Best Peerage Poems
Hour hands clock back sixty minutes of Autumn
Round about this same of month every year, what a bum
er, and inconvenient truth diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over
sans yesteryear doth drum
a sensation of jet lag (with earth in the balance)
as if flying within time machine at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride invariably finds me
feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme, nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood as hoe hum
fortunate, this chronological seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kempf cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off jangling black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and booring into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement for emergency convoy, when pitched from
sea to figurative shining sea – gram ma mother earth glum
where live yikyak wired vanguard trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down behavioral sink went – me mum
bling bloviation, once worth matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset, when athwart pilot rum
man strait ting and bickering with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans defiantly thumb
ming nose, where body, mind & soul weeknd viz a bully did cower
hence mister clock, who got high-jacked 3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen diminishing in power
wrought indistinguishable Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs, which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace, resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis space/time continuum did devour.
Black hole event horizon indeed kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
Sucker punched the band wagon of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted to oppose this minute accord.
an earth is not a resewable blanket so do not rip it then
The dainty two hour ballet performance by the pack of brontosauruses' was a splendid and majestic sight. No former beam can alight the walking walls to practice the movements of the feet moving featherlike across the vast eighteenth century stage. Turrets brought in and out. The tantalizing score brought eras to life with fantastic scenic backdrops. Painted pleasingly and professionally by the little busy mice brigade whose timeless work created many a project for performers in a global industrious swoop. Swapping a hair pin and coughing was often noted in the high elitist box which was positioned to grant the peerage an uninterrupted view away from the crowd. Aerial perspective is neither a auditory ambience nor an acre of animation. Instead it is a prevalence of demonstrated power point whereby the status of human is put on a pedestal, a throne, a high aloof top, as if to look down somewhat upon the minions. Akin to a sack which was boxes but now filled with potatoes. The sack was in the top of the pile but upon filling it got thrown on the very bottom of a vegetable delivery truck. Flames frame fame formations. Fluctuating. It is the time to rebuild the pickle dam said the beaver party. Beaver parties are often constructing and constructing is clearly levitational and a deviance can go dig in a bush. No left handed leap in an estate. And no windmill laughing today. But a bridge between the sexes of the iconic Oxon at a tennis game can satisfy a lighthouse walking to a market square. Haha and an x circumstantially Z Z Z Z
Unwana, Unwana, I have chosen you amongst the daughters of men,
amongst the maidens of my felon tribe,
to bear the torch of our waning kindred…
Unwana, I have chosen you, favoured one, out of the delights of the heart
to take the minstrel seat and chant soft songs with the lyre
under the tutelage of my watchful eyes…
My dear one,
cast not doubts on the temerity of my youth
for I have long mastered the tenets of the minstrels’ creed…
With bare hands, I struck the thick hide
of the talking drum hysterical
on those moonlit nights at the town square
to impulsive dance steps of frenzied maidens…enamoured of my rare finesse…
My palms have befriended the thorny terrains of the tambourine
and twirled the orbit of the maracas,
my fingers have bled on the strings of the sitar steered by
the lyrical accompaniment of my magic lips…
O delight of the heart
Let me school you in the ways of minstrels,
in the stupendous art of rhetoric, far beyond the scope of my peerage
gathered from my days of celibate sojourning
My dear one,
cast not doubts on the temerity of my youth
for I have long mastered the tenets of the minstrels’ creed…
O nubile maiden,
On the fortnight of my name day
when you shall be given to me, my dear one,
with accompaniment of conjugal songs and the harp…
that selfsame night when the first cry of a true poet was heard in all our lands…
Unwana,
I shall besiege you in your chambers, in the cloak of Night,
where I shall invade the animalistic boundaries of your virgin territory,
to lay claims to your fertile heart, to take full possession thereof…
you shall yearn for my soft brutality,
and I for your insatiable warmth—the pride of your long preserved maidenhood
and then, we shall become one bonded by our innate desires
as stars congregate to form a conscious mind to preserve our universe…
O delight of my heart!
On a grassy verge above the surging rill
she stood fair haired and proud,
three leaf clover substrate at her toes.
Clutching saline bouquets I had plucked
from my neighbours walk-in green house.
Woman of resplendent peerage cast a
pearlescent glance among the swirl-frond
waves that prey on fractured fjords.
At a distance, in her mind.
But not for long before we fled like butterfly
escapees over marshes, mounds and meads.
Shriek from sun-dried swallow as we stumble
awkwardly upon their woodbine nest.
Noonday train fire iron to the fossil
fuel bled caterpillar plain,
rural muzak for a pinpoint tip toe dash
through barren fodder,
spiny thistle scald on insect bitten arch,
splashes are a symbol on our craft
stitch needle knitwear.
Yet I struggled to keep pace on
raw earth sand stone,
crab apple briar tangles by the dozen
hung like plastic refuse obstacle,
but nothing now could halt this headlong
sprint to who knows where.
Date written; 23rd Of December 2020
Date posted to contest ; First Of October 2022
Contest name ; 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 15
Sponsor ; Mark Toney
A 26 line poem
A twelve and a half foot mongoose on a train could be likened to a twelvemonth tail of a tram whose movements of splash could be a beef tuning a banjo or a bamboo style crib holding up a playing card of a jack. Jacks are neither jackdaws nor jumping juniper berries. And wearing a nine piece fish outfit is best left to the eleven cups and saucers whose antics please and tell of tubular erotic notions mixed with the accessories of spoons. Peerage is not noted to be phenomenon of which the passing passengers playing points are clearly cabinet cables but vintage vocal cords of a violet variant can achieve great elongated notes at incredible octaves of otters which boom and vibrate. Great. Frumpy fractionising fraternizing fluffy socks are being very very clever as they can whirl around at anticipated cohesive chanting charges of the best beetle fields. So don't put a giant hen in a pen or a purse. Public power points pink pins. And pines rise up in the air of the nautical miles. Haha cupboard under a blanket asleep. Haha xx xx and numbered teats of the world. Xx solarisation xx z
Pork-chop cheeks and whiskey smiles,
Unable to hear the screams,
Or feel the clenched fist of anguish.
