Never Land Part 8

The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
     (She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
    With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
    and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
    by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
    except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
    which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
    and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.

    The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
    to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage, 
    but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.

    At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
    attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
    while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
    and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
    Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
    and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
    the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.

    The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
    the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
    The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
    and bittersweet, from  Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
     “The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
    the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”

The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...

End

Copyright © | Year Posted 2012



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Date: 11/8/2012 9:20:00 PM
I always feel a bit weak after reading what you write Terry; the scope and scheme of your rhyme is unparalleled and I'm so glad to finally get here because its always superb!
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Date: 10/19/2012 5:28:00 PM
If Peter Pan traveled to Canterbury and told his story first, the rest of the boring, ho-hum, drawn-out, lengthy, drab stories (I remember reading in High school) wouldn't even have made it to the page!!! You transported me to the Neverland where I would never want to exist. Dan said it: BRAVO-take a bow or two or three. The world needs to read your work. Ihope you get it published! P.S. I can imagine N.C. Wyeth painting the scenes!
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Date: 10/9/2012 11:52:00 PM
~BRAVO~BRAVO~BRAVO~ O...O...Oh!
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Date: 10/7/2012 8:03:00 PM
Quite a story, Terry. I love stories and you kept the poetry in those lines.
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Date: 9/30/2012 8:54:00 AM
Dear Terry, It doesn't take long for Peter to grow up if he makes it at all. This is the kind of work to appear in text book, given footnotes everywhere. Doesn't need them methinks. Makes 'methinks' with every line. It has brought me so many places - the Borgias, the pedophiles, the back alleys, the crazy rites. Flip of a coin fate. Oh I don't know what to say. Have you ever read Casabianca? Brings that to mind as well. Brilliant! love & hugs, Kathy
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Date: 9/30/2012 8:36:00 AM
What a profound and prophetic poem this is. The imagery is superb. So full of symbolism. Another masterpiece. Your work is amazing. You painted an awesome picture of Mystery Babylon as the golden snake if that was your intention. Well done.
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Cavanaugh Avatar
Jon A Cavanaugh
Date: 11/12/2012 7:27:00 AM
I have finally read all eight of your Never Land poems. What a magnificent write Terry
Date: 9/29/2012 9:06:00 PM
I read your story deep and gory and enjoyed it a lot... But Peter Pan from Never Land....his tears will never stop...hugs...Joseph
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