Best Master Of Ceremonies Poems
"The Circus"
The master of ceremonies taps his cane to begin the fireworks
While graduates of the ground exercise their prowess high above
They are wired with decent grip on balancing poles that save their lives
The crowd holds their breath to a well paced piece written just for them
Expressing god given talents in consonance to the format of the show
There are many circumstances of life and death to travel a topsy turvy wire
The crowd has gasped enough
Surprising all who thought they could not do it
The danger, the glory, all to the tune of "Let Me Fall"
A luscious aria for the ears begins to assuage the high tensions
Seeing participants of talent take on amazing feats
Colorfully contorting and twisting to terrifying positions
We could never dream about for it would break our backs
A motorcycle roars loudly without a muffler, majestically it comes
To ride the ring of fire for which rock anthems echo
Off the circle and through the heat while the elephants wait their turn
Standing on hind legs they rise to the occasion
Responding to measures that escalate the mood,
Agnes waves her dancing trunk in 4/4 time
The audience waves back and claps in satisfaction
For the show that began as the Circus Maximus
When Romans needed entertainment all those years ago
And the practitioners of stunt were truly at risk flying high
Without cords and wires for safety, they flew to new realms
Of daring and danger all meant for applauding strangers
Lions and tigers and bears oh my! Today will be so special for the kids
Looking at this and looking at that, all amongst a backdrop of darkness
The clowns flipping bowling pins flopping around in over sized red shoes
Their jovial exterior matches a beauty inside them
It's all for the children responding to boisterousness and glee
Tigers know when to roar and acrobats know when to soar
Adding to a perfect panorama no one can possibly take it all in
The finale comes to an end and they say good bye, taking a bow
Lights come back on and the atmosphere is gone
And leaving almost feels like a sin
Let us discuss the circus alive in the theater of your conflicts,
the Master of Ceremonies cremates caution
in the center of curiosity's conciet
where birds bleed songs of azure agony,
madness remembers the melody of a midnight march
to a shrine built from bricks baste with war sweat and stress
as Death sits solemnly thumping it's cranial cudgel methodically
atop drums taut with elephant hide,
a child approaches through the Hippodrome's east chamber
juggling three radiant orbs, omni, omega, ovation,
the audience of thousands uproars unanimously
when Hate, Love & Fate manifest as beasts of the best brutality
encircling the child with a primordial hunger in their bellies,
their handlers cocky and competitive, controls the animals with elements
such as air, fire & water, one by one they rush the child
with violent intent, in their hearts victim & victory are synonomous,
the tiger repelled by the fire of the child's imagination,
the bear repulsed from the whistle of his innocence,
and the lepoard refrains from the current of his youth,
in the balcony, Venus and Mars applaud proudly for sagacious survival,
acrobats appear, the grey one Fatigue, the green one is Resolve,
despite loathing each other they must be team or die from the heights,
gasps from a crowd caught in a conspiracy of soul piracy
as self destruction stands cackling on the arena floor with his anger crackling red,
attempting to whip the hands of the acrobats with a dragon's tail
encrusted with the crushed vertebrae of cowardice,
he strikes their wrists but they secure the dizzing stunt in defiance,
cheers collide with the chimera of acrobats transformed into an eagle's scream
while the Master of Ceremonies welcomes the women of warhorse wishes,
J.A.B.
I was there, the last time that God lost
His Faith. Admittedly, since the death
of His Son, there have been a few bad
years that could have influenced His
decision. He sent a note to the self-
regulating Heads of His Church,
those collectors of the faithful, that
they had lost their 'Master of Ceremonies '.
And yet, like the perpetual turning of a
water wheel, the world continued to turn
on its axis. And its ghostly moon continued
to reflect the sun. Man still either hated or
loved his fellow man. And, in His absentia,
the deacons of His faith still pressed on with
their own brand of unctuousness, ensuring
every reverent man remained in tow. And
that the much needed zealot didnt become
rudderless without the smoke and mirrors of
Dorothys Grand Wizard. Too many careers had
come to fully rely upon God's franchise. Perhaps
that was what He had lost faith in? The burden
of carrying an overloaded workforce. However,
the Lord did eventually regain His Faith.
