I waited for the crosstown bus
Forever and a day.
That may be an exaggeration,
But it felt that way.
At least three dozen people
Were bemoaning what became
The perfect opportunity
To find someone to blame.
To make things worse, a bus was parked
Right near where we’d hop on,
Although the driver, maybe
On a break, was just plain gone.
At last a new bus showed and so,
All three doors had a crowd.
The driver opened none of them,
The grumbles getting loud.
When finally, he made a move,
The front door opened wide
And access to the other two
Was out and out denied.
More kvetching, but we inched our way
And finally could board.
I snagged a seat (not many left),
Which felt like a reward.
At least it wasn’t freezing and
I wasn’t running late,
Yet surely, it’s a well-known fact
That no one likes to wait.
A
sexy
blonde bombshell
fresh and footloose
notoriously
enticing, ensnaring
dragged me by my nose-ring
bewailing, bemoaning made me
walk down the aisle towards the altar
intentionally intimidating.
"cor meum"
Within the end of "IT" all
no matter gender, cause, colour, creed,
place in life, entitled or without title,
healthy or diseased, or
the choice of who we are,
who we lay in life with and
Love –
yet must never harm a child -
when that time comes,
water in the blood
blood in the water,
there will be great misspellings
of misread meanings
the talking in tongues
of minds in idle
treading water
with all
the lost and found
bemoaning
vaccuous ghostings
and small trolls time wasting
the Woolfish hours in small ponds
on great tidal waves of walls,
the message, poetically
is clearly spelt –
within the End
of IT all,
Love is Love is Love
perfectum imperfectum
immaculatum cor meum
in omnibus
arcanum penetrabile
gemma Christi
the decoded glistening read jewel
found in that dark place
embedded in every heart
Love is Love is Love
then, as One
cor meum
One has won
Candide Diderot. ‘25
He lies on his bed in the rest home -
the old man that nurses all there
have given the nickname Old Pickle.
(Of course they've seen beneath his underwear.)
Like greenish blue cheese
bulge the veins of his legs.
By this stage of his life,
he wished they were pegs.
He once was as smooth as mozzarella,
melting every woman with his smile.
Now his body is crumbling away.
His smell is somewhat barn-yarn vile.
Old Pickle loves the pretty nurses.
Amazingly, he can get it up still.
Bemoaning his looks, he lies in his bed,
wishing it weren’t all such a big dill.
Colonisation Poetry Contest
Kai Michael Neumann
Hawaii, my birthplace, and hometown
Fell victim of being colonized and uprooted
Those dirty rats ceased the cheese
By the 1900's the U.S annexed the territory
In other words, Hawaii was taken by force
And without consent
It's like the dirty rats came in and flexed their muscle
Much to the heartache and protest of the natives
Those disease-carrying rodents overthrew the kingdom
Queen Liliuokalani was forced to abdicate
A cultural genocide took root
The teachings of Hawaiian in schools wiped out
Housing and land requisitioned and displaced by military bases
And the underbelly of those dirty rats grew and grew
Today Hawaii is still a tropical paradise
Tourists flock to the island in droves
There are palm trees and sandy beaches everywhere
But it's the whispers and echoes of the natives
Pointing a finger at the dirty rats
And bemoaning their freedom and the 50th star on the flag
That will be forever lost
N/A-Another one. What else is new? I should go back to playing checkers.
'Tis November,
Downpour!
The rain rained in torrents,
Potholes filled with flood,
Automobiles
Snailed their way to and from,
Our climate changed.
The wretched,
Made wretched
By corrupt officialdom,
Famished,
Drenched,
Huddled in makeshift shelters
Bemoaning their sorry state.
The flood transported
Lifeless bodies of street beggars
To the depths of big drains.
The sirens blared,
Indifferent state officials
Driven
To and from nowhere
By daredevil drivers.
My eyes stricken with grief,
My heart heavy with sadness,
Cascade of tears
From my grief stricken eyes.
Reflection
Staggering out of the maze
his mind still swaggers
Mustering up his wit
he shored up his faith
Sulking his present state
he craves this cringing hope
Bemoaning the looming darkness
he detest this fate
Yearning for a reprieve
he is caught
napping on the trail
“I hear sounds on the roof,” Mama said.
From her bedroom she rushed, and her head
she stuck out the door.
Seeing snow, nothing more,
she yelled, “Nothing’s there, kids. Back to bed!”
Little Bill, though, had heard the sounds too.
