Best Countess Poems
The violet tress of clover blossom,
marks the countess' winter solemn.
Her sorrow,
her cardinal wanton
for her prince,
falsely in prison.
There is no respite to her yearning.
There is no satiation to her craving.
There is no solvency to her predilection.
There is no end to her attraction.
There is no limit to her aspiration,
for her prince falsely in prison.
Her womb, her castle;
her vessel for seas
all barren wantonly.
Her ire turn rage.
Her wisdom lost sage.
For her prince caught trickily,
placed falsely in prison.
She thrusts her fists at the gyre.
She spins insults into coarse wire.
She wears poultices upon her attire.
Her paces a failed amble.
Her songs bell book and candle.
All to respite and retire,
her work to free entire,
her prince falsely in prison.
But times sands grow heavy on her face,
that turned to fright.
Her garden grows weeds then blight.
Her beauty fades from tensions tight.
Her loneliness becomes vulgar each night.
Her stolen union vanquished by mages.
Her desires robbed in vista mazes.
She stumbles through tomes and pages.
Lost now she babbles to rhythmic chorus.
Casts her blood and bruises;
casts her spirit into blazes.
Casts her lot where her grave's cleave raises.
Now no longer can she impart creation,
for her prince falsely in prison.
Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.
A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.
Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.
:: 07.31.2022 ::
Around the corner and down the block of the last street but one
in a dusty rose chair of faded glory on the lawn of a lemon hued home
regal in red plaid pajamas sits The Countess of Norwood Court.
Surveying her subjects each morning at 9:15 on the dot
she sips on a mug of coffee while a cigarette longs to be puffed
and she waves to me and Itzy the dog as we come strolling her way.
She turns her gaze upon Itzy and speaks of a dog she once loved
LuLu the miniature schnauzer whose bark it is said shattered glass
but now she's mistress to kitties they don't need her to go for a walk.
I'm convinced she's an ex Vegas show girl her boyfriend a mafia boss
a witness protection program has moved her here to be with us
driving a Ford instead of a Rolls to protect the life she once knew.
For she can not be just an old lady with cats and COPD
I'd love to hear her adventures the stories that colored her life
but I've conjured up her life's flow and a change will not work for me.
So we'll visit the countess each AM at 9:15 on the dot
she'll happily wave and give us a smile as she sends us on our way
regal in red plaid pajamas sipping coffee having a smoke
Long live my Countess, The Countess of Norwood Court
Mathematician, Ada the Countess of Lovelace
Long before computers came, computing was her space!
A daughter of poet Lord Byron and a visionary was she
Places, plaques, and paintings honoring her we now may see
Elizabeth Bathory Wakka
Was awfully good in the sacka
She'd jump on your face
And writhe with such grace
Then spit out her bright red tobakka.