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Details | Hat In Hand Poem | Create an image from this poem.

IT'S A MAD HATTER'S WORLD

A spinning world globe just set off the center of its axis pole,
Welcome to the mad-mad Hatter’s topsy-turvy upside down
Wonderland, just another inside out hole where bunnies ware
Waist coats and fancy pocket watches!
Empty tea cups, please move down one place, as this riddler
Of whimsical nonsense speaks volumes in sheer delights oration,
In his long tuxedo top hat and tails, a gentleman amusement maker,
Whom knows how to put on the Ritz with classical distension.
It’s a mad, mad Hatter’s world after all isn’t?
The ring master of the human imagination, a carnival clown
Of wonderland but here in the mad hatter’s world of wonder,
Nothing is what it seems to be?
What a mystical place of total non-sense, just through the 
Looking glass of realities rippling pool, here time is just relative,
And the mad hatter of poetic slapstick, tips his hat to all those
Whom fall through seeking a retreat from realities harsher view
On life!
Times law breaker tossing his hat high up into the air, a gentleman
Time bandit living on a no time limits schedule, but whatever sets
His fancy at that moments frozen vision!
Fancy’s fanciful character living on the edge of the glass sill of 
The queen’s judgement, off with his head, existence’s rebel
Whom smiles at the Cheshire cat with an amusing antidote,
Mind your own business you noisy little pussy-cat!
A time juggler with flying tea cups and saucers, a mischievous fellow
Spewing out poetic illogical limericks as a caravel carney, waggishly
Winking at the innocent soul!
Wizard word magician of this outrageous kingdom, left off the hook
And out of control, click, clock Mr. Tick, Tock, this grandmaster of 
Illogical time, but the mad hatter does it with such a blaze of savvy’s
Pointe savoir-faire as he bows hat in hand unto each new arrival.
Listen can’t you hear this artistic fellow rat-tap, tapping at the
Thin glass of the tilting mirrored timepiece, laughing out loud
As another young Alice slides down the rabbit hole of
 The timeless.
On the stage of life, a royal flush takes it all, as the queen of the 
Nivea heart screams off with head one last time, the hatter bows
Low unto she of noble birth, then laughingly rides off into the vast
Horizon of wonderland, waving maybe another time your majesty!
Oh time juggler tossing fifty-two pick high up into mid-air,
As the cards spin wildly with an unearthly mystical tone, 
Whistling this gentleman gypsy, catches one by one in a 
Shuffled deck, slides them within his vest pocket, and smiles
Slyly at Alice, shall we forth my dandy gal, for there is much to
See and experience here in this realm called wonderland!

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO ANDERA HOPE YOU LIKE KIDDO





















Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2016


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The Mad Hatter

Multiple choices with one last try, amid this myriads maze

Someone very dear unto myself asked me the other day

"Is the sun shining where you are?"

So I took a crystal glance, into an oblong box....

Actually I thought, as I peered ever closer into this warping glass

It all seemed somewhat cold, wet and gray!

Raindrops dripping from the mostly barren branches

And winding their way down the misted window, of panoramic views....

Hues reflecting, submitting, the paradigms of practices profound?

A darker shade, shades; rippling the prevailing winds

Which echo within this momentary passing, of paradoxical hands

Words of whispers, which seem so transparently clear

But only in the vague, of twilights turning....

As abstract, as the voices I have heard as of late!? 

While clinching leaves, left upon the transient trees

Tattered by the gust of times perpetual blinds, descend

Within these obtuse waters; like tossing waves about a churning sea

To and fro, amid the riptides, of teeterings dance and sway....  

While holding on like spoon fed birds, upon the precarious wires, of waverings way

Bathing in these open skies, of morellos want and need! 

A concord of sorts; this hearse of harmonies chords

Smatterings of immersed, within the funnels of fallings, from whence they breed

Shadows, dancing beyound the dimming lamp post lights

Crooked forms cast, as the silence begins to settle in....

For all is not always what it sometimes seems!?

And yet, there are some that still do stand, afore these chalkboard blocks

Always beholding the brighter promises, of the soon to be coming day ~

Theirs is no easily shaken reed, beneath these storms of seethe....

Where maliciousness is not within the window wells of proven

Sorrows, always sprinkled upon the platters, of these hell bent things?

