Ring around the rosie,
A pocket full of posie,
They all fall down.
Petronilla, I be hight, after a saint, long dead;
Pet, Mother clucks as Father growls, willful child,
for I fail to stifle questiuns at the wizened age
of seven. Sooth, I miss Dorsetshire and London
is verray vile. These wretched streets are full of sickness
and corpses pile like fish on a dock, far from graves.
My mind hosts the lost and shall e’er be graven
with their bynames, lite ghosts left behind, all dead.
These ears hold confessions wrung from the sickened,
the curses of goodwives, the wails of stung children-
Ay, there be gruesome hymns sung by all Londoners,
strange lullabies, for e’en newborns shall not age.
A twitching moon brings dreams o’ the sea, days aged
by tidepools as plovers ran from waves, so gravely.
A hundred castles I built of sand, ech a London
tower; fey, too, were those woods filled with deadnettle
flowers. Play and prattle, everich that be childisch
is done for rattles decayed in the fists of the sickly.
I was to be a man’r maid, but that household fell sick,
so we scrounge for crumbs ‘n ole curds, un-aged.
In sleep, Mother quakes as though taken to childbed,
while Father weeps of sons and sin, his thin face, grave,
It is a though the devil his-self reaps a bounty of dead
as pestilence creeps un’er the pocked doors of London.
Ech flaxen brother saved from the muck of London,
tots all, bedridden, while I was unwemmed by sickness.
Aye, they were yet alive when we fled in the dead
o’ night; six, four, three and one were their tender ages,
Wee mites passing, no kin to tuck ‘em into their graves,
hell stilled their ruckus, stole away ech marked child.
Comes, the massacre, comes, again, Childermas,
this plague is naught but the pied piper of London,
Mother and Father unbar the door, eyes like graves
as they forsake me, nay farewells said as minutes age.
See, though bled, I now wear rings o' red, I art sick,
rath, so rath, I shall join the pale line of the dead.
I shall bear no gravestone, certes, angels shall sicken,
as blessèd children fall all o’er black London,
forbeden to axe what ages the heart, leven it deadened...
* Certain words are (mis)spelled in middle English
**Please read my comments below
Middle English Translation
Verray – true
Byname - nickname
Lite – Little
Ech – Each
Everich – every
Unwemmed – undefiled
Childermas- Dec 28th, a day to commerate the infants killed by King Herod
Certes - Certainly
Axe – ask
rath - soon
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2013
The world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake malleable, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations’ unseen to the denizens of land, disregarded in man’s wake.
From the diatom, to the whale, from the single cell to the open hand
from the sun, to the stars, to the mushroom bomb, we’ve light.
Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light,
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, as throngs rise asking for hand
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood has ended, the tell-tale snake does wake.
Death’s rattle will subside, as the head eats the tail of depression.
Communication will become the global antidepressant.
Natives in aboriginal huts and Inuit in igloos will see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide for hand in hand, each cell wakes.
No longer can knowledge be withheld. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the tit will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, the tyrant and the saint juxtaposed, their time at hand.
Instant communication, shall scrape the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of finger tip to key shall depress
and ignorance will flee, freeing the hungry
for the way out ,the way up, the key, light-heartedly
heads bowed in prayer, we shall revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.
On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of rods depressed
rods magnetized and charged with lightening
for we all hunger.
Each evolution a revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
sons never came back…
dawn breaking naval attack
ships sinking to black
Copyright © Robb A. Kopp | Year Posted 2011
Back in the days, when men bold,
spun golden legends;
of exploits in the wild west;
of punch-in and herd-in cows
and saloon brawls where they’d shoot
and scores of bullets roared.
Stories of the Iron Horse’s roar
and gunfighters and marshals, bold;
Of gamblers, who’d go shooting
for the stars in cards; those were feats of legend.
Days when plains of cows,
fur-painted the landscape of, the old west.
These are the breed that won the west,
as across the plains, the Iron Horse roared.
those are the backs worn, herding cows;
the exploits of the brave and bold.
those brave and haggard legends
made of silver spurs and pearl-handled shooters.
You’re darn toot-in, shoot’in
like that, was what won the west.
While the Iron Horse died, its legend
lives on, belching out its roar,
across the plains, so bold.
Still, cowboys herd and rope their cows.
Modern day cowboys, herding cows
by truck and shootouts
no longer ring so boldly.
Wild no more, is the west,
where now, only cars and planes roar.
Yet, there still live the legends.
They aren’t as great, these new legends,
but it doesn’t phase the cows.
They calmly graze, amid the airplanes roar.
Though one may say, “shoot,
it’s spoiled now”, the legends live on, in the west,
of heroes brave and bold.
