If deeply roars a bard for epic muse,
like newborn lambs that crave their mother's milk;
if feet that lightly trip along with shoes
of Mercury whose message speeds, like silk,
with lightning's sudden flash and peals of thunder;
if fate told jokes, regaled with humor's laugh,
then life, Greek tragedy, with comic blunder,
mocks man's pride, hubris, ego, using his gaffes
(with bathos). But high drama's theatric peak's
for bards and Elizabethan playwrights
who, like seers, see with vision, craft unique,
wond'rous, and grandiose plots of lofty heights!
But to give up this dream that seems sublime,
I'd wish for, still, love, children, peace, and time.
What if fruitless should grow a goodly deed,
A pleasant song is tuned with poignant lilt,
A buoyant theme, on notes of bathos’ built,
If so, how long would last my pompous creed?
A creed called greed, a wondrous working glue.
Wisdom weighs when battles of life I wage,
Tall ideals alone would seldom woo,
Fruits hanging and ready to reap must rage.
With renounced heart were I to eat my bread,
Fully detached from life’s unfolding plot—
Dependent not even to blood cells red,
I doubt, if I can fill my karmic pot.
Amidst life’s scores of enticing lures laid,
I’d struggle keeping vultures off my head.
________________________________________
Sonnets | 02.04.2009, revised Jan 2024| lilting
Poet’s note: He that wants the least is the wealthiest man in world. This is fine as philosophy. However, one feels a bit uncomfortable. Without a little bit of self, working as glue, greed that governs, man perhaps, far from any progress, would have still been dwelling in a cave.
On pensive planes of wraith-like existence,
Are stoic shadows feigning affection;
Crimson lips of withering consistence,
Have lost their craze for craving confection.
Tear-filling prisms tilling a rueing sphere,
Pathos prowling, pity's wild and roaming;
Reminisce wind-blown is tumbleweed drear,
Bathos like bramble bur clings in gloaming.
Tin foil hearts' echo sad droning down-beat,
Rose petal ballet two rust figurines;
Today's gray sleet does douse yesteryears' heat,
Apathy's ennui directing the scenes...
Love once aflare in fanfare marigold,
Lies now a wizened weed, dried and stone cold.
Susan Ashley
November 2, 2017
And Africa came with a beauty regalia,
the sun was on her with a toothful giggle,
the breeze waved by dancing along paths.
She seized many eyes attention at the gate,
no human was able to think or worry again.
Her eyes shone like the stars of heaven,
Her nose pointed professionally to the sky,
beautiful legs she came with for all to see
and men were lost in the myopic of their love.
Home she brought back from abroad to stay.
And Africa came with a broad grin to tender,
Mother praised her innocence to the waves,
Father rejoiced with his clans who joined.
We have gotten a land flowing with love,
nothing is cupped in the envy of their soul.
And Africa shall serve all who dreams,
clothed in a freeway way of understanding,
Our yams are at the village square for her,
We have prepared the kola nuts for all clans
No more bathos of war in the land of Africa.
This is our dreams that a messiah to come,
now Africa has come with a gladden heart
no more pains of Armageddon shooting war
For who stand here is of harmony and grace
And Africa came with love to protect all.
©John Chizoba Vincent
Bodies meet fireball
get down to the well of love
To collect bathos
Fusion square the shooter traced her moonbeams shock therapy
Bionic's, vesture sequin love's sentinel premonition's swaying children
Johnny Rotten taking notes strike a pose hydro-embryos, bedazzled wombs
Thirteen strings with her will to be merry enshrined their entities lyrical epigrams
Sapient's tattooed time his Star of David; beyond, the mirage ? Polys mischief-makers
Bathos changing chords criss-cross chromosomes beatitude's, power ballad star'spangled stanzas....
Entering, The Prince past her Holy Gates eastern skies Angelica gazing into Hope's eyes breaking bread: His King.
These tears work well their Machiavellian craft.
They blur my vision, clog my nostrils
like a vice, constrict my voice and finally
confound my countenance,
debauch my dignity,
I'll have no more of them!
This faithless wash is ended
with a firmer grasp upon a solid staff
of reason, my defense
when sentiment and tenderness assail
the fortress of my heart.
In all the years remaining
shall I then create a fortitude
contemptuous of fears, and no regret?
Will I ever understand again
the meaning of humanity.
the truth implicit in the arts?
And, will I never see the stars at noon,
or capture in my chest that rush
of aching splendor that a smiling child imparts?
And with my intellect, and on my cheek, I know.
~
the Poetaster
syllabic bastard
quoth the poet,
nevermore
thine versifier
pathos bathos
pathetic liar
rhymester runes
huckster tunes
hurry! hurry! hurry!
here's more of rhyme
no worry...or sublime
sub-worse verse
© Goode Guy 2011-09-27
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peri_Bathous,_Or_the_Art_of_Sinking_in_Poetry
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Pope
http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/poetaster
http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/rhymester
http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/versifier