Best Merrymaking Poems
There is a place I will not trend nor will Angels least attend,
Where witches mix their brew and the warlocks let it spew…
All spiders on the walls keeping busy with their creepy crawls,
Wolves howling at the moon dancing darkness in their commune…
Beware evil spells incantation as you turn to stone upon creation,
The Ghosts there that reside spooking the halls no place to hide…
Vampires that wake the night are happy to see you before they bite,
Footsteps that never ceased echoing eternal of the family’s deceased…
Gremlins and goblins in their yearn watching bodies as they burn,
Demons dancing in their dine macabre merrymaking in their wine…
The serpents serve their deeds within the silence as Satan seeds,
Frankenstein wakes in his den reading stories of the haunted pen.
Sept.26.2019
Haunted Poetry
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
Placed 3'rd...Thank You
Come, let us all be merry,
For gay carnival is here.
The brass bands are in full swing,
And liquor is free.
Many were dressed in costumes,
The fancier dressed galore,
Trucks decorated in fun.
Fireworks hued the sky.
Everywhere I look, lightening
And people merrymaking
On their faces, happy curves
Am breathing with cracking nerves
I am a baba's girl
He told me he loved me most
Than anything else in the world
To me he is my entire world
I am in pain you are not here
You always used to be my seer
I miss you at all times
When I feel you by my side
My nights and days are filled with dread; nosey red
Thousand times I cry; eyes are wet and tears dry
I miss you baba
You are mine
Yours and only yours ... (Jia) - Fatima Hasan Zaidi
Joy, gaiety and jubilation,
Party, merrymaking and celebration.
It was a remarkable day of Reena’s life;
Within hours she would be her lover’s wife.
Dressed in exquisite Indian wedding outfit,
With complimenting gold jewelry
An adjunct to her beauty.
She felt like royalty,
Adorned with lavish embroidery.
Preparing herself to embark on the start of a new life,
Just when she realized that life is a boon;
Hit by a catastrophic tragedy,
Inundated darkness at noon.
The bright light and lark,
Turned into pitch dark.
Dismay and despair,
Her fiancé is no more.
Showers of tears,
Silence deafening to ears,
Over the years,
Only murkiness and gloom,
No flowers to bloom.
This is the truth of life,
It does shows its true color,
Once in a blue moon,
And brings darkness at noon.
Rejuvenation,
A Festival of colors-
Flowers and laughter!
Holi is an ancient festival of India,
heralding the Vasanta-ritu, the commencement
of the Spring season, a festival of merrymaking.
"Traditional Haiku, Spring" contest by Debbie Guzzi
We are drawn here for the festivity, to glorify His name.
In our crimson best, presents wrapped gaily, to glorify His name.
Joyous revelers and their dutiful handlers arriving.
Doors open, we are welcomed heartily, to glorify His name.
Presents not expected, but the mistress will not feel neglected.
Material offerings stacked neatly, to glorify His name.
The High Priestess, same outfit as daughter she wears, begins the Mass.
Tailless donkey, fat clown smirks knowingly, to glorify His name.
The sacrificial ham, its remains doused in mustard and served up
In a Wonder Bread coffin festively, to glorify His name.
Materialistic revelry, the presents torn asunder
Young onlookers seethe deliriously, to glorify His Name.
Priestess brings out decorated cake, pink frosting, five blazing flames
Candles trace pentagram, implicitly, to glorify His name.
Ice cream Bacchanaila, another unhinged Saturnalia
Revelers sway intoxicatedly, to glorify His name.
Sugar crash dysphoria, the merrymaking ends tearfully.
Priestess signals the Mass’ ending quickly, to glorify His name.
Thomas asks, with tremulous hesitation and no small dreading,
Is Jimmy’s birthday party next Sunday, to glorify His name?
