Boyfriend and girlfriend sing together
Of the future that is to unfold before them
Not about riches and renown but about a
Home filled with joy and life and
Of true love that knows no death.
Monsieur & Madame living in martial bliss
It starts with a vow sealed with a kiss
Eternally him for her and her for him.
A republic finds itself in a wobbly state,
Governance shrouded by an opaque regime,
Some strands emerge together into a credible tapestry,
Many weaves yet to emerge from the loom.
Decades of simmering hostility,
Punctuated by spasms of bonhomie,
Sputtering out into recrimination—
These circumscribe our strategic choices.
The populace divided, a schism stark and deep,
Hawks and doves in stark contrast.
Neighbourhood's dangerous gaze, fixed.
A hiccup to thrive without peace.
A New Year's Cheer
Raise your glass to prosperity,
And ring in the New Year with cheer,
Whilst singing out the latter year
Amid the zeal of revelry.
And kiss your darling heartily,
Expressing bonhomie sincere.
Raise your glass to prosperity,
And ring in the New Year with cheer!
Enjoy the fest rhythmically,
Letting old grievances disappear,
And welcome unfeared the New Year
With joy in perpetuity.
Raise your glass to prosperity,
And ring in the New Year with cheer!
Frontiers may get guarded sans hate,
And bonhomie get built ere late
Amidst smiles sans adversities,
But wars when rage, rage miseries.
More than the people, wins the king,
Soldiers die, their memories cling,
In strife suffer their families,
Yea, wars when rage, rage miseries.
The bridge-builders were forgotten—
Poor monkeys made butt of all fun,
Ram routed Ravan with all ease,
Long since wars rage, rage miseries.
Frontiers may get guarded sans hate,
But wars when rage, rage miseries.
___________________________________
Kyrielle Sonnet |01.11.2023| war
They sure bear battles but no enmities,
At borders build brotherhood’s bonhomie,
Exchange smiles and burry adversity
That may arise from mutual miseries.
The wars are won by kings and their counties,
Soldiers only fight battles and lay life,
Their families suffer deep abject strife,
And forgotten once settles all the crease.
They that build bridges soon are forgotten,
Conquerors cross over, Ravan to hunt,
Victorious, Ram-Laxman feel triumphant,
And monkeys that made it miss all the fun!
They that know nor yet hate, each other kill,
Those that hate, scarce with scary battles deal.
__________________________________________
Sonnet |02.10.2023| war
Poet’s note: ‘Ravan to hunt’, the reference is to Ramayana, an epic poem of some thirty thousand quatrains called shlokas. Today’s world is full of conflicts. Whilst battles rage, who suffers? The common folks, the so-called couth and innocent of the society. This sonnet is born from this anguish.
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they face whirlwind snowfall, freezing ice,
while others brazenly squirm,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
of this genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
velvet moon worlds sidereal captured,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
FILLE JOLIE
I see the tall apartments as we pass
We all shudder, slowing to a halt
The bus conductor turns and stares
As he stops to collect more fares
This stop-start ride is not his fault
The Place d’Etoile packed with cars
I am off to start a new school term
And almost ready to face the world
It’s 1960 and the times are changing
Career choices soon need arranging
As a young woman, not just a girl
And my independence I do affirm
I will stay to work in this exciting city
Paris also can offer varied recreation
My parents still living up in Normandy
Little villages always full of bonhomie
But my future is more than anticipation
And Gilles said he thought me pretty
The bus has almost reached Pont Neuf
Now yet another day of boring lessons
See the grown up people sitting here
Not everyone has varied lives, I fear
I just hope I’ll make good impressions
Whether as an aristocrat or mere serf
It was a day of chaos
The day the pensioners struck,
Massed Mobility Scooters moving
Forward like a Rugby Union ruck,
Blocking all the streets
In the centre of town,
To all intents and purposes
Closing the city down.
The police were very tolerant,
Withdrawing their attack
After more than one officer suffered
From a wielded walking stick's whack.
The atmosphere changed
Soon after that
Lots of bonhomie
Banter and chit chat.
The action was called offi
Promptly at five to three
Thus allowing each
To be home in time for tea.
The action wasn't called
For any cause or good:
No it was carried out
Just to show they could.
Massed Mobility Scooters moving
Forward like a Rugby Union ruck.
It was a day of chaos
The day the pensioners struck.
Now the Festive Season is over,
That false bonhomie game,
It’s on to the NewYear and
More of just the same.
