Best Mongrels Poems
Mongrels gyrating on the edge of town
This it now- its going down
The chant electric, the doomsday count
It matters not that no one speaks a word
We knew it was coming, but you havent heard
Just know how I loved you , go fly little bird
A mass of hungry hatred flash of glimmering blades
Blood of the martyrs, murder and Hades
Dance of the hyena, foul flinging dung
Clinging our candles only looking up
Feeble little fingers summoning the Light
A promise in our prayers armless in a fight
This is my cry, tell it to the world
From the podiums and parliaments
Dont believe a word
Mixed Messages
One last ticket.
One last seat on the train.
Running fast,
to make it, before there is
no chance to escape,
the fate of the ages.
Stone statues,
frozen in time...
put up, taken down,
pulled apart and destroyed.
Toys to the elites,
making sweeping decisions...
that effect us all.
Shooting rays at the sun,
that warms our world.
There... there is life bleeding out,
in torrents of colors,
red, gold, blue, and even green.
Soon there will be
no living thing...
left.
The rich man buys up acres,
and lets the land go fallow.
The homeless starve in their tents
downtown.
Food lines, and riots by pirates,
a caravan of the starving
mongrels, zombies,
and the lost.
The journey coming to an end,
the roller skates stopped on the concrete...
signs that say go home,
but there is nowhere to go.
Continued from Part 1
“Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.
“You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.
“In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
“The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.
“In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.
“While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”
Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.
But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…
End
Hilly lent me his post hole digger ‘cause I’m putting up a fence
around me veggie garden, so I could give it some defence
from marauding sheep and cattle that some keep on their block,
and forget about their fences, so I feed their wandering stock.
They eat all my silver beet and give me cabbages all hell,
and what the mongrels don’t prefer they trample in as well,
but I suppose there is one upside with growing what they eat,
for now and then the neighbours stock have saved us buying meat.
That post hole digger made life easy where it twisted in the ground,
instead of digging with a shovel that near breaks me back I found.
So with treated pine snug in their holes and rails upon the face,
I cleaned up the post hole digger to return to Hilly’s place.
I thought I’d leave it ‘til the morn although it has to be ‘round eight,
for that’s the latest Hilly’s sober, so nine o’clock is way too late.
But as it happened I slept in and got around there close to ten,
then for a moment I had thought that Hilly’s drunk again.
He was prowling ‘round the kitchen with a fly swat in his hand,
sneaking up to where the blighters were trying hard to land.
I asked him what he’s doing and with a mad look in his eyes,
Hilly said one got in his porridge so he’s killing all the flies.
Well I suppose sometimes we lose the plot and do get over keen,
but he would have got ‘em in one go by spraying with mortein,
so I asked him “Have you killed a few?” Then heard one of his jokes,
“Yeah, I’ve cleaned up five” he said - “Two sheila’s and three blokes”.
I could see that he’s fair dinkum ‘cause they’re splattered on the sink,
but how he knew what sex they were made me stop and think.
I asked “How do you tell the sex of flies?” Of course I should have known
when Hilly grinned - “Three were on the beer cans and two were on the phone”.
Golly, this day could be my very
last!
So no, I am not going to organize
my house really fast.
I will sit with my cat, her calico
fur, a love drape upon me.
With warm cup of Joe and yes,
writing poetry that sings of life,
not strife!
Not one ear of mine for doomsday
sayers.
Who love predicting our coming end.
Go look out your window, do!
Do you see millions of dead?
Is an iceberg in your yard, over
your head?
That's the vision the media wants
you to retain.
A planet filled with floods, fires
and incurable pain.
Their latest is the pandemic scare,
hello?
Get your flu shot, the drug
companies see you are a cash cow.
"Come down to the pharmacy,get your
flu shot," they hawk now!
Ah, media, I love your theatrics!
As evil as the snake in Eden was.
How crazy are your prancing antics!
Such pitiful, feigned hypocrisy.
Negative, overpaid, lying donkeys!
Methinks Panagiota dislikes phony
news.
Very true, very true!
News should be on one night a year.
Imagine how free your mind would be.
Not overloaded by the mongrels of
flotsom and jetson chicanery.
September 20, 2019
Tears of our fathers of old
A silent cry through whips of toil
In rain and in the frozen cold
They work the harvest of the soil.
Tears of our fathers of old
The men that lapped the morsels
The tasteless bread of mold
A fitting feast to mongrels.
As if joy was a distant glow
Or freedom,infinite moons away
Death's heartless striking blow
Was a sweet and wonderous day.
At the cruel hands of the overseers
Their sorrows renewed each day
A beast of labour in many tears
In the stinging sparkling ray.
Through history's ruthless pages
Forlorn are memories that gathers
Through the past century stages
The tears of our fathers!
