Best Boasts Poems
The End of Love
A secret grief rips apart all that was
Slaves to the sexual caresses of time
Stallions in black gallop gallantly in fields
Of spring full wishes
Thou seeith the birth of love
Naked hopes surrounded by sweet perfumes
Seduced by the gods or by demon fools
Dancing, towards our own charades we sing
Funerals consume autumn’s dead poets
The gravestone cold and gray
We hug it like a long lost friend
One may see a battle lost
The other a battle won
In November we reminisce the soldier and singers too
Didst you know I was a prostitute?
Selling my soul to the hourglass of eternity
Foolishly hoping to sleep upon her breast
Shivering as others seem to fall right at deaths door
Brimstone, black and rose
The underbelly of St Laurent
Youthful boasts as the old man in cane hobbles
Generations sailed down the main
Some seeking solace others finding fame
Vaguely the recollections appear
Visions inside dreams inside the darkest fears
The end of love is near
For the hand above is reaching
As I float to the end of time
Enchantment in the crypts
Ravens dancing as they consume our mortal
Hearts
No smiles, no sleep
Thou did knowest I’m surely certain
The dance of death
Only to be followed
By a piper
And angels violins
Rags and shrouds, kiss them all goodbye
Hallelujah
In Memory of Leonard Cohen, a fellow Montrealer, 21 September 1934 – 10 November 2016.
`
O’ crooked branch and magpie’s claw,
yon rusted chains a’ sway this night
Clutch tight a sign “The Seagull's Squall”
of splintered wood and storm clouds fight
Old tavern lone this craggy shore
where angered waves accost the sand
and drenching rains from heavens pour,
whilst thunder boasts its loud command
On creaking stools with painted legs
'long the bar, a gathered crew
Expected flow from aging kegs
a frothy crown this lagered brew
Fills tankards held of one now gone
'midst pewter death in golden ale
In drunk'n stupor sorrows shown
lost at sea, his soul last sailed
Watching cloaked of shadowed mist
in darkened corner, lingered smoke
O’er long goodbyes on echoes twist
and couraged voices soundly spoke
Weaving tales a' journeys past,
voyages beyond the deep
Ports o’ call and forth day cast,
of treasures that abound to reap
When one, a glass above his head
beckons silence, moments slow
Respect, our mate now swallow'd dead,
entombed within the depths below
Then hearty cheers and farewell speak,
this touching scene if one would be
A ghostly tear now falls my cheek,
this fallen mate they cheer is me
Fading porch light lures with pale glow
a circling moth, dull-beige and bare.
As starlight ties vast sky in bows,
I shy away from ruthless glare.
Night holds secrets I’ll never know
of bold ventures and starry-eyes
of love; cast alone in shadows,
I cry. The fading porch light dies.
Unwelcomed guest, the moth again
boasts of heights, flitting and spurring
my desperate cries - through open
window, lifting higher, whirring.
Moth seeks light on wings now broken
forever gone, my dreams unspoken…
Entered in Silent One's Sadness Contest, 2/9/17
Originally for Chopped II Contest, written 11/4/14
Thankless job, I think watching
as Thurman tries to teach the young man
The lad sitting up
on the tractor
like a proud young pup
is full of piss and vinegar
half the time not listening
and half the time telling Thurman
how much he already knows...
As Thurman patiently slumps
his still-sturdy but ungainly frame
against the tractor
fingers strumming his red suspenders
a good-natured grin
slowly spreading
across his grizzled face
gleaming behind think glasses
I see a glint of soft amusement
at this grandiose greenhorn
Thurman has lived through
the Great Depression, and then
the horror of hand-combat
in World War II
one of three from his unit
to make it through-
so there is nothing this little ingrate
can possibly do or say
to break Thurman's composure today
he remains uncommonly calm
and utterly unflappable
a small chuckle slipping out
every now and then
And while the young man boasts
and blusters on about
his plans for next week
Thurman is mostly quiet, until
at length, asked about his plans
“Lord willing-
and the creek don't rise...”
he begins, knowing how
much could change by then
Based on the Scripture, 2 Timothy 3:3-13, which gives
warning to escape the snare of the birdcatcher.
On stage he struts in sequined costume
a plume of feathers cocked high on head
A thespian of no account, though in loud rant
his troupe boasts of his skill and talent
But the look of a clown is on his sad face
when he's alone. It's heartache he embraces
for he's aware that he's been misleading
himself and bleeding hearts
the extras cast in his show
Bravo! Bravo!