The Pandemic continues,
Life restricted as it before
(How would this population
Have reacted to five years war)
For the Why Me Generation
In this age of No Win No Fee
Everybody else is to blame
Everybody, that is, except me.
The workers will still work
Exploited by their bosses,
For some sector has to pay
For the Pandemic’s losses.
Global warming effects
Many a far foreign land
While most of the population
Hide their heads in the sand.
So Happy New Year one and all,
May all prosper and thrive
The likely prospect being many
Will barely be able to survive.
2 years old, but still just as relevant
No sneers from me
No spite for thee
No malice for you
Bonhomie on view
No fight day or night
Hmmm…
That’s about right
The moral of this
That ought to be told
Is serve your soup warm
Neither too hot…
Nor cold
*
[This was written for Milton’s ‘5 New Year
resolutions’ contest, but I felt it didn’t quite fit
the remit. Wasn’t going to post it, but in light
Of Soup’s communique re bullying, I felt it held
Some water.]
[Written with much love and bonhomie in
response to Milt’s Poem ‘Hearty Poetry Soup’]
*
Not so long ago in a land called Soup
A warlock gathered a talented group
These were the wordsmiths who writ all Soup Lore
But the warlock decided that they’d write no more
For he had been born to be ‘Soup Laureate’
A role he’d hold longer the more folk he ate
Even a warlock is sometimes unreasoned
Not much consolation…when you’ve been lightly seasoned
So here in this cauldron we boil and we bubble
Somehow I sense we’re in some kind of trouble
My hope is this as I cling to the edge
I hope I’m the meat and not the two veg
But, lo, I discover that Milt’s being mother
He’s spotted my need to write something or other
His warlock-like methods at first seemed remiss
Until this old turnip sat down to write this
But still I find one thing decidedly troubling
I look like a beetroot from all of that bubbling
My poor scalded feet are developing bunions
So at my next barbecue… Milt’s in the onions!
If there is something special in this world,
then it is nothing but friendship
which will still be alive
in many hardships.
It is a bond formed by trust
It is a bond between two or more persons
This beautiful bond is full of purity
It is a bond which carries infinite expressions
Friendship is like a tree
Trust, faith and care are its roots
and this tree will grow bigger
only if its roots go deeper.
Humans may become old
but friendship will never
It will be still that evergreen
and coax us to recall all the memories.
A person who has established this sweet
camaraderie with someone
I believe is the most luckiest and
happiest person on this planet.
Friendship can never be expressed with
mere words
It needs to be expressed with feelings
like love, support, empathy and care.
This bonhomie gives you an opportunity
to light up someone's life
It permits you to shower immense
happiness and joy in one's life.
Let us promise ourselves today
to never let our friend go away
and always remember one thing that
whenever you will be lonely and sad
a true friend will always pat your back!
Seven mirrors broken when I was seven,
longing for the day of lifted depression,
mournful memories collide in cacophony,
journeys thru faded tapestries taunt and please,
a practiced facade of cheerful bonhomie,
unwelcome regrets return with the breeze,
visions of the future after the curses end,
a new man approaches from the mists of time,
not quite ready to shake his hand,
a gypsy queens benign smile reflects in her crystal ball,
perhaps a man will rise from the fall,
grapes are being crushed by feet for a new wine,
swords are ready to be sheathed,
disappointment and resentment look down at their future grave,
fresh fields stretching to the golden horizon await light feet,
as forests of the dead burn in the background,
final goodbyes to the ones I could not save,
a new journey will leave behind unavenged deceit,
wisdom awaits the call to reveal the profound,
seven broken mirrors will no longer curse and enslave.
Join in jovially for our jamboree.
Unpleasant thoughts – just toss them away!
Become your best self, and have bonhomie.
Ill will, be gone. We won’t have that today.
Leave cares behind; do not hesitate.
Arise! Come with us, and join our throng.
Now is the time. Don’t make us all wait!
Thrill to the music of our gleeful song.
Joy for evermore. . . could it ever come true?
Obliterate negatives. That we must do.
Yell Yippee Ki Yay; let your happy shine through!
Jan. 6, 2019 for the Jubilant Joy Poetry Contest of Chantelle Anne Cooke
Like a meteorite streaking
through the sky, iron
and nickel, for a proxy collision
with hidden destiny.
It was the post trauma
syndrome, after the great
divide of breast, lifting
the nipples.
The lofty peak crumbles.
There will be the scare
around, to grow the poppies
on the mounds again.
Are you ready now
for emasculation ? The
legacy will, on its own, pass
onto alternative sins.
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