3/13/16
For the "Give me a Gazal" contest by Timothy Hicks
A view from a teaspoon selection is very spellbinding indeed. Half a cup of multicolumns and a pint of milk singing and swaying together. It takes much effort to pick up a seed. Much kilograms queuing for weight is to wait and to wait is to wave five hundred times at a doorway. Putting pet fish in a cistern whilst flushing is stupid, and cruel, and rather unnecessary for cleaning the tank. But bringing a bull into the house will promote heating. Specialized agencies of horn fur and raged eyeball in a coat. OBE in a tree. Sittingbourne sitting down. A pile of curtain cloth should be ample material to wipe away smears and residue of acidic peelings, nine metre forts of brain, televised episodes of epics, and balls of glowing colourful spinning radishes. Enter then leave. Mesmerizing merrymaking men make monsters. Mainly in a red reflection. Hum the twenty song loudly. All together. Detract no horror but horror is often hidden in even the most sparkling paper tissue. But the calling from the bead of time, that bell in the breeze. Will ensure a cake gives news that is sufficiently correct. Justification then. Good. At last the commas play with the full stops peacefully. Fantastic isn't it? Ha ha ha ho ho ho and a flow from a cactus in a nice crown. Ha ha ha but no ho ho whistling waters with wanton soup. Xxxxx anthropologist z z z z z z z z z Z!.¥~¥~¥~_^>
Form:
Ode to Spain, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : Oda a Espana
(before the Civil War)
(Alejandro Duque Amusco draws attention - in his selection of Carlos Bousono’s poems – to
the fact that José Luis Cano considers Bousono to be the poet who re-introduced the theme of
« patriotism » in the poetry of the post-Civil War (1936-39) era. T. Wignesan)
Oh ! Spain ! the land where
while one fighting bull assailed, another kills.
Drunks flying without direction in the stars
seek to ascend shirt-sleeves at the cuffs.
At the meeting points of unfortunate demise
and of living it up, the merrymaking
goes on until midnight. Accordeons.
More wine. Applause. Uproars. Whistlings. Nausea.
In the midst of this wild revelry, a priest militarily surges up.
Imposes benedictions and awards medals.
He climbs up upon a chair. Harangues the crowd.
A general rising up in the thick of battle.
In the hardened and deserted arenas
on the route of bitter thirst,
multitudes of drunks bracing themselves against the wind,
staggered at the rising of the sun.
One of them was dressed as a bull-fighter.
Another laughed to himself. All were dancing.
…………………………………………………………
In the treeless plain swept by wind : persistent hunger,
Spain stammered and choked.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
“10 When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. 11 On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. 12 And having been warned in a dream not to go back to Herod, they returned to their country by another route.” Matt 2:10-12 NIV
All Over the World At Christmas
Gifts are exchanged.
Some boxes are filled with luxuries;
Usually small and for most outranged.
They are wrapped in pretty paper,
With decorative bows and ornaments;
Placed at the base of Christmas trees,
Laden with decorations of adornment.
These gifts are merely tokens
Of our love for relatives and friends;
Chosen hopefully with much care—
Happiness to potentially send.
This tradition came from Bethlehem,
So many, many years ago,
When three wise men worshiped Jesus;
Precious gifts the Christ-child to bestow.
When we make God part of the giving,
And acknowledge His great gift to us.
We give praise to Him for the Christ-child—
His gift of love so bounteous.
God’s love is the greatest gift
That we can ever receive.
Let’s sing to Him Christmas carols of praise—
A small token of thanks to conceive.
All Over the World At Christmas
The atmosphere’s filled with good cheer.
Merrymaking and joy abound—
Peace on earth’s spoken everywhere.
Folk go to church to celebrate
And sing praises to the Lord above;
Show their appreciation of others,
With gifts exchanged through God’s love.
© Copyright 2012 Maureen LeFanue
www.maureenlefanue.com
Wind undressed the sky, bared a canvas painted blue.
Motley faces of sunflower smiles and festive air; an abstract
splash, each gleamed; each swung in purple dress, waiting
for the bride, a summer moon, to float to the stage as funnels
of colored rays crisscrossed: the shimmer of light.
Surreal charm, the display of a galaxy of heaven's stars
offset against the blue. The world asleep, the heavens
agog with bulging eyes as the bride glided, floating;
not turning right or left, set for the peopled hall lit
by faces painted crimson. Bated breath charged the air
as gathering of God's victorious saints spelled creation.
