Best Furore Poems
The WITCH
A
furore
in the town,
draped in black gown,
a WITCH is brewing a storm.
Bringing nightfall to the dainty
spiked with malevolence and vanity
spitting a curse from her wicked tongue
Silently scoffing the blood of old and young
eyes of medusa , cursed to the bottom of the sea
she is the descendent of a dark world of fantasy.
The magic emanates from her ravenous eyes,
rendering the stories of deceit and lies,
grimaced into the gloominess,
of shallows and emptiness,
she is brewing a storm
draped in a black
Gown .
© By rEdfiery and Liam Mc Daid 2016
A
furore
in the town,
draped in black gown,
a WITCH is brewing a storm.
Bringing nightfall to the dainty
spiked with malevolence and vanity
spitting a curse from her wicked tongue
Silently scoffing the blood of old and young
eyes of Meddussa , cursed to the bottom of the sea
she is the descendant of a dark world of fantasy.
The magic emanates from her ravenous eyes,
rendering the stories of deceit and lies,
grimaced into the gloominess,
of shallows and emptiness,
she is brewing a storm
draped in a black
Gown .
© By rEdfiery and Liam Mc Daid 2016
There is in the house a hullabaloo
Furore, a fuss, commotion, ado
The in-laws will soon
Return from the moon
Be staying with us, a month, maybe two!
Short notice, their note arrived in the mail
A bolt from the blue, a cause for travail.
Do not get me wrong
We all get along
But we’re in a fix; the house is for sale!
We’re packing our things and are under stress
And as you can guess the place is a mess.
What can we now do!
We don’t have a clue
This issue we must together assess.
The ruckus abates, in silence we sit
On boxes and chairs, our brows tightly knit
Till Susan (who else!)
“Eureka” she yells
She is the most smart, I have to admit.
“We’ll rent the hotel that is down the street
It’s small but enough (her voice is upbeat)
To hold one and all
Let’s give them a call.”
We quickly agree and jump off our seat.
Off season it is, so luck's on our side
We’re happy to get a place to reside...
This surely will cause
Surprise for in-laws
Initial concern we’re putting aside.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Children’s Limericks Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper
Placed 2nd
© 1st December, 2022
Farewell. Great lady of the sea,
your sad expression impressed
against the wry wind screen,
your final moment fixed
within a haunting mind. One by
one the family file out, dazed,
yet the radiator to be checked,
the headlights and paint work
to be inspected, red, yellow and
blue entrails to be rid of, blood
to be cleared, a final polish
to hide away the evidence.
I switch off. From the furore,
My eyes. Stray towards the hedgerow,
there you hang, ensnared beneath
a thorny crown, reminding me
of a Sunday story long ago.
Predator encircles above, soon to
play his part in nature’s garbage
disposal plan, a cruel mission
so necessary. Yet it was
only minutes ago, the heavens
were yours, the lonely ocean in
need of your presence, the lone
sailor, bearer of sustenance
in return for a moment or two.
I imagine your fledgling squawking
in anticipation, only then
to grow slowly weaker without
the means to understand, in this
a harsh expansive world. “Thanks to
Hollywood” Life is so cheap, even
yours. Only I among five give
you a second glance, so even
if I had the answer, to the
reasons why you’re mutilated
body is there, and I am here;
to whom. Do I tell it to?
© Harry J Horsman 1993
In the folds of night, as a wave, you came
Charioted in a filmy dream
All night you were with me
In love’s uncharted land, we roamed
You sang to me sweet rhymes of love
Echoing the lore of romantic lovers
Your voice choked and moist with passion
Overwhelming me with an ecstasy so rare
You fondled me with infinite tenderness
Opening in me all inlets of pleasure
Our hearts with divine furore filled
And we knew love’s sweet benediction
In the seclusion of that silvery night
Looking into the corners of your love lit eyes
I saw an ocean of rising and receding tides
And took a dip in the whirlpool of love
All night I inhaled your scent
Knew the warmth of your breath
Siphoned the sweetness of your lips
Alas! With dawn, you faded away like dew
The Banyan Tree
I the Atlas carry a home
My master strong for his
Children seven had built.