The answers found within the prisms, of risings columns beyond the rain 

Inverted reflections, spiraling from the tainted gray grim skies

While these cankerous versions of resonatings darker light....

Subterranean realities, of the solar ecliptics matinee midnights, implode!   

Sitting upon my window ledge, an image, of the end of time

Hat in hand, with a familiar impish smile, and, the hollowest of eyes?

A reprise, of the wet, the cold, and the blue-black, day....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                                                 The Mad Hatter


Copyright © Johnny Rhinem | Year Posted 2014


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An Introduction: an introduction

Considering how many times I set out to pen a small,
Master piece of art, a gem that might underwrite,
The utter liability of being just that stamp,
Or tramp, or whatever other denomination one might reliably take into use,
To put me in some camp,
By way of classifying the contingent being -me- 
Whose eagerness presently strives to present 
Himself as himself as truthfully as Truth writ large,
In terms, of course, both endearing, flattering and “brutally honest”,
(Which, parenthetically, is what my soon to be deceased ex-step-mother-in-law once Said,
Would be the way she would have to describe some of My more salient character flaws)
To you my reader, my chosen few, my undeniably very few chosen few,
As a being in the here and now,
As living flesh and burning spirit,
As a man of substance and substantial capacity 
To transmit radiant rays of thoughts,
That reside, quite Evidently, 
And in no doubt to some degree by Providence,
Within an interior space- MySpace- where nothing gets elbowed around-
Nor for that matter ever gets liked, commented upon, shared,
Or, even worse, put at risk of going viral-
For this is after all an authentic  space, 
Not a virtual race to create a face,
Nor a terrific place to leave a cyberlinear trace
But a true mental galaxy, 
An individual-wide web of self-associating neurons, 
Where all and everything is self-made and dependent upon Nothing more, 
Than a small light switch which I alone am the master of-

This then will indeed be far from the grandeur of the art I imagined.

Therefore my fair friend
I humbly ask,
With hand on heart,
Notwithstanding those fingers so inclined to be bent and crossed,
And hat in hand 
(That would be the other hand)
For your forgiveness and forbearance
And do solemnly promise to get this little ritual over with
As fast as a cat on a motor scooter- 
Which is an image I kind of like by the way
Because it reminds me of Sally,
The old toothless Steinbeckian woman who lived alone above the basement apartment,
A dank little hole I might add, 
Back in 1992,
Where my ex-wife, now an Artist, used to live in a snotty little town called Westport.
Sally uttered those timely words
With a Cheshirean grin to boot her point home
Because her landlords were kicking her out
Not only for going sour apple on three months rent
But for being a rotten apple to begin with in a part of the world
Where only Golden apples were entitled to reside.
Sally had to get the hell out.
Faster than a cat on a motor scooter.

Oh toothless rootless Sally how I celebrate you!
Hardly a master of your own destiny
You were at least a Masterful speaker
Unlike those marginal creeps,
Mr. and Mrs. Somebodyimportant, 
Whose sharp noses wedged you out 
Of their little cash crop cottage 
And who no doubt live comfortably  
This very day
In some vaulted tomb under Floridian myakka 
While you 
My little friend 
Are but dust in the wind.

With that aside now put aside 
I now commence
To end quickly this brief debriefing 
And by way of Introduction
Will only add the most necessary details to conclude 
What urgently needs to be concluded as rapidly as possible,
Faster even,
To paraphrase our heroine in modern idiom,
Then a cat going global on youtube.  

However,
One important detail to get over with,
A small but relevant 
Fact of the matter,
Is confessional by nature:
I hate introductions because they do 
In fact Matter
Under the unique circumstances
Which with bated breath and increasing alarm
I have come to recognize
As not only necessary
But obligatory
To outline
In a way-
Um…. 
How do I say this?-
That will not only defy
The very conceptual idea 
Of brevity
But defy it in such a way
As to peel its meaning down
To its very atomic anti-structure
Semantically speaking
Which is to say,
Apologetically, 
That brevity in my hands
-Drum roll please-
Is brevity in geological time.

Why you ask?