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.
Up sprang a gust of playful wind
scattering cherry blossom in this Maytime spring
swirling about legs, old and rickety
leaving a scene of enchanting serendipity
'twas a canines randomly sprinkled stools
transformed into petal encrusted jewels
euphemized on this fine day
which nature wind and circumstance favour
a setting made possible by a mongrels behaviour
an accidental work of art
forged by the elements taking part
this vision of wonder, the soul to delight
blossom covered,,,,,,,lumps of shite.
Is it the songs of the chirping bird in the morning?
Or is it the sound of the crickets at night?
It could be the timely crow of the village cockerels in the morning
That has awakened the residents for yet another beautiful morning?
Could it be because of the village mongrels that are barking furiously as they chase the
wild rabbit to the nearby wood?
Or it the mooing and the bleating of the sheep as they demand to have their middle belts
filled?
It could probably be the noise of the school children as they rush to school
Probably it is because of the hooting of the milk collector as he comes for the morning
milk to take to the dairy?
Is it because of the fresh produce of the greens?
Is it because of the numerous expanse of the land that the eyes can not have to its full?
Could it be because of the naughty neighbors that will listen to your silent conversations?
Or is it because of the early neighborly visits just when the "morning devotion" is at its
peak?
Could it be because of the neighborliness of the neighbors?
Probably it is because of the 'friendships' behind the banana plants near the house.
Or it could be the whispered sweet nothings under the tree just outside the gate with the
moon smiling over the young lovers
It could be because of the 'accidental' pouring of hot dirty and foul smelling water to
the shadowed forms near the banana plant?
Or am i just blindly in love with country life?!
Suckers suck
Truckers truck
Mickey Mouse mongrels maltrusively muck
Broncos buck
Lady luck
'Fraid to say the word
….......................................
Inspired by the late great George Carlin
How mysteriously mythical
And mystical you look
Magnificently minute
Maritime majestic migrants
More than marginally manic
Mesmerizing meanderers
Masterpieces
Peacefully going about
Your business
Magical make-believe
Monarchs of the sea
Upright and elegant
In your mannerly march
Moonstruck prone to
Misfortunes and misadventures
Oft mostly monologuing
In monotonous monotony
Mediocrely misconstruing
Mischievous mongrels
And misconceiving misplayed
Merciless minutiae
But merry merciful
Momentous messengers of love
Marketable motive and
Mission to mirthfully mate
You mavericks matched
To mettlesome mistresses
Masqueraded maroon
From menacing mercenaries
Marvelously masterful
Is your mimed courtship dance
Mellifluous entwining
Matrimonial love embraces
Mounting and moving
Mimicking moody miscreance
Swaying to measureless
Maudlin melancholic melodies
Monopolizing methodical
Momentum and motion
A meticulously modulated
Mellow match of merging
A most memorable metaphysical
Millennium melodrama
AP: 1st place 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on April 16, 2018 for contest SEAHORSES sponsored by JULIA WARD - RANKED 5TH
Others have fallen,
publicly shame slain by the Me Too sword
Men of high society pedigree,
reduced to outcast leprosy members only
And the rave wave rage of women’s anger rises
against heifer treatment by male baboons,
perpetrated on them since the beginning of time
Now is a dangerous time for
testosterone predation
But, low priests of the phallic order
bless the foul practitioners of
lewd, misogynist behavior disorder
They serpent sway in hypnotic bliss
to the charmer’s sound ...
erogenous vibrations
sensually stimulate their injustice scales
They follow the Pied Piper blindly,
lemmings going over the cliff
But the cult idol is unmoved by their dying worship
The high priest of chaos theology
remains untouchable
His hands violate feminine flesh
with no repercussions
His hurtful words are
loathsome macho rat bait for feline debate —
that which he violates is that which he hates
Giving erect denials,
though taped confessions are heard,
he smiles with disdain ...
Untouchable is his favorite word
FBI ... fuggit ‘bout it
He wickedly wonders why everybody
is making a big deal out of it
Thinking of women as mere cattle,
who were made to sacrifice their bodies
for his ravenous carnal desires
A sperm wolf moving among the ova herd,
he howls with tweet glee ...
Untouchable is his favorite word
He boastfully mocks the fallen,
calling them men of weak pedigree
Mongrels of male impotency
Untouchable ... impervious to all
his mortal enemies
He believes his dog treatment of women,
gave him the canine path to a teflon presidency
It is just a dog, a common cur
The scabs, the sore upon the eye.
O the rattled temper
And the garbage bins tottering
Under the mischief of its paws.
It is just a dog, a common cur
And more method to it madness
Than man's dumb logic can ressurect.
Life has chewed on its pedigree
Like leather.
It searches, but never eats. Yet ribs stick out
Like bones suck white against the cruel teeth.