Just gravy boats, reporters’ notes,
And passenger windows,
A self-perpetuated pride,
A collective team of ego.
Laughing in hysterical
Deliverance of ignorance.
Playing around,
Intentionally oblivious
To disastrous decisions.
Twenty-plus years too late.
National incompetence,
The scourge of historical importance,
Shattering a nation’s livelihood.
Millions of pieces scattered
In a dense, foggy wood.
A gathering of like-minded fools,
Emerging from the greatest education
And finest halls.
Exemplary in the tradition of failure,
Perfect in self-service.
Number one,
Next to none,
Perfection in vile thoughts,
The master of demon guile.
And under every rock, you lurk,
Sociopathic and absurd,
Elevated by your will,
The autocratic style.
How does a pauper rise to noble feats?
By a system of tricks and treats?
A self-justification through heaps
Of linguistic beats.
A democracy for those who
Plunder the harvest reaps,
Not for all, or those who need,
Just those who wash your feet,
Place great measures
For promised privilege.
To thrive, turn by turn,
A circle of peerage,
Flashing the cleavage of mockery,
Just showing off a parading aristocracy.
The instrument of control,
The hammer to our freedom,
The chisel to our expression,
The square to our heartfelt intention.
The drill to our completion,
Our real nightmare...
The politician.
And they would strut around the fire
Then sat upon their stools,
And argued long, in learned terms,
Who wore the better jewels!
But then there was a man about
Who none had seen before,
And though he wore a gentle face,
They felt a gentle horror.
For he did not dance around the fire
Or strut about like fools,
Nor did he argue who it was
That wore the better jewels.
And then there was a sudden fright
As when a spirit calls:
For he did not stand within the crowd
But stood within the walls!
And as he moved within the walls
A warmer air was felt,
And with a sort of sinking dread,
The walls began to melt.
They offered him their rubies
And diamonds from their hair,
They offered him the wedding bands
Of women young and fair.
They offered him the peerage,
They vowed to make him king,
They offered him the chilly duke
And any other thing.
For all of this, he did not care,
He took the world unaware
With silver lightning in his hair.
At the birth of every male child,
At his hair-cutting event styled,
At first birth-celebrations wild;
At his sister's ear-ring pomp, mild,
At school when their admissions filed,
Blasts the crumb, whole soul forces, piled...!
When enjoying a silent sleep,
When solemn meditation keep,
When, within, alone, cry or weep;
When as rituals blind-faiths, seep,
When in farms rich harvest we reap,
Roars the crumb of drum like bomb-heap...!
When boys go mystic in playground,
When girls hysterically bound,
When kith-and-kin awe-filled surround;
When moralists sow seeds so sound,
When, wildest of the wild gets crowned,
Booms crumbs of music; all get drowned...!
At great festivals of marriage,
At bride-groom's glamour-horse carriage,
At bride's courtyard like effleurage;
At death, with mourning, like steerage,
At mingle of broods like peerage,
Cracks crumbs with fullest coverage...
Crumb, for us, is not bomb or shell,
Nor any grand ancient witch-spell,
Nor blast of some planets far dwell;
It’s, loud noise pollution, like hell,
That, in truth, is a rude death-knell,
Though we cherish it like church-bell...
19 January 2022
Endless haze of orange light
Cast upon the smog
Sweat alone and stain my seat
In my peerage crowd
Don't regret my actions long
Takes just too much time
Better spent trying to live
Make it day by day
Play to the rhythm of some dumb old sex song
Made by a gaggle of mediocre white men
Burning the oil just to survive
Another day so unforgiving
Stand in the light that makes me nauseous
Only thing that kills my hunger
All in all
It's all the same to me
Endless summer
Uncomfortable
Endless summer
Golden memory
Repel all within the crowd
With overwhelming stench
Sweaty kid who never cleaned
Noseblind to the deaf
Hundred feet from my old house
Hundred feet from school
Summer days eternally
Burnt my fragile skin
Just as unlikely to make it back then
Can't start a fire with all my fuel burnt
Can't blame my skin or my rank in my land
Once a loser, still a loser
Born depressed and only discovered
From the wreckage of a perfect ship
All in all
We're all upon a beach
Endless summer
Heartache, missing
Endless summer
Nostalgic, waiting
You've never been happy
Does it matter to me?
To form a memory
Remembered so fondly
Endless summertime
Burnt into my mind
If it once was fine
Why isn't it still fine?
“Good morning! May I hold the door for you?”
I looked into her pleasant youthful face
Smiled and thought to myself while walking through
The opened doorway with dignified grace.
What is it about me that she proffered
This deed? Could it be because of my age
Or just a kindly gesture she offers
Anyone? Perhaps my bequeathed peerage?
Hardly, but I must admit it’s refreshing
Instead of the usual parvenus:
Fawning, feigned, insincere social climbing
Hypocrites I encounter as a rule.
I turned and held the door and stood aside
Nodded and smiled again as she passed by.