My reader,
I suffer from nothing less 
Then a syndrome, 
Unique upon this earth-
(Oh wretched wretched earth you are!)
Unique among all earthlings,
(With some note-worthy exceptions among 
Those posturing, lumbering humanoids called writers)
And certainly unique among all rational creatures
(Who Nature by way of de-evolution has so endearingly
Immunized against MyDisease by way of social nurture 
And social constructions that protect humanity’s bloodline from madness),
Called-
In proper taxonomic terms-
“Ican’tstopwritingIcan’tstopwritingIcan’tstopwritingIcan’tstopwritingeizer’s Disease”



Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014


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Ungrateful Child

If my child came to me in need
with confidence that I would heed
his plea, responding right away,
giving my help without delay,

if then he took my gift and left,
would I not feel a bit bereft
if he gave  no more thought to me
until one more emergency?

Is that not how I treat my Lord,
taking him at his loving word,
beseeching when the need is there,
forgetting him when times are fair?

Dear Lord, I come with hat in hand,
to let You know I understand 
that You are there through thick or thin,
whether I lose or if I win.

So now, right now, upon my knee,
I'm thanking You for helping me
through sorrows and admitting too
the days I have forgotten You.

I long to be the grateful one
acknowledging all that You have done.





Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2014


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Where my soul belongs

While a part of my soul longs,
To be carried away,
Far far,
From myself,
To another world,
To a mountain top,
To a lonely place,
To where the air is thin and light,
To where sensations stop,
To where feelings end,
To where noise is drowned out by clouds of silence,
Another part,
Just wants to be where my soul belongs,
Close,
To myself,
Entirely available and present,
Near to who I am,
Available,
In the moment,
Here and not there,
Truthful,
To the voice,
Who cries,
Do you see me?

—

The wings that lift me into the sky,
Soaring in the icy drafts, 
Glide with grace,
Leaving no trace,
Of the invisible pilot,
Who steers,
By the reigns,
Of the eye of the mind,
Alone,
Like a drone,
Operated in some far off place,
By a craftsman conjurer, 
Whose fingers mime,
What the imagination can not speak of.

Like a dream,
Where the magic fluid of time stops,
Just long enough,
To not disrupt,
The trust of continuity,
The wings contract,
Revealing an intention,
To impact.

In a slow, 
Steady gyration,
I am carried,
First up and around,
In a giant bow,
Like the swinging arch,
Of destiny’s hand in the sky.

The torsion and kinetics,
Leave no ambiguity,
The emotions, 
Though calm,
No doubt.

What awaits at top,
Hanging upside down,
In the air,
Strapped, trapped,
In a chair,
Is unspeakably worse than the crime,
Devised by the mind,
Of he,
Whose role is to parole,
The empty fallacies,
The narration of self,
Tells itself.

What awaits,
When the screaming starts,
In the eyes of those you love,
Is the absurdity of your own silence,
Is the utter feeling of having already given up,
Is the incompatible peace in knowing the end was near,
Somehow not bothering even,
To just say, hang in there my little friend,
I am with you, I am near,
Instead just sitting there,
Waiting for it be be over,
While he,
Who you love most of all,
Sits alone in tears.

That my friend,
Is horror…
The rest is just,
A blissful crash.
——
Hiding is the remedy,
Fighting the disease,
Forgetting is the poison,
That writers conceive.
—-

I will go then,
To that place,
Where solitary men,
Seek refuge,
From the fires of the soul,
Where broken drums,
Seek silence,
Where flowers,
Never grow,
To walk among,
Empty woods,
To count alone,
Scars and wounds,
To touch and wander,
To love and let go,
To make amends,
With friends and foe,
To whisper,
Just one last time,
The words,
Those ineffable,
Incredibly quiet,
Intensely eternal words,
Whose power
Only she could know.

Then,
As if by doing so,
The sun could set,
On the shoulders of all that I have seen,
I would say,
My friend,
I am not broken yet,
These words,
Do not forget.

Go then,
Reflect,
On the art of living,
For the sake,
Of dying,
Only,
Not just yet.
—-

The marksman who chooses his arrow,
Is not like the blind falling sparrow,
In his sight, 
Whether day or night,
The beginning of time is now,
Bend it then man,
Forfeit the other plan,
Make from the shaft and plant it.

—

This then was not a poem,
Nor, was it ever,
Meant to become one,
Which is not to say,
Nor deny,
The obvious desire,
Immanently displayed,
In the mood portrayed,
To write something poetic,
A gem even,
A crown of jewels,
For the world of fools,
Those miserly souls,
Called readers.
 