The west will always, have its legends, Though trains no longer roar.
Cowboys will always rope their cows, as they did in the old, wild west.
Upon museum walls, stories of the shootouts,
are told; of ancient heroes brave and bold.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015
Christmas Sestina: Stage Centre!
A Child is born! Of Life this is beginning.
His cup is to defend the truth and right.
A stable now becomes of earth the centre,
At this, as yet un-named but very first “’Christmas”.
Of pain and misery soon He’ll make an end,
For God, the Holy One, has entered time.
Some wise men saw a star, and said “It’s time
To see the newest miracle beginning –
A great King born – Oh what will be the end?
We thought that in the stars we had it right,
But what is this new saga? (Call it Christmas)
When stars show a new King at creation’s centre?”
And yes. Indeed. A scream erupts at centre
Of attention as the knife cuts deep in time.
Old Simon lives a happy day this Christmas –
Now satisfied with death, his new beginning,
While Anna cries rejoicing as the right
Messiah comes, to bring to death to end.
But this could never ever be the end
As baby Jesus will yet take stage centre,
As is his mortal destiny and right,
To come fulfill the prophecies in time,
To bring salvation as a new beginning.
Such a day will ever be known as Christmas.
Now men the whole world over celebrate Christmas.
Of blindness, ignorance now there is an end.
Of truth and life He brings a new beginning
As in the hearts of men he builds his centre.
Justice and compassion have their time,
And a man can set his Heavenly heritage right.
So know that everything will be set right
For Jesus came at night, on that first Christmas,
To start the final era – the last days of time.
His Spirit births in men who’re at an end
Of self, and who will gladly make Him centre
Of their death, and so engage the new beginning.
The earliest beginning was at Christmas.
Narcissism is right at its very end.
Now Jeshua has the centre of the stage of time.
Copyright © Helen Murray | Year Posted 2011
Where's that ancient land where civilization began?
There...this disconsolate poet was born:
to tell whatever wasn't told on his return,
and to choose his tomb under the shade of a pine;
to be, somehow, comforted by the canary's song,
or the presence of the carnations that, into the warm rain, would shine...
Find such an amazing land by the deepness of the calm seas,
and the fresh scent of the Alps and Apennines;
foreign Kings governed it by their mighty cities,
and the occupied people never knew it as a united nation,
until it was liberated by a northern, courageous man:
Garibaldi... proudly called the hero of the Two Worlds!
Where's that ancient land where the Imperial Rome rose
on the top of the Seven Hills, where Romulus
was fed by a she-wolf? Legend, you say, but facts
may prove that everything that occurred was true!
O glorious Rome, all that's left of your greatness...
are crumbling columns ravaged by the storms!
When we read Vergil's writings and follow him in his travels,
carrying papyrus and ink to write when time allowed him...
we see impressive images of prosperous towns and cities,
and in Baianum he rested a day, then climbed the Mount of the Virgin;
and he gazed upon the lush hills and mountains of the country-side,
and heard the Nolans chanting and wailing when he died!
Where's that ancient land where civilization began,
and mild seasons adorn it with their vivid colors?
One can't help being lifted-up by a creation so breathtaking:
that God Himself was surprised in its making;
whenever you go, there are pristine meadows with wild flowers...
something compels the writer and the artist to return!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2008
Education has never deluded me,
it is a rich mine from which my gemstones are extracted;
and all of them can adorn with its brilliance
a king's crown, but the glitter on my silver pendant...
with my natal sign, not with my image, outshines it
and displays it very elegantly.
As skilled hands relied on mental deftness,
I depended on mom's provincial practicality,
not on chances, but on her canonical guidance;
her words told no canards, only truthfulness:
an illunination of beatitude to encourage and fortify...
and that voice taught me acts of benevolence.
Guessing what was the mysterious name it bore,
would have been quite easy to identify with sharp eyes:
examining the deeds I did and the actions I still compromise,
to conclude with certainty
that it fitted me so perfectly...
I learned that art by listening to clever people with more ardor.
This is not a gift which is instilled
in the infant's brain at birth,
it is acquired by growing somewhat old...
who could have such a prodigious knowledge?
The Old Testament prophets for instance, or possibly
every learned man who studied philosophy.
Spend time with me, and observe how I peruse:
listen to the clear and incisive words spoken aloud,
riddling no mystery, or being derogatory...
proverbs might be included to give some clues;
and they were written in an inimitable way
to stimulate the minds of the unlearned.
Is intelligence inborn or learned by chance,
or even isometric to astuteness?
Many admit it stems from accruing knowledge,
to increase the capacity of the thinker or genius...
accumulating their ideas and earning praises,
while the uneducated struggle with rage.