Shorts and skirts
Thunder up my shoulders,
All hell let lose,
With their galloping horse-hooves,
Ride up the stairs full a twenty.
Doomsday be here
While they make a merry!
Platoons of ghosts,
Burst through the door,
Somersaults quaking me, to and fro.
My arms aching in holding the floor,
Left and right till muscles do tear.
Roaring laughter through
Quaking windows four,
Trap door opens and shuts,
Opens and shuts.
Down they slide from
My shoulder to root,
Clinging and scraping
My shins a many.
One by one upto the stairs
And down to the root.
Witchcraft and magic
Can save me not
With wizards seven!
The lord I thank thee for the
Night so starry and breeze so cool!,
Nightly rest to heal my sores,
A generation over,
Another I do endure.
History changes not
With more furore!
Stout and and strong,
With roots many more,
I, the Banyan, will shade many more!
Balveen Cheema
September 9, 2015
Competition: Personification
(Part One) The first few hours.
I was just a ordinary man
caught up in the unruly throng,
The mob jeering and ranting
insults on the road along,
I pushed and shoved my way
through all the furore
to see what all the fuss and melee
was all about at the fore.
My heart shrunk as I eyed
in total dismay that ghastly sight,
From what befell my eyes, that Friday morn
befouling that dawning day with blight,
Was a Man sparsely clad, and bloodied soiled,
And about fifteen and a half hands tall,
His nut brown shoulder length hair
now caked and matted in disarray.
The way His hair and beard
was parted in the middle down
i knew that Man then
was belonging to the Nazarene Sect,
And brutally entwined upon His head
was a brambled thorny crown,
What more torturous and bestial
torment can a naked body be subject,
His body oozed and dripped sweat
all mixed with blood and grime,
And even more the gruesome
was the criss-cross lashes mark,
So visible, as He staggered along
on that arduous path that morning time,
Dragging a fifteen cubit long sycamore
torture-stake on His shoulder, bared stark.
His back bent and racked in obvious pain
bearing that one and a half hand in diameter log,
Then when, He stumbled in His stride
and before the Roman Centurion Him wanted to flog,
For that Man's wretched agony
and pain, I no longer could bear to stand,
Then in haste that Man to help
I shed my outer garments and tossed it to another man,
I stayed the Centurion's hand
and hoisted that stake upon my own broad back,
For I was Simon an Grecian man from Cyrene
and favoured arduous labourous toil,
When that frail worn-out Man turned
with blue-grey eyes and looked at me,
I saw in that look, relief and gratitude
then I knew, I did just right,
He sadly smiled as He said these words to me,
"Do you too now drink from this bitter cup?",
And added, "You shall indeed sip
its rim with Me to the end of time",
I knew Him then no ordinary, man could be
His voice so gentle and mild,
And I truly then wandered who this Man could be?
to suffer so cruelly, in the hands of man,
When He lightly placed His hand
upon my shoulder, I felt the load lightened,
as if I walked with a feather
on my back, and not His gruesome burden no more,
As we together trudged, on that path
that road, to Calvaria, that place of death,
I then knew that Man at my side
Was a Holy-man by His touch alone.
They're selling off our Airport, does anybody care?
The old Gazette's done nothing yet, no 'Save it' campaign there
The Echo there in Darlo seems quite reluctant to
Investigate the Peel Magnate and what they're pushing through
We contacted the BBC to find out what they thought
They built a reputation on injustices they've fought
But Inside Out's done less than nowt, it all seems too much hassle
Imagine the furore if it happened at Newcastle
It seems our dithering councillors sold off the legacy
Of half a million users, all done on the Q.T.