Being something entirely different,
A monstrosity of sorts,
Manifestly opaque,
Entirely myopic, dystopian and fake,
More than blurry,
Always in a hurry,
To cover over what was never even there to begin with,
One might ask,
What was it?

To which I respond,
Hat in hand,
Letter of resignation,
Hidden in my sleeve,
Be patient reader,
Do not despair,
This little speech,
Is meant for the air,
To be inhaled only,
By those addicted,
To disreputable habits,
Those little rabbits,
Who rise from the orifice,
Of one we all know,
Yet never did notice.

This then was how it ended,
Never to be amended,
Retouched,
Or recommended,
Not redacted,
Enacted,
Nor retracted,
Just left alone,
To make peace,
With the words,
Who always do,
And say,
What they please.

In the beginning was the deed…


Silence.


Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014


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The Ferris Wheel

The inevitable envy we feel
When we see our neighbour’s wealth
The eternal Ferris wheel
Up now, then down
The wheel turns
To be up
And to be down

Yet the greatest of us
Rise to the challenge
Of when being up
And seeing far
Not to look down
On those below

Not to spit
And not to drop
Popcorn snow
On those below

For who knows when
A turn – and then
Those above
Will fall from love
And become in a cycle
The bottom few
On the poor man’s pew
Hat in hand
To beggarly stand


Copyright © Daniel Human | Year Posted 2014


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In the Spirit of Christmas

Merry Christmas to you, Uncle Sam
Leaving the jobless with hat in hand

   Congress on a Yuletide roll
   Brought an end to public dole --

They’re cooking their goose, not Christmas ham



*In honor of Francine's "Christmas Contest"


Copyright © Diane Locksley | Year Posted 2010


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Love Will Triumph

The fire goes unlit, within its granite frame
heated is the argument, cold the man. 
Husband mine, please accept this suitors claim 
for he is worthy of your daughter Ann.
See her downcast face, her melancholy,  
she sickens so and I've done all I can.
Raise her ivory form, a father's glory 
accept her young man, he's come hat in hand. 
Let's end this day with a ribald story 
of how you've gifted what you once had banned.
Husband mine, relent and let love have sway.

Light the fire let the lovers flame be fanned
let this fine young couple wed without delay.


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2013


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Joaquin's Girls (Caught on Canvas)

This is a portrayal of one of my favorite paintings by 
Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida: Spanish painter 1863 - 1923. 
The title of his portait I am writing about is called
"Paseo a orilla del mar" or "Walk on the Beach"

Joaquin’s  Girls (Caught on Canvas)

Beside Valencia’s blue sea,
two graceful women walk along.
Their beauty and serenity
could be the lyrics to wind’s song.

Two graceful women walk along.
An artist’s fair and precious pearls
could be the lyrics to wind’s song:
his wife and daughter, Joaquin’s girls.

An artist’s fair and precious pearls,
one with parasol and one with hat in hand,
his wife and daughter, Joaquin’s girls,
in long white dresses, walk the sand.

One with parasol and one with hat in hand,
both, caught on canvas with an artist’s ease,
in long white dresses, walk the sand. 
Lace trailing them is billowed by the breeze.

Both caught on canvas with an artist’s ease:
their beauty and serenity!
Lace trailing them is billowed by the breeze
beside Valencia’s blue sea.

Andrea Dietrich/ Nov. 21, 2010
For Paula Swanson's Pantoum Contest


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010


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Off With Their Filthy Heads

Off With Their Filthy Heads


Should one dare oppose the arrogant kings
cry out with pride so it soundly rings
Stand with sweet honor, our hat in hand
fight corruption in this freedom's land

Those that say nay are simply afraid
going against the massive power laid
What power, have any over the Soul
death is always the unavoidable toll

A man walks his very own selfish path
bringing on misery and darkened wrath
Why not step off that selfish trail
avoid the sending one deep into Hell

Every king served a spiritual master
bad deed brought judgment ever faster
Yet having power over life and death
was a stone choking their every breath

Shall you be stalwart and honor true
let your gentle heart judge only you
Leave others to see your honoring him
or walk blindly with their light so dim

Should one dare oppose the arrogant kings
cry out with pride so it soundly rings
Stand with sweet honor, our hat in hand
fight corruption in this freedom's land

Yes, we dare to oppose those tyrant Kings
Slay them , give that filthy crown a fling
Off their heads with true justice abated
justice the goal never with vengeance hated!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-06-2015

Note: The term "King"  is used to denote great power and not necessarily royalty
in its usual interpretation.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Woke up and wrote this about 3 am this morning. Had refused to write it when earlier inspired that day.
I tell you, my muse is one very forceful and stubborn ruler!