How do I know? Well, for a while I was one
of the chosen. So, there you have it. No poets
code, no similes or rhyme. Just plenty of irony
and pith. Sorry to all of the faithfil if I didn't use
enough parable or the requsite dose of deference and guilt.
For you see, I've lost my faith.
What a privilege! What a treat!
My thumbs are thumbs-up thumbing
Because today, in “Cabaret,”
On stage was Alan Cumming.
Born to play this role as M.C.
Of the Kit Kat Klub,
If he were sick, I’d hate to be
The guy called in to sub.
From wicked grin to dimpled smirk
To knowing, coyish wink,
He let us in all on all the jokes,
Delighting in the kink.
Though “Cabaret” has been produced
For years on loads of stages,
I’m oh-so-lucky that I saw
The M.C. for the ages!
Part I.
In the heartland of that place called home
A figure sits alone in an empty chamber where
Cracked walls, like squinting wrinkles,
Hide silent hesitations of untold sorrows.
This is not a holy place,
Nor a room of peace nor prayer nor solitude-
An infinite stream of broken faces flash with eyes
Glaring on the bare walls,
A theatre of hell for a lonely stranger,
To contemplate crimes committed
Or those omitted
By the dirty hands of painter friends
Whose graffiti grows like prison ivy.
A red-eyed
Master of ceremonies,
Hidden someplace in the cracks,
Gleefully smacks with satisfaction
As the Munchian dreams stare
Into the hollow air, over and over,
Screaming in all their variation the subtle
Deceptions the facades of men wear.
This temple, whose gods long since fled into the shades,
Receives now only wordless souls,
Worldless men, whose being
Nobody knows nor sees nor cares
To see or know,
For they offer only better visions
Of one-eyed ghosts wandering by dark night
Searching for the one golden candle
Whose glow
Will flame the hope of light and set things right again.
Speak of 'death' and feel an ice-cold breeze
Sweep the grandest room of sound;
Even the master of ceremonies
Is cold and still.
Dwell in confessional catacombs
Repeating it over and over again:
Death!
Death!
Death!
Death has an infinite appetite
To swallow all moments in time.
The surge of a stampeding crowd
Crushes the drying unnoticed dead carcass
Of a hollowed out beetle on Mexican tiles.
The grip on life and death is strong.
(but life is a finite and sees - death is eternal and blind)
Matthew Scott The Marionette...
(Concocting cock and bull poetic pap
promises to approximate bovine rap
worse case scenario..., you will snap
so friend me at funny farm in Trappe
Pennsylvania, or frankly yukon zap
this poppycock poetic
emetic entailing...vowel)
movements deftly managed skilled puppeteer
unseen hands adroitly maneuver paraphernalia
bajillion miles away deep into thee atmosphere,
where Soundgarden's black hole sun serves as
infinite energy-feeds performing artist career
inherent behind the scenes trickster leveraging
mine every move master of ceremonies appear
ring poking his oblate spheroid noggin thru walled
sky inquiring, asper state of being paternal care
oft times addressing him as father, cuz proficient
craftsmanship forged me from nought meticulously
rendering yours truly complex functions, an engineer
ring feat cosmic artisan whipped out applying greased
lightning rods (unbreakable accouterments) endowing,
and endorsing creation with uber tender loving care
divine intervention nary clue hinted, thus me unaware
leverage, sans remote control bound tethered bond
most every day of "FAKE" existence never suspected
every aspect of my being linkedin at mercy of pioneer,
who more or less cornered, fabricated, patented... the
market, sans configuring sophisticated kin o'man near
lee indistinguishable from offal housed in Augean stables
essentially explaining incessant mooing "holy cow" & rear
ring like a bucking bronco, though mastermind did milk
golden opportunity calf full not to exploit this cash cow
loose sing hybridized mutant amidst green acres, where
past chore age of cornucopia frequently dredges muck
cob bray, and remembrance of things past, I Angus here
hoof hit might be convenient Taurus to part ways lest
ye accuse me being lame provocateur, spewing this slop
(from well chewed cud) out the figurative derriere!