Our MPs tell us nothing, and, quieter than a mouse
Is the sinister young Minister of the Northern Poorhouse
Freedom of Information's not easy to obtain
Rumours of secret deals done, we hear now and again
But calls fall on deaf ears, to them it's all a game
Elected representatives should hang their heads in shame
It looks like asset-stripping, part of the business creed
As Peel dole out their reasons to mask their business need
And those we chose to serve us must surely think we're blind
I wonder who's being treated well, in my suspicious mind. CHING CHING.
We had a bustling airport, to us a little gem,
But giving up our heritage means simply nowt to them,
They're gonna build the factory sites and houses everywhere
They're killing off our airport and no one seems to care.
They're killing off our airport and no one seems to care.
WATCH ME SING THIS IN CONCERT. YOUTUBE
'AIRPORT' LOUIS SPENCE. Thank You
Dark clouds drift slowly across the leaden sky.
The air is stagnant, still, heavy with promise of the tempest to come.
Standing, abandoned, forlorn, on the edge of the abyss I wait.
Tears of anguish course down my cheeks, vanishing into the dust.
My head bowed in grief as if in worship to the god Aeolus.
The sound of my low sobbing a mantra to his approach.
Dark clouds drift slowly across the chaos in my mind.
The old fear has brought forth the fruit of despair as it was ordained.
Sounds of thunder arise, the harbinger of the furore to come.
Thoughts of what has been lost, expunged, from my view overwhelm me.
Memories, so many memories so many colours all turned to grey.
The moan breaks free rising with the wind, a sirens song of futile love.
Dark clouds drift slowly across the ruin of my soul.
The sky is lit with bolts of white light joining heaven and earth.
Scars of wounds long healed reopen, I bleed for each friend lost.
Terrible is my lament as my head rises and I turn to face the gale.
More than heart can bear, the pain, the grief, the loss, my true friend.
The crescendo of sound and light is reached, the edge of the abyss stands empty.
Crystalline waters
Spring of life,
Traverses newer paths,
Trace the flow of crystalline waters,
Waterfall,
inspires to meditate,
Serenity is immediate,
Stand at shore,
waters buzzing galore,
Furore engulfs agonising throes,
Sets new rhythm,
Tunes the heart beat perfect,
Thoughts flow constant to soulful enthral !
Written November 2nd, 2014
By Dr. Upma A. Sharma
For nette's Crystalline contest
Winnie the witch was seeking romance
So headed off to the Halloween dance
She went with her old school friend Mary
Who is cute and pretty but incredibly hairy!
Pumpkin lanterns light up the darkened room
Casting eerie shadows in the gloom
Winnie had her eye on a wizard called Arty -
She’d met him at a ghost and ghouls party
Arty asked Winnie to take to the floor
Scary costumes caused such a furore
Zombies and ghosts were sneaking a kiss
Arty kissed Winnie … his lips didn’t miss!!!
The music changed and they started to bop
Arty kicked Winnie’s leg - she began to hop
She burst into tears in the middle of the room
Arty helped her to the seat with the aid of her broom
Winnie’s ankle was broken – it was clear to see
They had to fly on his broomstick to casualty!
Contest May I dance with you
Sponsored by Galeo DS
Many thanks to Mama Bear who sent me the image which inspired my poem
10~08~16
Symphony No 9
enter sounds of pianissimo allure
Elysium with piano keyboard pure
floating along Schiller’s poem “ode to joy”
faint piano fingers find her bashful coy
leading emotion along a subtle score
three trombones follow the soft violin strings
choral symphony opus in love with wings
the allegro meter picking up slightly
the master deftly lifts the music gently
leading the way for music to fly and soar
two horns drop to an adagio slowing pace
brass horns bring the B flat for the extra bass
tempo slow leading to a prime horn solo
his genius growing the perfect audio
audience gravely silent waiting for more
bass drums bring in the fourth a big ovation
brass trumpets rejoice the crescendo occasion
its percussion and contrabass swooning artistry
this symphony is art breathing life into poetry
symphony number nine; Beethoven’s life crescendo furore
Tribute to Beethoven’s final symphony when he was deaf
hugely influenced by Friedrich Schiller’s poem” ode to joy”
Reflecting his work in 4 movements building to the final vocal
Crescendo in the 4th movement (increased syllable count per line in final stanza)
Wrangled truths consistently warn
wrinkled ideals persistently withdrawn
blatant bargaining the hopes of the new-born
banned are the muscle and the fighting brawn
Attained and sustained consciousness abide
ardent and absolute realities adorn
slowly creeping down an unforgivable slide
slated by an over souring scorn
Red and black bandanna's revered
riled and vile of a rebel royalty
land of lakes and volcanoes leer
lost in furore of a forgotten loyalty
Partitioned by purity of parity
pride of blood begins to pour
cloaked in the simplicity of clarity
correlated and formulated by the core
Democracy left hanging and dangled
demonstration of a presidential dud
messy, madness forged and mangled,
mired, muddy and muddled in mud.