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015


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Love Will Triumph

They were were in
the best parlour
fine furnishing of
Victorian period
dotted all round the
elaborate room
yet a tension, an
unease hangs in the
air 

Hat in hand he
stands before her
father
who hits the roof
when he asks for her
hand
I won't accept any
proposals from a
scallywag
how dare you, Sir
even suggest such a
thing

His wife stands in
front trying to calm
him
fearful he may fly
at the ardent young
man
gently soothing
things over as best
as she can
pointing out the
good breeding, an
Earl no less

Their daughter
mortified pretends
she's not there
so sad of heart as
she hears her father
ranting
will he relent? All
she wishes for, is
to be wed
despairing she shuts
herself off and
turns her back

How does it all end?
That is a moot
question indeed
will his wife talk
him round? Will
there be wedding
bells?
By the haughty
stance and the icy
cold glare from eyes
full of fire
it appears to me
that its a cause
lost before even
began

Yet where there is
love there is also
hope springing
eternal
a father never likes
to pass the care of
a daughter to
another man
pleas from her may
soften his heart,
while words of sense
and wisdom
from his wife who
will not give in
easily; so lets hope
love triumphs

written 08/23/2013

contest Charles
Haigh Wood

I have used the
british spelling of
parlour not parlor
as I feel it gives
better poetic sense


Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013


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Putting On Humility

Meekness may evoke vision
Of being on center stage; 
Yet remaining modest amid
Honor, praise and prestige.

It may also elicit picture
Of someone saying 'I was wrong'; 
Or telling 'I need help' from
The group he does belong.

Yes, it brings into mind
Of one not expecting royal treatment; 
Remaining lowly and meek, 
Even if he is prominent.

It further educes one's image
Of putting others' interest first; 
Reaching down to others
From pedestal of influence.

Lowliness leads to wisdom, 
While pride to disgrace; 
The former ends in honor, 
As the latter in loss of success.

Humility brings wealth and life, 
While ego carries castigation; 
Modesty makes joy, 
As pride puts one in destruction. 

Hat in hand gains guidance, 
As cap on head spawns strife; 
Clothe not oneself with boastfulness, 
Putting on humility in life.


Copyright © Bernard F. Asuncion | Year Posted 2016


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hello Jesus I'm Johnny Cash

                         
                         hello Jesus I’m Johnny Cash
                         its been a long and winding dusty road
                         that I have traveled to get here
                         I know that I have stepped off 
                         the right path a few times in my life
                         but I have known and loved you since 
                         I was just a little boy
                         I really hope that that counts for something
                         in my life I have tried to do the best I can
                         to help and be of comfort to my fellow man 
                         by my deeds and my songs 
                         the talent that you gave to me
                         I pray I have used it well and made you proud
                         singing for my supper in the beginning was not easy for me  
                         one of the greatest gifts that I ever received from you
                         and I believe that you had something to do 
                         with finding the love of my life my wife June
                         I thank you for that gift that changed me for the better
                         June was the wind beneath my wings
                         I have always known she was an angel 
                         from heaven you sent to me
                         I stand before you at the gates of heaven 
                         a humble man with hat in hand
                         my hope is that you will let me into heaven
                         and be invited to join your band

                        
                         
                         
                         
                         
                       
                        
                         
                       
                          
                        
                         
                        
                         
                        
                  
                         
            


Copyright © Dennis Davis | Year Posted 2011


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No Goodbyes

With hat in hand the truth arrives
Too tired for much ado

They tell us now that grandpa Joe
Had something worse than flu


Copyright © Douglas Dicketts | Year Posted 2014


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The Mad Hatter

Multiple choices with one last try, amid this myriads maze

Someone very dear unto myself asked me the other day

"Is the sun shining where you are?"

So I took a crystal glance, into an oblong box....