What his mother said couldn’t be true.
When he woke, he could see
his gifts under the tree.
“It was Santa,” cried Bill. “I just knew!”
On the roof of Bill’s house Christmas Eve,
there was someone. Not Santa was he.
Bemoaning his plight
as sub for the night
was the trustworthy helper elf, Steve.
Two Bees or Not To Be
Bumble bees buzz busily
In Betty’s big back yard
Balmy breezes blow in from the bay
Beautiful the butterflies
That flutter here and there
Bluebells and begonias gently sway.
Beyond the far horizon
Below the setting sun
Bobbing boats upon the water blue
And far above the seagulls soar
Bemoaning with their cries
Two inconsequential mortals,
Me and you
sad and lonely inside, like a hollowed tooth with cyanide
groaning and bemoaning about the market, the trade, the money in his bank, thats who mr cottonmouth is
a very rich man with a house in his south
who whines and pouts, while others put his fires out
his tongue is long and split, with two little twins that drip
be careful, if you work for him don't trip, don't make him flip
he'll rip the stage, and try to mend the page
with the same greed that would make your mouth go dry
and like an animal, crass
or a poor child cornered in class
if you ask, why he basks so in the glow of his so called foes
he'll say its me or them, i deserve better than their pen, while he bawls and points, at the street
but if confronted with any form of the truth, it's almost comically as if theres a little cute cat, holding his silvered tongue, straight to the roof
he'll start to mold, his mouth like a snakeskin wallet that can't fold
filled with unpaid bills
but his voice won't go shrill, or squeak, he's adamant you see
that it was "them or me", refusing to believe
that he has soured all the nuts, giving them an awful bitter smell
...
I'll make you a cuppa coffee
whilst my heart remains
waiting to receive the
other stolen half
playing the melancholia tunes
on a piano in the ocean
with broken bemoaning keys
dreaming my dread will
float with the
curling reflecting waves
I'll make you a cuppa coffee
mixed with my eagerness
to be enough
and to become
a cumbersome pillow-covered boulder
willingly chained in place
for you to fall on
I'll make you a cuppa coffee
after the rain
hot n soul-comforting
sweet to the first sip
with instant anomie bitterness
swooned with the
sugar cubes in the
coffee creamed heart-stricken
shaped swirls
I'll make you a cuppa coffee
with a heart suffering
bearing heavy weights alone
desolate, only
tumbleweeds flowing
abrupt earthquakes
on the verge of
collapsing completely
awaiting the day
someone makes me mine
...
we walk alone
fate bemoaning
dethrone ego
trickling streams enlist fingers stroke
translating silent stares script air bubbles
soul skirmishes dying and breath twitches
her amort jabs shatter blind eyes
soft breaths linger aphonic sighs
surfboarding alongside rocky creeks
you wish to decry me with metaphors
whispered secrets shared solely betwixt us
words untied weighed by fireflies glow
bemoaning to aurify amid fiery solar flares
hoping for air in a pathless stream
let me shed words from balm of dry lips
you said that you might catch them
I've seen the way a glass dances, though
slips through your fingers and shatters
I hear a forlorn violin pluck its strings
catacombs lurk in a hollow cage
when it beleaguers, it wails and shrieks
an uncaged spirit walks with a dog
left, just a beshrew echo in a silent world
O to be a poet!
What must I do?
Need special rhymes
I pursue…
perhaps elegant forms
transcending more common,
like Midas touch
words golden~ a poet’s Mammon!
O when will an artist get honored
due – afford even a stove without a hand
operated flue; companion after companion
in wraps, out the door, shouting,
a chilling~ I love you...but I’m Through!
Unable to fill her stomach enough
with elegant phrases, with grand sketches
on pages, while her less
enamored friends render their prosperous
soulmates lavish praises: hooked up with
lawyers and doctors, learned researchers,
doing battle with nature’s debilitating curses --
politicians…? O Well, no one’s perfect
while everyone agreeing, the dedicated
artist, is such a well-intentioned, thoughtful bloke
the irate landlord shaking his head, again bemoaning
I know...late with the rent, still broke….
Hay the frog was pondering with strife
How would he justify living his life?
Would he be remembered even by his wife?
His heart felt as heavy as a butter knife.
Hay would not hop, croak or sing.
He was stuck on rewind, the poor thing.
Bemoaning his choices, like a ding-a-ling.
His friends rolled their eyes at the Debbie downer king.
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