order to squeeze out the Rum.
All is well,
she has wolfed down her serving
before the thought occurs to her.
Imagine my surprise?
I order a third bottle of wine.
There is not a drop left in our second
bottle, not a drop.
Can you wring a glass bottle?
I doubt I have had a full ounce of
At eleven hundred dollars a bottle
I start to question my taste...
My stunning date excuses herself.
With all that wine I am surprised
she has waited this long.
She is wearing a gorgeous gown...
"you can put lipstick on a pig..."
"shit! did I just say that out loud"
The night continued...
pie after pie
more and more wine.
The pie slices are small
the bill will be HUGE!
...but ah the pies...
Sweet Lime Tequila Mouse Pie
Vanilla Bourbon Brazilian Pecan Pie
Irish Cream Island Coconut Mouse Pie
Lady Godiva Truffle Raspberry Liqueur Pie
to name a few.
A refined activity
of the gourmet connoisseur.
My disaster of a date has returned,
(God she's beautiful!)
"So Scrooge" she says "are you ready to leave"
I am so embarrassed she is crass and rude
in front of all these distinguished people.
"Come on, I'm bored with this
crowd of stiffs. Let's blow this
Popsicle Stand," she says
" They all have pickles up their asses"
Well I never. ( Popsicle Stand? Just
how young is she?)
She continues "Honey, it is time to
go back to your place for the best piece
of pie you have ever had."
At this point my twenty five year old
goddess is more beautiful than any
woman any marvel I have ever viewed...
her words immaculate...
....You don't have to hit me over the head
with a hammer.
...Personally I was fed up of
all these stiffs with pickles up their ass.
I think I gave some sort of dignitary the finger
on the way out...
...I was excited.
I have never driven so fast in my life.
Finally I was going to get my piece of the pie.
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper
Contest Name: Plentitude of Pies
Poem | |
Imagine yourself falling gently on grass,
wherein soft earth embraces you warmly.
Each drop of dew then tells you its story,
of how it broke free from its cage of glass.
You drink each bead, intrigued by what it has,
that makes you want more, that makes you thirsty.
A myriad of flavors, that changes daily,
it never grows stale, no due dates to pass.
From bright kaleidoscopic waterfalls,
some honeyed mist found its way to this well,
which I’ve wished upon with this coin I threw…
And this is why I do not mind at all,
that I have stumbled, then tripped and then fell…
on earth that is you, that’s drunken me with dew.
--Italian Sonnet, Debbie sweetie ;)-- heehee, I tried >.<
** quick note: to everybody who’s passed by my poems lately,
thank you very much ^_^—
Sorry, I can’t comment back right now, my connection is horrible (yet again!)
and I am swamped o_O
and logged in here real quick to enter this
in Debbie and Cyndi’s sonnet contest :D…
but hopefully I can drop by and say hello to you soon ^_^.
Thank you again, especially to those who left comments
and asked how I was (I'm doing good, thank you ^_^)…
hope you guys are doing great as well,
and enjoy your week/end :D
Poem | |
Daylight fades, a city pulsates, and traffic is reflected in store windows.
Hurrying headlights come out of the darkness.
They crisscross like dueling knights. People in the crosswalk scamper
as if squirrels and streetlights leer gleaming yellow eyes, like watchful hawks.
The shrill trumpets of the charging gale force winds, rattle an awning,
and newly planted maple saplings bend and sway
in random pairs. Set in concrete planters, they hang on by tender rooted toes.
Pages of a discarded newspaper are hurled into the air,
buoyed on the steely breath of a frigid winter evening.
Several leaflets scatter into the street and down the sidewalk,
into the path of one lone pedestrian.
He slaps away the sports page, that flies into his chapped, red face.
Without hesitation, this castaway vagrant, down and out
by the rape of hard times, will accept an offered dime,
from a passing man in a Red Sox ball cap.
Head bent low, face hidden, a worn and dirty pea coat
pulled tightly around his thin frame, he carries all his meager belongings
in a large paper grocery bag, wrinkled and beginning to tear.
