The more advanced the tech devices are
The more archaic is the mind we get to use
I didn’t say that, but just read like Belshazzar
The writing on the wall amidst the booze
I don’t quite understand, although it seems
We’re on a threshold of inevitable changes
They’re coming by, like radiant sunbeams
Tore up the clouds that were gathering for ages
Into the shade I dash out of my cell
What now, another fake deliverance?
Or is it truth this time, you didn’t care to tell
But left me kindly in my blessed ignorance.
old bookshelves dwindle
one page holds all ~ big swindle
new hardback kindle
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Bookshop Poetry Contest
10/3/2021
Syllable counter PS 5/7/5
Another word for
Daybreak, everyday's best
Time to be happy
Look back on the old
Recalling the best moments
Of each newborn day
Ancient tongues dawning
Should be resurrected new
Anew modern words
http://www.old-engli.sh/dictionary.php
haiku chain
Was the task difficult?
I do not know.
Would you say easy?
No.
What about reasonably difficult?
Maybe.
I sense hesitation. Can you put it in your own words?
Head shake ‘no’.
Why not?
Long sigh. What does task mean?
Task. Chore. Mission.
Three archaic words.
Life is but a recording and has been placed in your memory
We are all actors who have a part to play on a wide TV screen
We have action, drama and even comedy
Life is but a movie that is played by you and me
We all dress up and play a part just like on TV
We film each other using our eyes as a camera so we can see
It is then recorded for watching later and we call this
Our memory
These images that we have seen have now become our fantasy
For our reality only last for a second and then, becomes our past
Poetry is a part of your pasted placing it so that others can see
Your history.
Once a poem is written it may take a while to read but then
It will be in your passed a part of your history
So, a hundred years from now your words maybe seen
As, the old poet from yesteryear who wrote poetry
Do not worry about what people say today
For tomorrow you just might be someone
Who is famous who wrote your poetry today
Passion rose quickly in the spa
Expectations now were sky high
But suddenly he said, "Oh, no Ma,"
"I'm startin' to cramp in my thigh"
Quite deftly she rubbed it on out
There weren't many places she missed
And just like that back on track
Passion returned as they kissed
Fondling and groping then ensued
The dog stared at them beside the spa
She didn't like it but, now what?
She asked, "What're you looking at Pa?"
Squinting as he looked up at the light
He sneezed almost loud as a horse
Then she happened to catch his eye
And gave it back to him of course!
Awkwardly exiting the spa
They decided to continue in bed
Under the covers, comfy and warm
They both fell asleep instead!
Heart o Silver, doth thou dither?
About the stars, or planets blither?
O grateful gods, become so weary,
Heart o silver, hast left thee teary.
Glaciated by wind and storm,
Nevermore, thy heart be warm.
Live on Facebook
I post rubbish
To caress the spook
Who dares to finish
The sleep I lose
In the wee hours of nights
Disturbed by the booze
I swill in my fights
Against strictures
Society calls taboos
In lampoon literatures
That scorn the tattoos
Adorning my arms
My torso, my neck
Without the qualms
Society spots in a speck
Akin to a storm in the teacup
Society perceives in the freedom
I enjoy as new ideas snap
From disorders in the fiefdom
Where new generations see a future
Teeming with new technologies
New social media whose cogent culture
Defies archaic eulogies and their synergies.
But we don’t need to celebrate Easter anymore,
Because we have our health service full throttle,
Anyone can come, any walk of life, many more,
There’s no conditions or qualifications to bottle.
So we don’t need Easter, we don’t need this time,
We don’t need the resurrection to throw us off,
Because it’s out of context and has become crime,
To this progressive society, so let’s laugh, scoff.
Jesus followers all those years ago, scared, left,
Were just referring to his memory for ramification,
And were not implying a physical miracle cleft,
But were only having a relationship with sanction.
On a peaceful isle of your hammock
Bring me notes from an old guitar
That I may share euphoric thoughts
Embracing a geek in silence.
Past Tolkien's edge, a rite I bless
While on sweet trail, God's pentagram
lights optical dreams to refine,
This after-life’s soft artistry.
Pour down on me, my brother Chan,
and fire my breath with your warm torch;
for an archaic rhymer glides
To nurture joy, fresh on my mind.
Cyndi Mac Millan's A Word Collage For Chan Hurst
by nette onclaud
Wickedly wanton desires ? Burning deeply..
This love's lavender lit, lanterns; buried aneath
Her sea be joyful, crimson pleasures ? Bathing aside
Their shores soaked as sands; her beauty melting within....
Shameless hands his clock, timeless ? Sighs, then she screams.
I cry in longing
For a world I never knew
Woe all ye my lament and dispose of this find
For the countenance of my tumult is indeed a gorgon to behold,
Woe ye i mourn the death of youth
I who has felt her descent
as wistful longings and mine puny regrets in this wretched world,
filling my heart to combustion with sorrow, a haggard hag.
Tears unshed shall fall covered unseen, in the rainfall of the coming storm
When the heavy clouds that shadows my soul liberate and dissipate
the burden heavy on my shoulders shall pale,
to the now clear solid face of my state of mind.
My soul fades to shades of grey
Each day when within I die
Each day when in sorrow I mourn
Each day when my heart remembers and so it cries
In longing for the rest that only death can gift
The release to decompose in the arms of lady Demise
With time to turn and mote
I seek for a constant state of mind
Where heart and soul are in melodies
or my mind and my tender spirits are in a state of oblivion
Something was always missing around
one had to die daily.
To find out, what?
Just a slip of time,
life was death and death was life.
Death of a man or death of a city
death had no other name.
Hearing the footfalls of death
dogs were howling around a temple
where god was dying.
The nation now mourns
for the banished priest.
At the burning pyre
there is still no peace.
Anger lives inside the books,
flame hides in the candles.
And a rage surges forward
in the bones of archaic humour.
Satish Verma
In more archaic times,
Full of fiction and philosophers,
The people would have
Believed
Poseidon opened his angry mouth and sucked in the tide
To reveal
The naked, secret, bottom of the ocean
Giving a horrible vision of his
Vindictive Wrath
Just before he released his destruction upon the wicked and innocent.
And it made sense to those left living.
Their gods were malleable, mercurial, mystical.
In more sophisticated times,
Full of morality and religion,
The people celebrate the
Immaculate conception and birth of the savior of man.
Meanwhile
The tide sucked into the bowels of the deep,
The bottom of the secret blue was revealed
for an instant
Before murder was released upon the wicked and innocent.
And it makes sense to those left living.
Our God is omnipotent, omniscient, and omni-benevolent.
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