He marks each bin with seminal promptness
As if weaving from his heart some memory
Some hope to find again the heated *****
Among the refuse and waste of man's discard
But the rescue mission tears him hard
He finds no trail in the empty sniffs,
Nothing recognizable
Like the joy of her sullen bark
Teasing him to mark the turf anew.
He use to bark at the moon
For always the shadow on the rock of light
Reminded his loneliness
Of the dog catchers coming.
The firs time they came
The truck moving like a hearse at edge of day
His father went without farewell.
The man wore collar and leash
Symbols tyrranical to freedom.
His mother wore none,
Her penury almost left her naked,
Howled at by wind, spat at by rain
She kept her freedom close to her vein.
The dog catchers came again
And his misery is not abated yet;
The pound swallowed up his son
And mother in almost one breath.
The ***** was analgesic afterwards
For pain that dogged a dog.
With her the future had neither chiarscurro
Nor sulking shadows for schoolboys stones
She was tied to the past
Yesterday's joys is tomorrow's anesthetics
Though he had only known today,
Barren now like an empty house
And dreams withering
Shrivelled raisins of hope
Hard as day against the palate.
This dog has no more gate
To wait. Mongrels are not prized.
Perhaps the flies got her,
He heard them singing in his ears
Wingless words. He bit on time
Took a good dose of it,
Anesthetics or analgesics,
The difference is irrelevant now.
Pedigree is nothing without honour,
Love is poison without trust,
A dog's heart
Turns to its master's whip like a child.
A knight wields a sword
after the killing of his love,
a beautiful maiden was she
God sent her, from above.
They loved each other truly
he was the King, of his land,
wanted to marry the maiden
asked her father, for her hand.
Her father gave them his blessing
known each other since they were young,
had the hope, to one day marry
the maiden's heart, the knight had won.
On the day, the wedding came
dragons flew in the sky above,
there for the maiden and knight
in the celebration of their love.
Off in the distance, there was trouble brewing
clans that were not invited, stood,
the young knight and maiden
knew they were up to no good.
These men of uncleanliness
jealousy raged in their hearts,
tried to steal the land from the knight
had set fire to his hay carts.
These men did their very best
to get the maiden as their own,
but, she, was smarter then they
said she had a heart of stone.
But, they knew she had lied
when they saw the ring on her hand,
they tried everything they could
to put her under their command.
These no good, filthy, mongrels
had broken up the wedding day,
they laughed and drank merrily
didn't matter, what anyone had to say.
Each had a sword at their side
waiting for the chance to a fight,
teasing the guests at the party
which wasn't at all, very bright.
The knight and his beloved maiden
tried their best to stay together,
but, they ended up, getting split apart
during the nasty, rainy weather.
All hope is very well lost now
when the unwanted clan starts a fight,
the knight tries his best to be calm
fights them off, with all his might.
From behind, there came a scream
so horrid and so very shrill,
"The maiden is dead!" someone screamed
the knight saddened, with tears, his eyes did fill.
How could they have done this to him?
He ran over, to be at her side,
this was the day, to marry his love
and he wasn't with her, when she died.
He didn't want her to die in vain
time to up and be a man,
he had to get even, for her
and protect his ancestry land.
A beautiful maiden was she
God sent her, from above,
a knight wields a sword
after the killing of his love.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Nov.11/2012
The words at the end of the title, were challenge words.
"The Goodbye Road"
Glass slippers
cut roads clean
like diamonds
they dance through the storm
and Yellow is just a colour
ribbon tied around a tree
never Gold
Monkeys fly
flattering mongrels
who walk the lonely roads
always on their own
with soft feathered 'friends',
soap sudded soupy vowels
and horny (backed) toads
Christmas
comes and goes
Unicorns are ridden
until their jewels 'n horns 'n hearts are torn
Everything in a suspended world
glows sunset in mystical rose
The last poem you wrote
is always the last ode
Poems drip off a tongue
whispering
to the vast global empty zone
like blood slides
down a sword
like dropping crumbs
to the silent
dog whistles
and absent jingle bells
baptised slowly by
too much brandy
egg nog whiskered
licking Life's
luscious lips
mistletoe led
snookered
ray bans on
8 ball holy holed
Road Home
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
Christmas/New Years
gvlm
“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road – Sara Bareilles”
https://youtu.be/5vtguBvC-zk
"’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."
Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There.
"Permanently on the "Naughty" List"/Anonymous
....and I haven't even started making the Rum Balls yet...
regards,
somewhere,
lost in OZ.
yeah, I know, you ALL love me. Hard not to. x
LYRICS/ Goodbye Yellowbrick Road/Elton John
https://genius.com/Elton-john-goodbye-yellow-brick-road-lyrics