Actually I thought, as I peered ever closer into this warping glass

It all seemed somewhat cold, wet and gray!

Raindrops dripping from the mostly barren branches

And winding their way down the misted window, of panaramic views....

Hues reflecting, submitting, the paradigms of practices profound?

A darker shade, shades, rippling the prevailing winds

Which echo within this momentary passing, of paradoxical hands

Words of whispers, which seem so transparently clear

But only in the vague, of twilights turning....

As abstract, as the voices I have heard as of late!? 

While clinching leaves, left upon the transient trees

Tattered by the gust of times perpetual blinds, descend

Within these obtuse waters; like tossing waves about a churning sea

To and fro, amid the riptides, of teeterings dance and sway....  

While holding on like spoon fed birds, upon the precarious wires, of waverings way

Bathing in these open skies, of morellos want and need! 

A concord of sorts; this hearse of harmonies chords

Smatterings of immersed, within the funnels of fallings, from whence they breed

Shadows, dancing beyond the dimming lamp post lights

Crooked forms cast, as the silence begins to settle in....

For all is not always what it sometimes seems!?

And yet, there are some that still do stand, afore these chalkboard blocks

Always beholding the brighter promises, of the soon to be coming day ~

Theirs is no easily shaken reed, beneath these storms of seethe....

Where maliciousness is not within the window wells of proven

Sorrows, always sprinkled upon the platters, of these hell bent things?

The answers found within the prisms, of risings columns beyond the rain 

Inverted reflections, spiraling from the tainted gray grim skies

While these cankerous versions of resonatings darker light....

Subterranean realities, of the solar ecliptics matinee midnights, implode!   

Sitting upon my window ledge, an image, of the end of time

Hat in hand, with a familiar impish smile, and, the hollowest of eyes?

A reprise, of the wet, the cold, and the blue-black, day....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                                                 The Mad Hatter


Copyright © John Rhinem | Year Posted 2009


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Where Roses Bleed


So still the night around her

As perfumed candles softly dance

To the breath of tears now falling

Upon the petals in her hands



Glistening drops of memories

Cascade slowly down her face

As she is taken back through time

To a once upon a place



Where once she was a dancer

Upon a stage dressed in his smile

And blood red roses were an offering

With hat in hand,he showed his style



A nearing stranger in the shadows

He faltered from the light

Tossing blood red roses

Then softly whispering goodnight



These moments were so long ago

Still they're etched within her mind

As trembling fingers caress each petal

Her heart,it falls behind



Seeing is believing

She knows now she must move on

Though beautiful memories remain

The blood red roses have all gone



Somewhere in the stillness

Beyond the beating of her heart

There cries a thousand roses

Blood red and torn apart


Copyright © Chenoa Shiningwater | Year Posted 2010


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The Rot Gut Incident

        The Rot Gut Incident

Tumbleweeds blew into Town
Rolling two bearded cowpokes with them
Looking for some action and the sheriff
The Bloody Mary is the only saloon in Rot Gut
I reckon this is a proper place for the ornery  
For a couple of horny no good clowns  
They didn't come to sing a song or read the bible
Revenge was on their mind 
Along with other assorted kinds of crime
They wanted ugly Molly for some nasty sport
And whiskey to wet their whistle
After a spell the drunken foe came down
From playing with their whore
Staggered on the stairs for lack of balance
Demanded me, Sheriff John, served up for their amusement 
I killed their brother Bob last year in this here very bar
For starting troubles with the patrons
And stealing from the tip jar
I happened to be there with hat in hand
When they called me out 
And made me take a stand
Then drew their guns to shoot me down
If they hadn't been such drunken boozers
Slower than molasses  
I’d be telling a different kind of tale about these losers 
And they wouldn't be planted six feet under ground
In the cemetery just outside of town
Used as fertilizer for the flowers
In Rot Gut that’s just how things go down

                               7/13/14 A Town Called “Rot Gut” contest
 




Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014


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OPPRESSED PEOPLE



Their bodies stumble through the dark,
No mist of air to keep them high...
No circling the beaten ground  tonight. 
Voices  won’t sing, they will not feed 
a single blade of welted grass this day. 
No, not today, not later . Perhaps 
when evening comes again, 
the angels  will bless clipped wings, live free! .