Serving as his satchel, the brown bag, damp and worn,
still displays big bold red and black letters
advertising "Smart and Final Grocery"--"Located in Three Convenient Locations".
A city bus roars by, splashing through three days of rain,
and a siren and a blaring horn is heard from the next block.
The dark silhouetted outcast, stops for a moment,
peers into a sidewalk trash receptacle, then continues slowly down the sidewalk.
A taxi pulls up along the curb behind him, and the attractive couple,
dressed in evening wear, emerge, pay for their taxi, and arm in arm,
enter Mario's Italian Restaurant, the brick bistro
that sits on the corner of Broadway and 1st.
It begins to rain again, and across the street people open umbrellas
and like the afore mentioned squirrels, they scurry home to supper.
The lone man walks in the rain, his pace doesn't quicken, his voice never spoken,
a spirit broken, ............ his sack held together by circumstance.
A passerby takes a brief glance...just a quick, chanced moment,
to take notice of "Smart and Final's" last stance.
Poem | |
The end of the beginning drew very near
so Jesus went to pray in the garden,
Heavy was His pure heart, bruised by burden,
And olive trees soon misted with His tears.
He knelt beside a patch of lavender,
Roses dropped petals asking for pardon,
Sand only softened, refused to harden,
While poppies bent their heads closer to hear.
Evening deepened as Son talked to Father,
Geraniums paled, His pain they could see,
Daises bowed low to man’s sinless brother,
Gethsemane kneeled to the Rabboni.
Seeded by grace, grew a blessed flower,
~A blossom of hope, the Easter lily~
“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death, "he said to
them. “Stay here and keep watch.” Going a little farther, he fell to the
ground and prayed that if possible the hour migh pass from him.
“Abba, Father,” he said, “Everything is possible for you. Take this cup
from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.”
By Cyndi MacMillan for Linda Marie's Easter Inspirations Contest
ABOUT THIS POEM
I researched the garden of Gethsemane, and all the flowers save for the Easter Lily could very well have grown there on the night before the crucifixion. The Easter Lily is NOT mentioned in scripture (though lilies are mentioned often throughout the bible). This poem is written with the intent to honor our Lamb, and not as an accurate representation of Christ’s anguished hours.
This is mixed sonnet. It has an Italian octave and a Sicilian sestet.
Poem | |
Well if it isn’t the Italian Princess herself! I just KNEW we’d finally meet. It must be our:
(Whatcha say we…Ow! Look, you left a mark)
I swear to GOD I haven’t been drinking Deb! It’s YOU that’s making me all:
(Hold me up whouldja cher? Ohh yeah)
Wow, I’m trippin’ out Ortello! It’s like FAR OUT to rap with you man and those threads are like:
(I’m an old hippie, what did you expect?)
Well look who’s here! Andrea, the sonnet queen herself! What you drinkin girl? How bout some:
(Or maybe some ‘Southern Comfort?’ Ouch! You too?)
OH-MY-GOD, its Ms. Claudon-I-I-mean ONCLAUD (gulp) you’re getting me all:
(Here, check my pulse)
C’mon Ms. Richards! Let’s take a walk and have a nice long talk about poetry…Why do you:
(I KNOW you’re busy but I’m SO lonely)
The Flower of the East! May I have this dance? Whew! Lordy me...Do I detect the sweet aroma of:
(This was SUPPOSED to be for your contest but I footled around and didn’t read the footling RULES)
Poem | |
Dissonance is delegating the intensity in my eyes
Minor chords unveil the passion my body can’t belie
Eighth notes are lightning sparks that burn my finger tips
And when you play Fminor7 I tend to bite my lips.
I want you to scale my thighs
the way you play A minor harmonic
Deftly wrenching haunting moans
Experiences anything but platonic
Allegro Legato Crescendo Vibrato
Sing to me in Italian and tell me to hold my tongue
But if anyone interrupts the music …
a piano's lid comes crashing down--the last note never sung.