(Sandinista realpolitik)
Clad in his double-breasted royal toga
Filled of nothing but pride and anger
His face as grim as a Pallbearer’s
His gaze dreadful and fearful like that of
A raging rattlesnake about to strike
His eyes crackling charcoal fire-red
His dancing tummy under his “Agbada”
Reminds me of a dancing Porcupine
He paces round his palace
A house built on a Rock in the Niger-Area
He fumes and puffs like a spitting Cobra . . .
“My eyes of pity had gone blinded
Only those of nakedness built on wickedness
Shone in my vibrating Golgotha
Let no man speak of hunger with anger
For I find people not scavenging on the garbage
Let no one talk of thirst in a haste
For our River Niger is like that of River Marah
It brings only taste of grouchiness and sullenness
Let men in the Niger-Area speak not of hoarding of food
For Farming is the only way to more days of famine
Speak not of hike in the Oil from our ground
For its very dear in the other neighbouring lands
Rejoice my people for the benevolence have shown you
I shall rule and rule forever till there are people to rule no more”
Our King is indeed insane for sanity left him long ago
A vivaciously looking Chimpanzee in the Niger-Area Forest
A chirpy Chimera of the Black Race, unto him I bow piously
I have impatiently listened to his drunken fits of eloquence
My king smells like a gouard of wine full of petulance
As I bore the sting of his unrivaled drunken ribaldry
I weep for a King who is as old as Methuselah
I wonder whether he had ever smell childhood
For he looks as if he had always been old from
The very scaring day he was let out of his Mother’s womb
His Majesty old and worn out like a dry hell
Let him run into the Market with nakedness on his head
Let our people beat and stone insanity out of him
Let the people in the Niger- Area Arise and thread
Like the Strong and the Mighty with history of Victory
And arrest our oppressors and other fanatical Kingpins
And let them be taken like urchin for their tyranny
And turpitude has attained untold heights
Alayande Stephen .T
5th December, 2005
12.45pm
Conceptualized after the furore of OBJ’s
Third term bid for continuity of hunger ,
Anger and excruciating Poverty for mass of the people.
===
*^* take the vivacious steps of my world's elated lilt *^*
Burning effulgent golden daystar - mirrored, reflected
Drawing up the facsimile of faith and luminescence
Trees oscillate and dance together with the rhythmic gust of breeze
Air - blowing and puffing, zephyr cooled by the brook
Turfs overran the land with exultation and furore
Fondling, gripping, and cuddling the headstream
Odoratas - ample-petaled,whitish-pink flower lilies
Bobbing in the reverberating melody of undulated waves
Nymphalid - gliding, vagabonding with elegance
Bragging its chromatic colorful ala above the stream current
Cervids drinking serenely with potable crystalline water
Salmons plunging, swimming for life and subsistence
Sedimentary rocks carried away gently, instinctively
Indigenous sanctuary - obscure, raw
Undisturbed habitat of existence
Factual heaven - midst of the woodland
Home of soothing silence - rivulet of my daydream.
> and dreams are sometimes more fun than reality <
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