He's paid the audience to shout
as they stand in ovation
whistling for more; an unearned encore
He promises, "I'll support you all one day."
Foolish would-bes, presume without a doubt
that he's a man of his word, but that's absurd
for actors such as he never share the limelight
once the spotlight has shown on their faces
What price for his moment of glory
The highest toll one can pay is the loss of his soul
Each bow he takes should give cause for worry
that one day the birdcatcher will collect his due
Barter he'll pay for being haughty and boastful
for being puffed up with pride, his words all lies
for acts of unkindness, for being out of control
the foolish one must relinquish his soul
From ones such as he, turn away, turn away
and come to an accurate knowledge of the truth
His folly should be distinguishable for all to see
that those who have an appearance of godliness
prove false in the obiesance of God's Holy Word
Wicked ones go from bad to worse
misleading as though under Satan's spell
from them you should quickly flee
and save yourself from His condemnation
like the rebellious angel who long ago fell
Rising from the desert sand
was a shimmering mirage
of a thousand shouts
Heated winds of fanaticism,
intense and blowing violently loud
Shrill calls to blood prayer seethe,
breathing fiery invocations
of a perverted philosophy
Screaming death to the infidels —
a scarlet smeared mirror reflecting
black cloth covered savagery
Crimson prayers are the daubed untempered mortar
which cements the foundation of this shakily rising kingdom
Whet the glittering scimitar swung grisly:
Beheadings are the blade’s
propaganda recruitment shock TV
Desert crisis ... dreaded carrion claws of ISIS,
oasis mirage bathe the sociopaths in bloody bliss
Mutilated bodies floating upon the desert sea,
a raised dark flag boasts of a fleeting victory
Prideful utterances of unspeakable barbarity
Contemned caliphate mercurial rising ...
now descending quickly below the horizon
Crumbling desert kingdom,
butchery sow the seeds of your ruin
The sand castle rise to power was ever so brief,
a pirated religion kingdom soon to end suddenly
Taking hostage your own faith,
now the proselyte guards are
fleeing from the palace carnage
Crumbling desert kingdom,
butchery sow the seeds of your ruin
Innocent blood spilled in the sand
will be your caliphate’s undoing
Crumbling desert kingdom,
blood reap the harvest of your ruin
Let your prophets of terror and rage
shout a false sanctum call to prayer
Intoning not this one truth: God will surely repay!
47
Tell me what you eat,
I will tell you who you are,
a black cat, eat tit bird,
Everyone does as they please,
Tell me what you eat,
Black butter or cheese?
From pork or frosted salmon,
We are not angels,
Did you eat zebra?
Gnu, rice or ray,
Pigeon, or cod?
Tell me what you eat,
I will tell you who you are.
48
Why wait for the glory?
Taste the sweet monbazillac,
walks by the lake,
Go play it at the fair,
Why wait for the glory?
Listen to Bécaud or Dalida,
Admire Françoise Dorléac,
Cooking well, visiting the Cantal
Drive a white Cadillac,
Offer fruits these sweet nectar,
Go waltz on the banks of the Loire,
Read Cioran, the evening finch,
Why wait for the glory?
49
Better to think about the ducks,
To the stranger who walks
While walking his dog,
To the painter who boasts,
Better to think about the ducks,
The young girl turns around,
She finds you a strange look,
Better to think about the ducks,
Some read your thoughts,
Without knowing how to take care of them,
Will they drink jurançon together?
They like quince jam,
Better to think about the ducks.
What do you know,
About the rule of British?
It is not a rule
For Indian`s to cherish!
It started decades ago,
They began with trade
And then slowly,
They began to invade.
It started at the borders
That were close to the coasts
It was a rule,
About which Britain boasts.
What then became of the Indians
And their peaceful life?
The British turned it ,
Into more of a bitter strife.
The horrors of British rule
Steadily began to bloom.
Across our country far and wide
Began the days of gloom.
The Indians didn`t back out,
They fought for their rights.
Across the country could be seen
The start of horrendous fights.
Battles were in plenty,
Loss of lives were too.
Those who were caught were jailed
It was like a human zoo!
It didn`t stop the Indians
They wanted to be free.
They were a support to the country
Like strong roots to a tree.
Images of the horrors
Were seen at different posts.
What about innocent people?
The images haunted them like ghosts!
Few hundred years of struggle
Had come to an end.
It was decided that the British
Back to England they would send.
The country we live in today
Is thanks to those,
The brave freedom fighters
Who destroyed our woes.