Sparks explode on piercing skies, to drown upon 
the basement halls. A knife, more cannons ,
so keenly edged, glimmer bright--
Soon, real soon, the red will run.
People's imprints  fade to dust 
where oppression sets sail unto vicious land;
time gnawing holy prayers to mumbled speech: 
an end to things to all that’s bitter-sweet. 
A simple wish, a dream, reality? 
How do cries know the which from which?


But death comes and goes hat in hand, sometimes, 
victims begging pain. Sometimes, 
it hits so desperately, forgets to skip a beat

or take the courage to fight the evil terrorism wields?


..................................
Written for Richard Lamoureux's PEOPLE Contest
12.11.2017






Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2017


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The Ghetto

My steps, I take them slow
As I walk through the ghetto

For me, it’s not a foreign sight
To my left, and to my right
The same set, the same scene
A broken home, a broken dream
There is no sign of solid land
On these streets of deadly quicksand
What I have again found, I dread
The dead are living, and the living, are dead
Where will these souls go,
When this is all they know?

My steps I take them slow
As I walk through the ghetto

There, I met a man
On the corner, hat in hand
His name, I can’t recall
But his eyes, they said it all
He spoke of Jesus and such
I heard, but didn’t listen much
I found it rather odd
A vagabond, praising god
Here is my curiosity unmasked
“Where is your god?” 
Boldly, I asked
He leaned toward with quiet fear
“Not here,” whispered he, “not here.”

My steps, I take them slow
As I walk through the ghetto

I pass the sign of no return
What I’ll find, I’ve yet to learn
I will leave, but thankfully 
It will never leave me
I look behind once more
And stand before my proverbial door
Here begins, a better world
For this rugged ghetto girl

My steps, I take them slow
As I walk beyond the ghetto


Copyright © Briana Collard | Year Posted 2009


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Wicked's Logic

They wanna pull me from the ladder
They wanna throw me in the gutter
They want me bitten by the adder
They want a whole lot less words
from me to mutter

They wanna yank my linkage chain
They wanna toss me to the heap
They keep giving me heartache n' pain
They'll go to any lengths to disturb
my precious sleep

They're so intent to do any ' lil thing
to get at me
Greasing machine guns to rat a tat tat
at me
Louisville slugger upside the head
that ol' bat for me
They don't realize the curse was lifted
by Him hung on the tree

They're laying in wait
They're setting traps all around
Evildoers nothing can satiate
But they didn't factor in grace for me
does abound

They're letting loose with both barrels
They're casing out my humble pad
Now at the door n' not with Christmas carols 
Going away empty handed'd 
really make 'em mad

Like  moths 'round the bulb
they're getting at me
Last thing'd be hat in hand
coming at me
Astonishing depravity
these sewer rats surrounding me
Unaware the seal of The Only Holy
residing within me.
5-23-2017 Duncan R.M. Ferguson 
(main: Psalm 140, last line Ephesians 4:30) 





Copyright © Duncan R. M. Ferguson | Year Posted 2017


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Something For Gregg

I was somewhere deep in Kansas,
  on a Triumph 69’

When your song came on the jukebox,
   and hit me from behind

I was headed for a bad place,
  and cared for nothing much

When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
  my heart and soul were struck

Entranced, your lyrics captured me,
  like nothing had before

When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
  I headed for the door

But something made me turn around,
  and grab another dime

Ten more times in that diner’s booth,
  still lost within your rhyme

Now back inside the bus station,
  and sleeping on the bench

I scratch your words into the wood,
  last dollar gone and spent

My bike outside against the wall,
  the kickstand now long gone

And out of gas, my hopes have dashed,
  that unrelenting song

Waking up at ten unsettled,
  across the street I pushed

The sign said Triumph-BSA,
  the owner Mister Cush

He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
   I said “nothing—out of gas,

 “But worse I’m out of money,
 can I sell the bike for cash

“Would you please just buy my Triumph,
  I know it’s old and worn

“It got me here through seven states,
  runs great both cold and warm”

“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
  on that can we agree?”

We walked back up inside his shop,
 three bills he handed me

I thought about a bus ride home,
  my thumb looked more in line

Facing East on old route #50,
  my heart in deep decline

The first big rig that came along,
  was bound for York Pa.

