Best Marque Poems
I starts me life as pirate,
A grommet before age twelve,
Not an ordinary bandit,
High sea adventures me delve.
With a Letter of Marque in me han’
And the Commodore for me pa!
I spends dogwatch near the helmsman,
Nerey missin’ me bonny ma.
Old salts tell their gory tales,
Aye, dogs hanging from the gallows.
Punishments for a man who fails
Floggings or keelhaul; blood bath follows.
Scrimshaw hangin’ ‘round me neck.
A privateer by trade,
Flaunting booty on the deck
We’s the scallywags brigade.
Pirateering is me heartthrob.
I dreams schemes in the crows nest.
‘bout takin’ swag from an unfortunate swab.
I sits watchin’ pa from the crest.
Long nines aimed and ready,
Jolly Roger on the mainmast,
Headway fast and steady,
The enemy’s fate forecast.
One for all and all for one!
Drinkin’ grog an’ eatin’ grub.
Werkin’ on the “Morning Sun”
Me father at the hub.
Davy Jone’s locker, me final plight!
Death drifting in me beloved sea –
Straightway from the dark of night
The pirate’s life for me!
© July 15, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
The sun plunged
In the space of silence,
The summer has been extended
In a slow wandering ...
The orb has been drunk,
Gradually, by fringes.
> We did not hear anything,
From the fall of the angel ...
The horizon has folded its wings around
Confusing the distants ...
Evening invades what remains of the day
In a jiffy.
Water reflections exchanges
The colors overrated,
With the sky full of oranges,
The trees are just silhouettes ...
The night the already marks yesterday
This is a timely opportunity,
Where piercing welcoming clouds
unfolds, shamelessly ,the moon ...
It will take an earth tour,
And plenty of patience,
For the solar triumph reappears
In its rebirth ,
As clarity rises
And progresses slowly
Until the most intense moment, at its solstice,
To the top of the firmament.
And the celestial body draws, now
All things , in gold drops ,
..... - And this is another day.
It drinks in his turn and evaporates it....
-
Le soleil a plongé
Dans l'espace du silence,
L'été s'est prolongé
Dans une lente errance...
L'astre a été bu,
Petit à petit, par franges.
> Nous n'avons rien entendu,
De la chute de l'ange...
L'horizon a replié ses ailes, autour
Confondant les lointains...
Le soir envahit ce qu'il reste de jour,
En un tournemain.
Les reflets des eaux échangent
Des couleurs surfaites ,
Avec le ciel tout en oranges,
Les arbres ne sont que silhouettes...
La nuit, marque déjà l'hier,
C'est l'occasion opportune,
Où, perçant des nuées hospitalières,
se dévoile, sans pudeur, la lune...
Il faudra un tour de terre,
Et beaucoup de patience,
Pour que réapparaisse le triomphe solaire,
Dans sa renaissance ,
Que la clarté se hisse
Et progresse lentement,
Jusqu'au plus intense, à son solstice,
Au sommet du firmament.
Et l'astre dessine maintenant ,
Toutes choses en gouttes d'or,
..... - Et c'est un autre jour.
Il le boit à son tour, puis l' évapore....
-
RC
CAR COURT
Enter, the older heavyweight steel giant,
The bailiff, a 1954 Hudson, reads unhesitant :
On the docket for this morning : guilty by implication - a Trabant,
In close custody with a Cutlass Supreme for supervision.
Next on the docket: a Pinto for likely gas-tank explosion.
Third on the docket: an English-made car (any marque) - body corrosion.
Lawyer for the prosecution, a pretentious character, a gas guzzler SUV
4x4 off-road with winch - for Saturday use on driveway only -
Hangs out with Vettes; and uses NO2 in fuel. Who?Drugs? Not me!
Downbeat guy as the defence counsel , a solid no nonsense Hummer,
A real enviro-bummer,
Klutzy ugly and personality like a mack truck in summer.
Trabant coughed its way to the stand.
Clerk of court Volkswagen, order in hand,
Read the indictment quietly, efficiently, bland.
