Best Sutherland Poems
There's a pesky mosquito hoverin' around our ears
If he keeps it up he'll soon be splattered in smears
T-Buzz tries to draw our blood
When he gets hit with a THUD!
We'll celebrate his demise with a party ~ Cheers!
by Lin Lane
A mini vampire with wings,
in annoying high notes he sings.
Tries to fly incognito,
this imp called mosquito.
With blood thirsty appetite stings!
by Carol Connell
That darn mozzie was buzzing like hell
Til I sprayed him with a can of Repell
He can no longer fly
I watched that mozzie die
I’m happy he’s gone – you can tell!
by Jan Allison
That skeeter was in for a thumpin'.
I swatted, but he just kept jumpin'.
I got out the spray,
winked, said, “Come my way”.
And now I'm no longer a-grumpin'
by Dale G. Cozart
There's a pesky bug upon the lawn
One his mother should have never spawn
making noises here and there
wish he'd just disappear
One big ol' zap and poof he's gone
by Tim Smith
T-Buzz flies around in pestering irritation
One good swat'll take care of his elimation
No more buzzin' sound
He's garbage can bound
Thank goodness there's no reincarnation
by Marti Sutherland
I was singing karaoke, acapella
While eating a sandwich of mortadella
Along came a mosquito
Named Little Esposito
I smacked him cuz he wasn't a nice fella
By Mystic Rose
A skeeter singing for a favor
Was wanting blood for a caper
He's playing with fire
His future is dire
Joining others on my wallpaper
By Cheryl Hoffman
A mosquito was buzzing loud
Of his bugle, he felt so proud
My hands would squash fast
That buzz would be his last
Soon, he'd be covered with a shroud
by Jo Daniel
If anyone dislikes the buzzing of a mosquito, join in the collaboration by sending me your lines in a SOUP MAIL.
I followed that cad Robyn Hood
and discovered he's up to no good
An expert at cheating
bad mouthing and bleating
His actions I've not understood
Oh how awful that folks feel so glum
Many now call him Robyn Hoodlum
He's a raunchy thief
who brought them to grief
He preyed on the blind, deaf, and dumb
Robyn has folks dancing like Muppets
He loves to treat them like puppets
He tugs at their strings
and then clips their wings
No wonder their confidence plummets
Heard the sheriff will arrest him soon
Robyn will be singing a new tune
While sitting in jail
He will cry and wail
In sorrow for acting like a goon
Sheriff found out Robyn is a girl
Her real name is Antoinette Pearl
Robyn Hoodlum wed
Now the sheriff is dead
and Robyn is engaged to an earl
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fairytale plot by Jan Allison, Marti Sutherland, and Lin Lane
I don't want a flimsy daisy chain love
one the slightest breeze will sever apart
Their blooms are as pure as a turtle dove
I won't play childish games with my heart
Plucking flower petals, I would never do
for he either loves me, or he loves me not
Cupid drew his little bow and an arrow flew
He missed but I consider it a warning shot
Love is seldom simple. I'm aware of that
Unless built on honesty, it will surely fail
The man I will love must wear a white hat
not some scoundrel who carries a tall tale
The truth in matters will someday be told
So I'll not pluck daisies and strip them bare
One day my heart will discover and enfold
the hero searching for me, his own lady fair
July 7th, 2017
*Thank you, Marti Sutherland, for writing in tandem with me.
A Collaboration with Marti Sutherland
Circling the table before they feast, black ravens crow
bright beady eyes darting to and fro, away they go
landing on a wounded body that has not yet died
circling the skies before they feast, dark ravens cried
On their bellies through titanic grass, slimy snakes slither
forked tongues searching for innocent prey, coming hither
Reptiles crawling from under rocks, cold-blooded and chilled
their fangs leaving lethal bites, and another victim is killed
skulking in shifting shadows, deceitful humans lie in wait
Bearing no name, no face; beware of the wicked who hate
Brutal bashers who take what they want at the cost of life
Back stabbers living in a harsh world where hypocrisy is rife
Ravens, snakes and evil humans sit on thrones of deceit
Like black widows they feast on their mates when they cheat
They spin their lies so easily, like the sticky web of a spider
Beware you are not caught when their mouths open wider
Not even an "Amen"
Babies cried, children bled
mother's fell, families splintered,
hymns ended, bibles held
Nightmares became
not something to wake up from,
but something to wake up to
Sunday morning wept dark
neath a bright November sun
as doors burst open
and repetitive noise silenced everything
No time for prayers,
no time to run,
When the smoke cleared
not a sound was heard...
