His hat sat
cocked,
toward his chin
like a swainish boat,
afeared in masculinity,
not coy; cocksure,
but rebuffing
the skeptical in-laws.
Sharp, his uniform,
raven-black, white t-shirt,
seriously buffed oxfords.
Did he even move his lips
when he spoke the script;
she remembers hers,
insistent on the promise.
“I do,” delivered. I doubts,
reserved past the honeymoon.
White the glare of the moon.
Spectator stars
keep their mouths shut.
An angel, with a sure smile,
rests her hand upon her chin.
She knows it will take a while
for claws to retract, to polish
their tongues. She has time;
they think they’ve none,
but they do “I do,” looking ahead,
looking back at the good times,
looking at future generations.
Hoping that the kids keep
their promises. An angel
has her eyes on them too.
Holy Told-ye-o, I can’t belief
in the hot blustering sun, my pore rose
felt to the difficult ground, droopping it’s head and leafs
oh my pore pore pore rose. I am afeared its toast.
You rilly think it deservd this?
For heavens sack, it didn’t naught.
I loved that melliflous flour like I love my too kids.
I cant belief the weigh human beans with no apathy laught
about it dyeing!
Wee Willy Winkie
and three wee pigs
had a wee drinkie
more than a swig
before going to bed
but woke in the wee hours
with a sore head
and the need to wee so
into the woods
behind a tree they did go
(one pig collected twigs)
when outside in the wee distance
there came a wild wee howl
oh no... the Big Bad Wolf
then was heard more than a wee growl
altho' not spent yet afeared for their lives
a wee farther to roam
Winkie's wee willie and three wee pigs
went wee wee wee all the way home
Frayed border prints paste illusion,
worn-out inks swirling bleeds,
The hauls, stareways, persuasion,
privileged balconies.
Antiquities of read reviews,
claims of a rustic quill,
to scribbled marks a light verse muse,
and forever bestill.
I hear the silence of the slams,
satirical critics,
synthetic irony exams,
stardoms paralytics.
It dominates its point to rise,
where life did emanate,
afeared facade recital trice,
timeless collaborate.
A reenactment of Bo Peep,
tough be a ruminant.
My first part, blossom -- was a sheep,
I was magnificent.
Maybe tomorrow my ink won’t be sticky
A verse will take shape as it flows
I’ll see what I’ve written and won’t be too picky
From now on it’s anything goes
Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about sorrow
Keep ‘funny’ for some other day
My pen will find ideas to sneakily borrow
No copyright shall bar its way
Maybe tomorrow my pen will advise me
By writing two letters: ‘A.I.’
My scruples tell me I could never agree
So, maybe I’ll pass that one by
Maybe tomorrow my pen shall not wander
Alas it shall write not at all
Integrity isn’t a value to squander
A man and his pen must stand tall
Maybe tomorrow I’ll find inspiration
My pen shall be truly enthralled
I’ll write a whole poem, to my consternation
Lest my pen should be quite appalled
Maybe tomorrow my pen will run loose
With notions, some free and some weird
Maybe my pen will shrug off all abuse
And write silly stuff less afeared
Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an idea
That my pen can pick up and run with
About an aardvark that went into IKEA
I’m a poet… so live and let live!
#12: Space Ghost-ed
Let's naught add to Space's new oddities,
we've space between our ears, with a spare room.
Silos hushed ... Grace spots our credulities,
our space mid-ear's blessed--a brain stained attune.
Post-Life; same space; new point--afeared darkness,
when question, "mark," life's course--you must enter
price if not taken; parts fatal, parts guess,
choose--right proves true, and--wrong haunts lamenter.
Existence; same brain space--darkness remains,
(dark alley, blind spot, or scary neighbor)
sensed points in life--in your space, your caused stains,
trifle (take) space. As written, (take) detour,
and highly fill the space between your ears,
to the accords of The Book of Life ... cheers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dawns a courtroom closing in on midday, and a cheery sun
uncovering its place being less demanding--a sage who
dons sufficiently in her vocation that imparts one who bears
a respectable position, and one of a high office--so without
delay, the judge withdraws to his chambers for consultations
with the defense attorney and prosecutor, et al., she then
advances towards the lone defendant from her private seat
in the gallery--an officer of the court, immediately takes
notice of her movements and in anticipation presented her
with a chair for her pleasure--the defendant who sees her,
respectfully stands, whereto, she politely informs him that
he may remain seated and air him in a one-sided
conversation being the soul speaker, and he as the soul
listener. Albeit, exceptions to that disclosure evolved at the
end as there is cause for the conversation to become ironic.