life had written an etude in D minor and barely gave him a pass
D for defeat denial disintegration dour reprise of the inevitable
bottom of the class for society sang to its dominant song book
while he was tone deaf and kept quiet hiding a coarse inner voice
his internal melodies sounded like a rusty cheese grinder on arrest
detained him after school hours to punish his apparent shortcomings
but it is difficult to make fine parmesan from blue veined fromage
and the blues of his childhood suffered under cruel constant assault
´the boy has got no sense´ and the child was never spared the rod
when all he wanted was a bit of cane sugar yet he did not suck up
to their blows which knocked out a few teeth in the long process
that laid the cruel basis for his trademark cheeky and sardonic smile
´when you have grown you will show gratitude for our kind efforts
to change your attitude and give thanks to our shaping your mould´
as it came to writing music-sheets he scripted them in lemon juice
secret messages because when life gives acidity you have a choice
one teacher was gentle with him and gifted him sour boiled sweets
for every time he hit a note from his own repertoire of aspirations
he almost chocked on such a gesture of compassion and novelty
breathed out slowly and poured out his heart in cacophonic sorrow
‘I might never become a tambourine major or master of ceremonies
no choral conductor or symphonic regent in other's marching bands
my choir will be a small ensemble and quality strikes vocal-chords
right where they need caressing and cradling but not false elocution’
‘if I can wipe the cheesy grimaces off the face of my crude tormentors
so be it then´ but this is in truth not about a vicious viscous fondue
gratitude has to be earned and thanksgiving follows genuine kindness
attitudes meanwhile may change or strengthen ´for this is my music´
A composition in Roquefort major with walnut crumble and cherries
on my cake and some can see clearly the grinder has its own purpose
when pungent milk turns into custard and some have egg on their faces
‘Its not about perfection but progress is built on effort and appreciation´
26th August 2020
You know the Old Lady who lived in a shoe,
She led the Autumn Jive with Little Boy Blue,
DJ Peter Piper looked suave and dapper,
The Old Grand Duke of York, *MC and rapper
The Trees of the forest turned up for the rave,
The old Willow sporting a clean cut and shave,
As they twirled gilded leaves in a single file,
There is not one shred of doubt, autumn’s got style
Jack and Jill jived the best in town,
And this time Jack didn’t break his crown,
The cow didn’t jump over the moon,
Thought she’d wait till the afternoon
The Birch and Sycamore thought they had the edge,
As they tangoed into an overgrown Hedge,
Little Jack Horner witnessed this disorder,
And set up first aiders in the corner
The Sycamore gave a ‘wide gold leaf grin’
As the Owl and the Pussy Cat sailed in,
Old King Cole was not a merry old soul,
As he found the Fox Trot ever so droll
Hi! Said the Mulberry “Come on over,”
As she gently rocked to the Bossa Nova,
For the old oak tree, dancing was no mean feat,
As he creaked in time to a rock steady beat
Said the cat and fiddle, “tap your feet,”
Hey, diddle, diddle please take your seat”,
“Mother Nature’s waltzing at the door,”
“Now old winters turn to take the floor”
At Twilight,
lullaby voices will drift afar,
Singing, 'Twinkle, Twinkle little star.'
*MC – Master of Ceremonies
08/11/22
Be creative poetry contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
accepting ourselves the way we are
we yet find there’s no fixed coordinate
our consciousness can both rise and fall
and so it’s here that free will comes into play
which in turn requires us to quietly contemplate
the cause of movement of all thought and emotion
attempting to seduce our soul’s fickle attention
spoilt for choice and as master of ceremonies
we may choose any vibration by resonation
distilling it mindfully in the cauldron of love
that by doing so truth alone does prevail