not even an "Amen"
The massacre at the First Baptist Church in Sutherland Springs, Texas happened 3 miles from my home. A typical warm Sunday morning was no more. Heartbreaking and horrific.
I followed that cad Robyn Hood
and discovered he's up to no good
An expert at cheating
bad mouthing and bleating
His actions I've not understood
Oh how awful that folks feel so glum
Many now call him Robyn Hoodlum
He's a raunchy thief
who brought them to grief
He preyed on the blind, deaf, and dumb
Robyn has folks dancing like Muppets
He loves to treat them like puppets
He tugs at their strings
and then clips their wings
No wonder their confidence plummets
Heard the sheriff will arrest him soon
Robyn will be singing a new tune
While sitting in jail
He will cry and wail
In sorrow for acting like a goon
Sheriff found out Robyn is a girl
Her real name is Antoinette Pearl
Robyn Hoodlum wed
Now the sheriff is dead
and Robyn is engaged to an earl
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
11-01-17
Fairytale plot by Jan Allison, Marti Sutherland, and Lin Lane
Sutherland No More – A Proclamation
Sutherland Springs from the pages of my media feed,
A story of guns, grief and the need, for no more.
Sutherland no more.
The innocent and the free sitting in their Sunday Pews,
Little thinking they would be the news, on the door.
Sutherland no more.
The white squat steepled church reaches to the sky,
The congregation and world asks why, whilst the tears pour.
Sutherland no more.
‘Fortunately somebody else had a gun’, the saying goes,
That was equalising those bullet flows, from ceiling to floor.
Sutherland no more.
Freedom to Bear, Freedom to Speak, Freedom to seek
The solution to these nightmares in our sleep.
Guns cause the rift and opinion must shift.
When you’re gone,
Will you send back a letter from America?
X.
©Keith Murphy
EPIPHANY
As I walked beside a river today, life took on a different meaning. I had walked many times this way before, but it seemed like it was my first time. Things I took for granted became alive and meaningful.
Heaven above was softer blue, earth around was sweeter greener. I had never noticed before the small flowers that bloomed among the grass. It was if they were painting a picture for me. How I wish I had brought my camera to capture the scene of this moment in time.
Then I heard birds with their different voices. Some had deep sounds, others a sweet trill. Silver throated magpies warbles. I closed my eyes, as I stopped to listen and imagined I was listening to an opera.. Pavarotti, Domingro, and Sutherland, never sounded as good to me as did the bird choir on that day.
trees
leaves clap
wanting encore
Copyright © Vivien Wade Oct. 2014
I’ve watched the sun rise in Angkor Wat
The beauty in Santorini will not be forgot
Mount Bromo was a sight worthy to behold
Cape Town did shine so bright and so bold
I witnessed the sun as it set on the Grand Canyon walls
The moonlight dancing on the Sutherland Falls
I’ve cried at the feet of the Redeemer so grand
I’ve seen so much beauty in many a land
Nothing compares to what I’ve seen with my heart
A sight so amazing it just tore me apart
It all pales in comparison so right and so true
The beauty that I see every time I’m holding you
*comments are welcome and appreciated*
Oh !
The swirl o the kilt !
The Maid
There was an old maid of Pitlochary whose morals were truly a mockery
For under her bed she'd a fellow instead of the usual porcelain crockery !
to the haunt o the pipe !
The Lady
Each time Lady Sutherland swooned
Her bosoms popped out like balloons
But her butler stands by with a gleam in his eye and lifts them back in with warm spoons !