*The opener of My Short Story: White Lies, in two parts; I'm
afeared of old habits unchanged as alit surface, amid dim, and
aligned depth of mired cliché, sways a gavel 'ere ...
#2: A Day Ends
Amidst the noisy sand castles crumble,
afeared shook ceases, a slamming silence,
tis a rippling pond cross o'er to humble,
tranquility transfers, hours for nonsense,
these shooting stars like asteroids deflect
your day lived is nevermore, stay awhile,
happiness claims a heart's duty ... connect,
righteousness pause, funny things cause a smile,
snags voided, problems solved, caveat crossed,
in the least misfortune, up in the air,
if there is no closure, there'll be a cost,
to exhaust all that is human ... prayer.
Period of cleansing and making whole,
goal hour is here ... the spirit joins the soul.
There once was a guy with a beard.
It was bushy and white and afeared.
And he'd like to say
That he brushed every day,
And everyone else was just weird.
The wind whipped through the vale that winter night;
he hunkered down, his watch to keep.
A solitary star gave off its light;
oblivious, the sheep
lulled by their shepherd's song, lay slumbering in sleep.
They suddenly were no longer alone;
an angel of the Lord appeared
and all about, His wondrous glory shone.
The shepherd, much afeared,
shook, naked and exposed; the sight, his senses sheared.
But grace on grace, the angel said, "Behold,
I bring you tidings of great joy!"
And thus, just as the scriptures had foretold,
Immanuel, a boy,
announced, not to the rich, but to the hoi polloi.
And as he spoke, 'twas like a switch was thrown,
the veil drawn back, a mere facade;
surrounding him, a multitude had grown.
A sight that overawed:
the host of heaven singing, glorifying God.
—————
for the A Christmas Special Poetry Contest
sponsored by Emile Pinet
written on 12/3/22
From the second chapter of Luke, in the a:b:a:b:b rhyme of an English Quintain with 10:8:10:6:12 syllable counts...
Loading up on the holiday bear with gifts and the sleigh
Christmas elves said “you have to yell out ‘hey hey hey!’”
I thought it was “Snow! Snow! Snow!” the bear stated firmly.
His pants were too tight, and his junk was all squirmy.
“It is ho ho ho!” a voice said above a long white beard.
Now get off my sleigh, or you’ll all be afeared!
Santa! They hollered. We thought you had infection today.
That is not a big problem, I had medicine every right way.
No one is going to be yelling ‘hey hey hey!” on Christmas day!
She was yer postcard type of witch
Long black cloak and red striped hose
Pointy hat and straggly raggly hair
Even wart of requisite size on nose
Miaowly cat of evil demeanour
Balanced there on her broom
With a certain air of sang froid
As she steered around the room
But eye of toad and tongue of newt
Plus any spell known just couldn’t right
That she couldn’t fly by the moon
Cos she was so afeared of heights
She never made the witches ball
Never danced the Evil Tango
If one just can’t ride one’s broomstick
There’s no way known that one can go
So she sits at home in misery
Frantically searching for a spell
A charm a potion or incantation
To solve her perfectly dreadful hell
Oh she can curse with the best of ‘em
Cure warts and other various ills
But how can a witch be credible
When she’s always having spills
How can a witch have pride
When she can’t leave her room
To attend her monthly local coven
Cos she keeps falling off her broom
Well, I had my shots – also my booster,
And ain't been near afeared as I used-ter.
Wearin' a mask
Ain't no hard task.
Think old Doc Fauci is a true-bluester.
He came by to see her project, not caring for Zoom.
His male arrogance preceded him into the room
She attempted to show him her cyborg solution.
Off task, he told her about his ideas for pollution.
I thought you were here to see my project, she said.
He was not embarrassed, this pompous guy, Ted.
I am here to see if anything you are doing is worthwhile.
She did not give him any leeway, a joke or a smile.
This scientifically minded woman is all business.
She began drawing in the air, cyborgs appear through kismet.
The misogynist male was intimidated as a computer appeared.
He was out of his element and became a tiny bit afeared.
*Image of Lady Bug by Pixabay.
IHO We Ladybugs Who Started It
(Gender-Neutral)
My dearest ladybird,
with your orangey shield,
protecting your body when stirred,
as the creatures who languish after you,
their piquant beckons skill to wield.
Becalm, I'm not afeared ...
misterbird flew revealed.
2021 July 17
e.g., Julyme
RhymeScheme; abacbab
Structured Lines
Sub Categories
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