Rapturous applause—sounds of praise, of merrymaking—
sun, moon, stars aired soft tunes; lightning arced across the sky;
thunder rumbled. Cutleries clattered, signaling the bride's arrival!
I sat in glimmering red at a table decked with white roses.
© 2016 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
If it was December and….
If I was an ancient Roman
But I assure you, I am not….
I would be feasting and merrymaking like mad
Celebrating the Festival of Saturn.
Or Saturnalia if you prefer.
As many ancient Romans do.
But alas, I am not Roman, only ancient.
And December is almost three weeks out.
So let me begin this poem again.
Its a tearful flaw flashback
How i came to be a murderer me
How my life turned like a leaf in strong winds
And now my soul bleeds guilt
My heart Itch's the love went sore
It all started at our young lovemaking
On one of our indoors romantic dates
The silent hotel room that saw our love grow and glow
The 4 walls that only knew our secrets
All started in a special way
The merrymaking hands touch
To the face to face love looks
Like a couple in their last night of love
The kisses out of close glares
The body caressing that exploded our feelings
One act leading to another
From the seats to the sheets
But how could we stop this
I wish i knew it would end the way it did
I wish i knew it was sweet only for seconds
I wish, i had learnt how i do now
For the end came, the mission accomplished
The flavour gotten, not as i thought
He had nothing to lose, nothing to follow
My virginity,my purity,my all
What followed haunts me
And the haunt hurts me
I realised i was two in one
But took me months to decide
For it was a commitment, i was young to fall into
So defenceless,so immature
My only way out, the choice my intelligence
To get rid of it,considered it a 'thing' not a life
For i hated to feel its wrong,a feeling that could stop me
Am here now,in pain n vain
In tears and fears
Feeling a murderer and a handler
Sleepless nights feeling the cry of my daughter
Feeling her pinch my heart
From the toilet i dumped her
Like a lunatic took the last look n flushed
Sorry daughter, i was not me
It is winter here
Leaves are filling in the space
Looking for some grace
****
The sun meets the tree
Seeks a warm hug from its bough
It comes back empty
****
Just the other day
Found the tree merrymaking
Now moans in dismay
****
Trees sigh in the wind
Reality is so hard
Trampled are the birds
****
The crushed time moves on
The chocolate will return
Let’s smile for the dawn
_________________________
a . = a ~
A salmon run is one of the places to find pearl dew. Dried or undried it is nonetheless stunning in it's composition. Compositions create calling cream. And a dough ball is neither a dream nor a daring drop. It is to be said that one single itemised inked out informant is an information infant. And still the deep fried rice dish bubbles in merrymaking and mirth and is so awesome for otherwise stagnant non smiling cracker breads to rise and tinkle dance upon the side board. Many a kitchen is many a secret sound. Akin to a school but without lessons. Currants climbing created credits. And a circulating captain bird arrives with bits of bread, a harp, a lute, a little jellyfish and a belly dancing buffalo. Sink that into a vase then stand and admire the constitutional composition. And all the while the wild eyed egg is playing hoop da loop with the rye, beans, chips and chickens. But only at sixteen minutes past seven. Hahaha moonbeam moving making meals. Metallic music making mathematical models. Haha modem may mean many times a frog hop. Xxxxx sharp shark angle. Xxxx conditionality zzzzzx
Form:
When I'm quiet, I talk the most
I talk to the trees,
I talk to the wind,
I talk to the invisible hand that caresses my body when I'm thinking
I talk to the random wife
Tell her to shed the skin of endurance and evolve
I talk to the naked beggar
Tell him to jump off the bridge if he really is so needy
I talk to the young couple
Tell them to hold hands and wonder if they fit like a puzzle
I sometimes talk to the roaches in the railway station
Afraid and amused,they stare back with remorse
As if they know what I'm trying to say
What am I trying to say?
I talk when I'm the most quiet
The whole world is saying a story
No one is reading it
Every one is ripping the pages apart,
Stomping them in a fit of merrymaking
Sometimes in an ocean of faces
I hear another quiet soul or two
A fleeting moment of exchange of exhilaration
We wander with backpacks and no purpose
How easily I cross paths of nomads who talk like me
If only I could stop them and REALLY talk.