The driver said “If you like dogs,
 I’ll take you on your way”

In York I caught a fast ride out,
  two ‘dodgers’ going North

And got back home with hat in hand,
  your song to guide me forth

Two years then passed, I met my wife,
  four more and our first child

And we named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
  her dad back from the wilds

Now forty years have come and gone,
  my beard and hair both gray

I owe you Gregg, and always will,
  your song, her name—that day

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
           For Gregg Allman
I Sent This To Gregg Last March,
It's on His Website. We Spent Two
Days Together In Richmond Va. In  A Blizzard In 1982


  


Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | Year Posted 2017


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Wimpole Street, Part 2 of 7

(Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the greatest of Victorian
poets, formed a very close relationship with
Arthur Hallam and frequently visited the Hallam
home in Wimpole Street.  After Hallam's sudden
death, Tennyson frequently returned to the house,
and stood weeping in the street.)

Tears, Idle Tears

When two young men are close – are more than friends,
perhaps? – as Tennyson and Hallam were,
and with one’s sudden death, the friendship ends,
what may we (faced with morbid grief) infer?

That Arthur bore the promise of the age
is well attested.  But was taken young.
Is sorrow something simply to assuage,
or are there deeper wellsprings?  Alfred clung 

unhealthily to his.  The morning rain
would lash him as he stood there, hat in hand,
in front of sixty-seven, drenched in pain
he neither could discharge nor understand:

abandoned lover, feverish and thin,
with salty raindrops dripping from his chin.






Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017


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Something For Gregg

I was somewhere deep in Kansas,
  on a Triumph 69’

When your song came on the jukebox,
   and hit me from behind

I was headed for a bad place,
  and cared for nothing much

When I heard the song ‘Melissa,’
  my heart and soul were struck

Entranced, your lyrics captured me,
  like nothing had before

When you sang about ‘The Gypsy,’
  I headed for the door

But something made me turn around,
  and grab another dime

Ten more times in that diner's booth,
  still lost within your rhyme

Now back inside the bus station,
  and sleeping on the bench

I scratch your words into the wood,
  last dollar gone and spent

My bike outside against the wall,
  the kickstand now long gone

And out of gas, my hopes have dashed,
  that unrelenting song

Waking up at ten unsettled,
  across the street I pushed

The sign said Triumph-BSA,
  the owner Mister Cush

He asked, “What’s with your motor,”
   I said “nothing—out of gas,

 But worse I’m out of money,
 can I sell the bike for cash

Would you please just buy my Triumph,
  I know it’s old and worn

It got me here through seven states,
  runs great both cold and warm”

“I’ll pay three hundred on the spot,
  on that can we agree?”

We walked back up inside his shop,
 three bills he handed me

I thought about a bus ride home,
  my thumb looked more in line

Facing East on old route #50,
  my heart in deep decline

The first big rig that came along,
  was bound for York Pa.

The driver said “If you like dogs,”
 I’ll take you on your way”

In York I caught a fast ride out,
  two ‘dodgers’ going North

And got back home with hat in hand,
  your song to guide me forth

Two years then passed, I met my wife,
  four more and our first child

And we named her ‘Sweet Melissa,’
  her dad back from the wilds

Now forty years have come and gone,
  my beard and hair both gray

I owe you Gregg, and always will,
  your song, her name—that day

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)
     For Gregg Allmans- ‘Melissa’


Copyright © Kurt Philip Behm | Year Posted 2017


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Ringmaster's Muse

Who is the Ringmaster?
Who is the pawn?
Who will decipher
When the patrons are gone?

Enter the Big Top spot the trapeze,
Allay all your fears, put them at ease.
Barnum, Ringling masters long past,
Legends of showmanship destined to last.

Performers who push human boundaries,
Whose skills outstrip all practicalities.
It's raw talent on view in center ring,
Unique marvels of practice really happening.

No single skill matters outside the ring,
Performance in life, that's the thing.
Suspend for a moment what you know to be real,
Fantasy is fostered, it's the circus appeal.

Listen to the Ringmaster's full vibrato
As he shows each act with flair.
Paces his rich voice staccato
Presenting, making you connect and care.

Never lets himself become the show,
Top hat in hand in center ring, beginning to the end.
Tells you all you need to know,
Master of all the fun, every patron's friend.


Copyright © Greg Gaul | Year Posted 2018