The 90 year old
Could no longer bend or even lean
Over
His brother’s grave
Stands in the sun with his planted cane
At his elbow
Tells me
He hears his brother speak from the grass
“Bobby, where have you been all these years?”
Dad turns to me
Says when he was 13
And the Army telegram arrived at the house
And his mother and father tore it open
On the Roosevelt porch
He ran down Sutherland Street to downtown Ironwood
With shock if not even a grin
Wired across his face
Shouting from the Walnut-split sidewalks
“My brother’s been killed! My brother’s been killed!”
Haunted
By his youthful exuberance
For all his old days thereafter
Thought he was responsible
For his mother losing her hair
Nest unraveled by a storm
For his father
Never using a razor again
Instead, each morning
Rubbing expressions clean in the sink
With his palms
For the only thing
Left standing
In this near-abandoned mining town
A fifty foot fiberglass statute
Of Chief Hiawatha
Gazing over the passage of centuries
Never lets go of any soul
No matter the crimes against humanity.
With all my movie friends, and tv too, vanishing,
I turn my attention to the brat pack. Brandishing life.
Ally, Molly, Judd, Spader, Cusack, Gray and more.
Out of Bounds on my screen, terrifying, a thrill ride.
Or I could loopity-loop The Breakfast Club, burns
sizzling, redefining the bad boy, who pierces his ear
with a precious diamond from the popular girl.
Sutherland scared us, Sheen made us feel unclean.
One killed us with fangs, fear and freedom.
Charlie fooled around. My husband didn’t want to meet him.
My sisters met Andrew after I left, what?!
I had just watched Weekend at Bernies…again.
Just like in Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life
“I want to live again…” so I’m drawn
to the shows where the actors are still alive.
I can watch delightful and happy classics
that bring me down, I’m not as far behind.
Those old people are not the same old people
from my youth! Like my granddaughter, once said,
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
I think I’ll settle back and get Pretty in Pink
or deadpan Grosse Pointe Blank.
Back in the Blockbuster day could have thrown
the Brat Pack in my backpack and zoned
out!
I watched him when the cameras left.
Sutherland mixed his pigments, stepped back,
squinted at the jowls, the slumped shoulders,
the way gravity had begun to win
its patient war against his flesh.
Churchill sat. Churchill endured.
Not the posture of Parliament—
no cigar thrust upward like a cannon,
no V-for-Victory fingers cleaving air.
Just an old man in a chair,
heavy with the weight of what he’d ordered:
the burning of the French fleet at Mers-el-Kébir,
thirteen hundred sailors who’d been allies at breakfast,
charred by British shells by dinner
because he couldn’t risk the ships falling to Germany.
Sutherland asked him to hold still.
But I saw him flinch—
not his body, something deeper,
the small collapse behind the eyes
when he calculated again: how many dead
to save how many living? The algebra
of attrition. The moral accountancy
that keeps a man awake at 4 AM,
glass in hand, adding corpses.
They say he hated me.
Called me “malignant.” Had me burned
or buried, accounts differ.
I understand. I painted what performs poorly:
the exhaustion beneath the performance,
the bleak machinery of command,
the face of a man who’d learned
that history requires carnage
and someone must sign the orders.
In public, he was Britain—
bulldoggish, unbreakable, already bronze.
But in Sutherland’s studio, for those long afternoons,
he was only Churchill: a fat old man
who drank too much, wept in private,
and knew that every speech he gave,
every stirring phrase about blood and toil,
was a promissory note written
on the bodies of boys not yet dead.
I captured that. The sag. The cost.
The democracy of exhaustion—
how even great men are only men,
and men grow tired of choosing
who will die today.
So he destroyed me.
I don’t blame him.
Who wants to see their bleakness
hanging on a wall, archived,
a historical document of despair?
Better to be the bulldog.
Better to be the myth.
Better to burn the portrait
that shows the man who sat alone
after Dunkirk, after the Blitz,
after each telegram that began
*We regret to inform you*—
sat alone and wondered
if there was any difference
between resolve and monstrousness,
between necessary evil
and just evil,
if the painting could tell.
I couldn’t.
I could only show his face.
And that, apparently,
was too much truth to keep.