Plagued with an unimaginable measure of beauty
She sits somewhere between the Indian and the Atlantic
Her history boasts of nothing but debauched slavery
Having served leaders who were very autocratic
She boasts of a vast expanse of unexploited vegetation
An even greater magnitude of untapped mineral resources
Yet her people reside in abject deprivation
As they look beyond their motherland to external sources
Famine, drought and diseases are her nemesis
Her leaders never seem to be sensitive to her plight
Amassing wealth for themselves and families
Ignoring the very reason for their current might
Oh Africa my motherland
Bursting with glory and heavenly blessings
May the good Lord stretch forth His hand
To bless thee with leaders worthy of your consecrations
Fantasy Spy
Would that I, like a Monarch butterfly,
Could fly across the fertile land and spy,
Top tree and lilac bush in the evening hush,
Swooping down above the late traffic crush.
Then on to foamy shores I would wander,
Over firs and pines, dark forests below,
With graceful freedom across the sunset,
Over Key West’s mansion and beach to go.
I would see a pirate ship in the sea,
Rushing rudders futilely try to flee.
Storm clouds over thatched roofs on the Goal Coast,
Colorful dancers, busy merchants’ boasts.
Would that I like a Monarch butterfly,
Could fly across our wonder world and spy
Said the fauna to the flora, upon the forest floor
“Which tree is the tallest, is it the Sycamore?”
The Tulip tree was listening and answered “it is me”
To which the Pine responded “Can neither of you see?"
"When it comes to being tall clearly I am very!”
“I’m not so sure, you sappy bore”, chimed the nearby Cherry.
“Such crowing from my forest friends and foolish paranoia”
“It is I, without a doubt!” Exclaimed the great Sequoia
“Nonsense!” said a gnarly tree “Till now I have not spoke"
"The grandest tree, for all to see Is me the Mighty Oak!"
The forest filled with endless boasts as the night came creeping
The stately Spruce called for a truce, the willow tree was weeping.
Said the Flora to the Fauna as the day departed,
“Happy now my mossy friend, just look at what you started!”
Your aura packs rapt confusion -
it snap drags me with a cyclone’s aloof ~
Your spring perfume cloaks your stroked fall spoof
and your bright appeal conceals delusion -
yet, my eager seeks your smoked flair’s intrusion.
My climbing hope seeks a clue -
it examines gaps in your fickle climate ~
I attempt to riot your depths of private.
Your sky-air raises hints of midnight blue
to dance breezy-twirls on my need's point of view.
Intoxication steeps your vibrations -
flirt notes disguise your spirit’s tone ~
still my swollen need seeks burns in your cool zone.
Your essence boasts self-confident foundations
while my patina pales from riled frustrations.
What Matters…
What Matters Most…
… is Real Laughter
Not Lurid Echoes
Not Just To – Gather
But Staying Close
And Less Clatter-Chatter
Less Lies and Boasts
More Sweet Pitter-Patter
On Calm-Home – Coasts
… And Strong Rafters
And Stronger Posts
Preventive Measures
For Unneeded Dose
And When Bad Guys Scatter
‘Cause Good Guys Accost
… So, Need More Lone Rangers
… Less Alter Egos
And Real Treasure
Not Trinket Woes…
Real Pleasure
Not Powder – Rows
Peace and A Cracker
Than Quarrels and Pot Roast
And To Know Better
… Than To Just Suppose
… Happily Ever-After
Not Lost Co-Host
And When Love Shatters
Hate’s Glass-Frost…
… And A Holy Helper
For Human – Uh-Oh’s !...
That’s What Matters…
… What Matters Most …
"I had a sex in places- you could not dream!"
My friend always boasts. And readers:- Pardon me,
Because all people puzzled asking him:-
" About a geography he talks or an anatomy?"
Medals in a cupboard drawer
Testament of what went before
With his enemy held no score
Boy's turned men, played at war
In blooded field or muddy trench
Gaunt eye's stared from stench
Bone and boot so weary tread
At cannons call prayers are said
From shell holes came human cries
Voices lost in shrapneled skies
Shellshocked victims tied to post
Frontline justice feared the most
Boy's to men , men to ghosts
Not the story that glory boasts
Given the orders did blindly follow
To end all wars a promise hollow
And into the drawer another set
A different time, the same regret
The cost of war just wont relent
The family grieve and loss lament
Son loses father then loses son
How many times since time begun
Still soldiers, sailors children play
From toys to guns a price will pay