Prosecution began with noisy opening musical-horn tunelets
The jury, all serious-minded stolid Volvos and Toyota Starlets
Were not impressed. Hummer clumsily interrupted with an objection, “Let’s
Stop, on the grounds of precedent,” but at this point Pinto reversed,
Crushed its trunk and its gas-tank exploded, and worst ,
Hit the the English car : and into flames they both burst.
Cutlass argued with the SUV, which was winched away pending sentence.
Case against the English car dismissed from lack of evidence.
Trabant was deported back to Germany: no import licence
Overseeing all these proceedings : the ever-reliable, I-won’t-budge,
The I-have-a-spotless-reputation, I-hold-no-grudge,
The mechanical virgin, the silent Rolls Royce as judge.
...........................................................................................................
Alone,
silence, so stark,
me, lost in the unknown
and blind in my thoughts, yet, I own
the dark.
The dark,
like arms, embrace
me and leave their bleak marque,
forlorn in my world in this stark
sad place.
04/07/2018
My lawyer drives a Jaguar,
a slim and glitzy marque.
He seldom ventures near the Law,
(the work's done by his clerk),
buts sends in bills at Partners Rates;
that avaricious shark.
My Broker's Merc is spanking new;
it takes his fishing rod.
He, as of right, once gently slipped
in shoes his father trod.
All pomp and circumstance he struts,
this self appointed God.
Accountants' BMWs
have litres by the score.
Mine's filled his up with gadgetry
and Wilton on the floor.
And now he's had his Coat of Arms
emblazoned on the door.
I used to have a set of wheels,
a Morris Minor van.
It was a dear and much loved friend
which ran and ran and ran.
I polished it with tender care
and was its greatest fan.
Alas! It's gone to pay the bills.
But why? I cannot see.
All day they guff and huff and puff
and then demand a fee.
I do not want their 'sound advice',
I want a car - for me!
~
For Carol Brown's 'First Car' Contest by Charles Clive.
Simple Step In Beauty
Passion flower towers at the crown of a radical Hippies’ heart revolution in waiting
blossoms for such longing deep sensual trust freedom justice compassion to prevail
Opens closes unlatches the moment past future spins memories for contemplating
of what to hold dear whom where and when cycles keep spinning on dialectical scale
From root to blossom up towards down from equality empowerment and social exclusion
love can be synthesized smelt scented with fragrance aroma communal power infused
When ‘Passiflora’ is lived and ‘ en-lived’ ‘en-storied’ to the meaning essence’s restitution
condensed ‘ad integrum’ oozing emotion reason strength determination dis-confused
I am a dreamer idealist so my favourite flower recycles in truth and all magic seasons
it grows and weaves amorous bouquets bunches and hunches inter-webbed branches
No strings no inequality no tyranny of hierarchy attached no spider web of treason
marque demarcate marginalize but complement resolve hypocrisy oppositional tranches
My flower reaches for nature for fusion not terror domination colonisation of minds
wishes to swift and sift gently the torments thunders blunders ring in winds of change
make love and not wars intercourses in slow rhyming rhythm in place and overall time
If we all cherished this flower we ‘d be more peaceful and turn anger to guardian’s ‘ange’
08th August
ABAB CDCE EFEF GHGH
Alguien marque el nueve once
pues mi corazón a recibido una sobre dosis
de un amor adulterado que ahora lo ha dejado
más atarantado que un balabarista en un alambrado
valgame Dios pues fue una simple voz
que le causo a mi corazón esta tremenda convulsión
la nena era lista bien vista en la pista
pero a solas se comportaba como nena de revista
dando el numero como preparando entrevista
y por atencion a cualquiera le quitaba la camisa
vaya esto se que causa tremenda risa
ahora en mi barrio no falta quien la pisa
ella es como la brisa que llega y se va de prisa
y si vuelve es solo pa' dejartela una vez mas liza
pero no se llama lisa mucho menos melissa
y su nombre es como un domingo de misa
va y se presenta y se pone su ceniza
por fuera hace el show y por dentro sigue siendo una canija
tiena el alma hueca como una vasija
quien lo fuera imaginado que me resultara una tremenda avispa!!!