Poem | |
Rommel of the Blitzkrieg
had Europe overcome
With the Stukas and dive bombing
And the Tanks that overrun
North Africka would see his tanks
il Duce’s troops were beat
Aussies took 20,000 Italians
At Tobruk in stinking heat
In Europe when his tanks arrived
The captured did surrender
The Poms escaped at Dunkirk
The English well remember
Morsehead an Aussie General
He baited the trap
Strategic mines, artillery, cooks
manned Italian guns , and ack ack.
Tobruk the Panzer tanks came in
The rats went down their holes (Desert Rats Aussie Diggers said Lord Haw Haw)
They rose behind the tanks
Wehrmact soldiers bullet holed
25 pounders fired at just point blank
with cooks and Pommy Armour
Were thinning German ranks
true blue these little charmers
So they blew the turrets off
16 of the best
Unbeaten until this point
A trace of fallen crest
8 long months they dished it out
Though Rommel tried again ……….(lost just as many tanks again)
He had to wait till the Aussies left
To take Tobruk from them
70 years ago, the Afrika Korp would attack the 14,000 Aussies and Tommy Tank men, Also known as Rats.
The Tanks rolled into the perimeter, Aussies sprang from their holes and fought the German Soldiers behind the tanks, “We shut the gate behind them” the Aussies said.
This thorn in the side in Rommel ‘s mind allowed time for the massive replacement of
armour destroyed by Rommel, with American tanks. The siege held for 240 days in
what is now today’s , Gaddafi’s Lybria. These Aussies were used to living rough
sleeping on the ground
walking from town to town in the great depression, they were brought up on roo or pig shooting and the occasional rabbit.
Poem | |
Starring into the dross of amber brew
no face see I reflected, simply hollow I.
The stein of crystal tells no fortune spare,
nor one of bounty, yet what is true?
With drink, I dredge the pain of life anew
and wallow in the grain of cheaper wares,
degrade myself and blame fate, for my strife,
ignoring all God's gift, so loud I cry,
as salted tears stain trails of my despair.
If only, I had been a better wife
I'd not be sitting here.
Form: Curtal Sonnet [A precurser to the Italian Sonnet]
abcabcdbcd c [10 1/2 lines]
Poem | |
They say I'm like my daddy
I'm his kid through and through
I have characteristics
Of a man I never knew
Long ago he left me
Soon after my mom died
Put up for adoption
Couldn't count the tears I cried
But now I hear the stories
Of this man I'm like so much
The way he used to phrase things
His funny quirks and such
He loved his ribald humor
And loved to cook and sing
Played guitar and often wrote
We're alike in everything!
My sister says I have his looks
The Italian side of me
Sometimes enjoyed a glass of wine
Was nothing if not free
He dated younger women
Was quite the charmer too
Had so many dear friends
And had his moods of blue
Well now the years have passed by
And all these things I've heard
But daddy is long gone now
So I have to take their word
Poem | |
Put your heart in my hand and just trust me,
Or you do not have to give me your trust.
Eventually, you will find the lust
That I have for you was easy to see.
Dakarai Cobb is who I must be
Each day until I return to the dust.
So, being honest with me is a must,
Trusting that my pen will always flow free.
Read me and my words like an open book,
Only to find out that I am a flirt.
You may want to keep an eye on this crook,
Even if he does not remove your shirt.
Remember, I want your engine to cook,
So when I start driving, it will not hurt.
Poem | |
Putting my kisses all around your neck,
Obligates you to do the same to me.
Electrify my soul and I will be
The one whose knees will quickly hit the deck.
Destroyer, I am now a nervous wreck,
Expected to pay the ultimate fee,
Selling my soul so I can set your free
To bounce, as if you had been a bad check.
Restitution will have to be paid back,
Or I may never pleasure you again.
You can take my payments off of your rack,
Extending the time to pay for a sin.
Royalties will always be in the sack,
So that I can always secure a win.