Logical astutness is efficacious when it invigorates ability,
and exhorts a great deal of mental energy;
and will the proper words be used to that effect?
Happy New Year to all the wonderful Poetry Soup members!
Copyright 210 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010
A whisper of beauty sets to the night
In ancient time of Autumn breeze
A flightless feather to soar the sky
Records the silent echos of sorrow
Carries through on seasonal change
Keeping time with history's eye.
A feather passes a tear filled eye
The sacrifice before the night
The day of blood held in the breeze
As a gentle wind through summer sky
Pierced by the blade of sorrow
The Holy man of change.
New land wandered for man to change
A wishful time to England's eye
The eagle spies the foot step night
The pilgrims beyond the breeze
As children cry to burn the sky
A massacred Indian sorrow.
A black man echoes sorrow
The pain of life to change
Freedom from the blood stained eye
His cry seeks out the night
Caressed by Autumn breeze
As another feather floats the sky.
Blood stench streams in horrid sky
The bodies of broken sorrow
The feather sights upon the change
As delusions form in hatred eye
Secrets under night
Their souls become the breeze.
Reaching upon the new day breeze
A scrape of cloud and sky
A world united in mornings sorrow
The view of landscaped change
Laments cry the tearful eye
Through restless lonely night.
Unto the land of darkened night
The feather of recorded sorrow
A moments break awaits, the next Autumn breeze.
BY: DARREN J McMURRAY
September 25, 2008
Copyright © Darren J McMurray | Year Posted 2008
Mary was the poetess
who loved handsome Franco,
the tall Neapolitan orchestra leader;
and in Naples they met:
at The Galleria Umberto,
under the surveillance of my father...
Mary was barely eigtheen,
and writing was her only passion;
even her big, hazel eyes were
as light as the Tyrannean Sea in summer,
somehow too melanchonic as a fading moon,
which longed more for a friend than a lover!
Her first song was recorded in Milan, with a brilliant
production of composer Angelo Camis;
that song became quite popular in Capo D'Istria,
and in all the booth-shaped Italian Peninsula!
Ermanna Melli from the city of Forli was the artist
with that mellow, sensual and expressive voice!
" What's this desire? " a delicate and spontaneous love song,
captured a large audience, both young and old...
it was a song telling of the emotions of a young heart too naive,
falling in love with someone much older that she was, indeed;
and it made many people cry, perhaps recalling the time
they fell for someone as special and gorgeous as Mary's dream guy!
Mary, your song still plays on the airwaves of that radio station and although
you no longer sing it in the manner of a famous virtuoso: the visions
of your past life become too real as you performed it by surprise;
it is the jewel you left on earth for us to remember you by,
and it immesely dazzles like every rainbow in the Capri's sky...
when an unknown tenor improvises his impassioned aria with an absolute sorrow!
Mary was the poetess who dedicted her time
writing about love, but never found it in reality;
she was my oldest sister inspiring me with her creativity!
Mary had the potential of becoming great and shine,
but the tides turned abruptly and fate wasn't kind:
even today, her fearless voice comes alive through her poetry!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
When the parents are gone,
the kids survive by heeding advice and carry on
their wishes by honoring their true intent;
flowers sprout and then bloom,
never living their fragile, little ones to a fateful gloom...
as sunshine nurtures them!
Glimpses may not give us a full image,
but they can reveal their glossary of life and death,
and it depends on us how to put it
into a consequent sentence and give meaning to it;
our parents raised us up to a certain standard,
hoping we'd pick up the slack where they left off!
And will we be elated by parental pride,
by doing all things that are beautiful and honorable...
great things that endow us with exuberance and fortitude,
to conquer every boundary and win every battle?
History can take us there, showing us the ones who fearlessly dared:
Moses who bashed rebellion and Jesus who lashed the whip!
Many will stumbled on life's deception,
others will cautiously follow its trail to wisdom,
to find themselves acclaimed by glory
and flourishing in their endeavors: they will find immortality;
and if anyone was deceived by the notion...
that nothing outlasts us, they are completely wrong!
There's no greater joy than remembering
how our parents leaded a religious life without a spot,
believing that obedience was a reward for longevity; and was
God ever put out of their thoughts...not fortifying
their spirits and making them stand on a solid rock?
Foolish persons shouldn't be pitied for their self-inflicted wounds!
The kids can survive by heeding advice, unfraidly facing their challenges,
alleviating their fears with the words that they received from the elders:
walking on a straight path, avoiding danger and harm, to live a golden youth
and a longer life...when most youngsters lose these to drugs and lust;
and with no gray hair on their heads and no stories to tell their granchildren,
who are the victorious ones that should declare thier well-merited crown?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009