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: I'm Sorry, I've Got To Go
Edited By: Sparkle Jordan
written: August/2014
Jazz
aficionado's,
remembers
Chick Webb -
Two sticks
in hand,
tap'n
on the rim
of a
snare;
keep'n time
on the
drums....
like
a clock,
And
tap'n
those cymbals
Bock-a-da-bock -
Go
Chick,
go!
He
was
flawless!
Hit'n licks
like
lightening,
and
didn't miss
a
note -
When
you hear
him play
on
"Liza,"
then you
know
that
Chick,
was
jazz royalty,
worthy
of
the throne -
He gave
jazz,
a whole
new
meaning -
"It don't mean a thing,
if it ain't got that swing."
And
when
Chick Webb,
was
on the
Savoy
Ballroom's
marque -
folks packed
the
show,
to
hear him
jam
his
signature
song....
Harlem Congo.
He
would hit
them
licks,
like
no drummer
did
before.
Chick Webb,
will
always
reign
supreme,
In
New York
and
Baltimore.
The
"Little Giant,"
as he
was
known -
will
always
be,
The King
Of
Swing -
copyright (c) 2014.
"I'm sorry, I've got to go,"
Is reportedly the last words
spoken by Chick Webb.
A nonchalant paw hangs, eye’s shut, ears open
My sentimental pretence maintains your interest
You do not know my cruelty, my brutality, my malice
Your sustaining hand is safe…for now
Lithe shoulders slink in alternate motion
Unblinking, gyroscopic saucer eyes bore into my target
Locked on, committed, beyond recall, the safety is off
A spring now uncoiled, scribes an arc, sudden death from above
I gaze through you, aloof and unimpressed
A carefree yawn, a stretch then, back to murderous fantasy
Surgically sharp, speed and precision is my marque
I am death, the consummate killer…Oh, my name?
…It’s Tiddles
Look out into the darkness and hear the remnants of cities.
The faint, ghostly echo of music wafting through the air, carried by the smell of cigarette smoke before it grows stale,
that diffuses the light so exquisitely to make you believe, just for a moment, that you are under the blanket of another era of time.
Secure in the notion that this memory has always been so romantic.
That the singers and musicians will always play in perfect syncopation and the ladies will dance with their pearls clacking together and the men cheer and drink to the night.
Drink to the ideals of the Great Gatsby himself. That to be young is never to die and it will not all grow twisted and sour and disappear as suddenly as it was remembered.
Fading back into the pristine dark, the heavy silence that still almost rings with the cacophony of the reckless.
This is not to say that these things are no longer attainable, that nobody clinks drinks any longer or laughs or sings with abandon.
But the hauntings of a time that has already placed its bets and faced its dues plagues those of us who scrutinize too closely the new composition.
Beckoned instead by the tarnished golden hue of smoke diffused haze.
Quick to barter the glint of one grand age for another.
And though one day you may come to lie awake in the ethos of glass and dripping in your absinthe stained velveteen tailcoat,
remember who you are. Remember fondly the absent moments as they flicker like marque bulbs and twisted carnie sounds.
But do not pray to the dead,
the old gods can give you no comfort here.
For you are not where you were before,
and can never truly be again.
Le Vrai et Nouveau Hymne National – Translation of Kevin Gilbert’s « The New True Anthem » by T. Wignesan
En dépit de ce que Dorothea a dit
sur le sujet de la terre brûlée au soleil
vous ne l’aviez vraiment jamais aimé
ni essayé de lui rendre plus précieuse
vous polluez toutes les rivières
et répandez des détritus sur chaque chaussée
votre graffiti d’une telle barbarie
défigurent la scène où des grands arbres poussent
les plages et les montagnes
sont couverts par votre honte
l’injustice sévit sans restriction
malgré votre insistance sur votre renommé
les fleuves pollués alourdis de boue
sont cachés derrière des barricades afin
que des voyageurs et des assoiffés ne soient pas au courant
où des sabots d’étrangers ne les piétinent
votre âme dominée par la tyrannie
et que vous êtes aveuglée ne voyant pas votre propre image
votre manque de pitié et vos manières grossières
aujourd’hui la marque de distinction de votre peuple
Australie O ! Australie
vous aurait pu s’ériger en un pays fier et libre
nous pleurons en étant angoissés et amers
en raison de votre haine et votre tyrannie
les corps brûlés des noirs se tordant dans des convulsions
- humanité enchaînée –
vol de terrain et d’assassinats raciaux
vous vantez de vos gains
en copeau et en uranium
la mort angoissée que vous répandez
laissera les enfants de ce pays
un héritage mort
Australie O ! Australie
vous auriez pu s’ériger en un pays fier et libre
nous pleurons en étant angoissés et amers
en raison de votre haine et votre tyrannie
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Toulouse, oh please do place a hand on me
Your pen will sketch what your eyes can see
The ladies’ legs as they dance the can-can
Make me feel like more than a napkin
Toulouse, oh s'il vous plaît placer une main sur moi
Votre stylo esquissera que vos yeux peuvent voir
Les dames les jambes comme ils dansent la Marque de french-cancan
Me me sens comme plus qu'une serviette de table
BUT ESPECIALLY EAST LANSING
Cell phone with a woodywoodpecker ringtone;
Russian style of guitar-playing with strummed beats;
Regina-Saskatoon red-eye with “collapsible” seats;
Getting a ticket for 2 minutes in a Lansing no-parking zone.
Disco guys old enough to be your grandfather
With shaved heads and tattoos and a heavy gold chain,
Driving Fiat 500 s in Lansing and trying to pretend in vain
That they’re only old enough to be your father.
Cups of tea made anywhere inside continental USA.
Expensive marque wine which if eyes close
Tastes same as Lansing Wallmart El Grande Wino (5 gallon dose).
Cups of black coffee made anywhere outside continental USA.
Making the same mistake twice, usually with women;
Guys upwind of me spitting in the street in Lansing - ugh way to go!
Insomno-listening to the all-night DJ s on CKCK radio;
Seeing next-door’s cat digging in my garden.
Alarm clocks which lose time in the morning.
Apple pie made with cloves ”for flavor” (barf me out).
People not understanding foreign tongue and starting to shout.
Glasgow, Detroit, Akron, Gateshead, but especially East Lansing.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Nancy Jones’s Contest “Things that suck”
A bird’s eye view
conversation overheard in a park
somewhere near you
Hey, Ori ... what’s up?
Nothing much, Marque.
Just flying low, bro.
Big Ollie, the Ruby Cleaners rooftop dove,
shared some bad popcorn news.
Oh, yeah. What’s the latest bird flu blues.
He said that fake plague sho’ feels real.
I crowed: Amen, Big Ollie! Ain’t too many humans
in the park giving us our morning meal.
Funny you should mention that ill subject matter downwind trash.
Marque, the sparrow twins: Ida and Edie,
spoke the same truth at the Old Gael Pub St. Paddy cancelled bash.
It’s a shame, Ori ... it surely is.
Some skyscraper bipedal giving us po’ avians
the hard asphalt gleaning biz.
Mr. Sherwood, griot-rapping Robin in the hood,
chirped the same sad, Friar Tuck uncharitable tale as well.
Those oxy-carrier humans ain’t leaving many peanut shells.
COVID-19 weather report sho’ don’t look good.
It seems the community spread folded the picnic table attitude.
Nowadays, them parrot-talking owl eyes seem frightfully rude.
Yeah, Marque ... bro’ it sho’ seems that way to me.
The pecks are snow geese light,
guess it’s goose-stepping, premature departure time
to take an early migration flight
Ori, I cede wish those humans an E. Poe, “Raven,” fare well goodbye:
Nevermore
comes the crumb elation when the Laugher high-roller cormorant cry.
I am not trying to make light the pain and suffering going on globally.
I just wanted to put a smile on any sad hearts.
— Romantic Warrior
Repetir, agir e aprender
Na vida e nos negócios
crie o culto à
Repetir, agir e aprender.
Não importa onde você esteja agora.
Não importa de onde você está começando.
O que importa é
Repetir, agir e aprender.
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