Satsuma Tumour
Sense of Humour?
That Groomer Rumour
Cometh the Hour
Cometh the TAN!
People Power Glower should Flower
Grassy brassy knolls
But proles at the polls
Sold their Souls
To joust like Faust
Ignore Marcel Proust
Cower before the Ivory Tower
Odd bod elite’s law
Tweets of Sod and God
No Enlightening
Repeats the prism
Or algorithm beats
Every criticism schism
“Ism”..a frightening..lightning rod
Pot..black..kettle knack
Debauched cheats pedal to the metal
Out of whack flak attack
Unsettle our mettle
Plot to settle that score
Scorched and torched serfs
Any petal in fine fettle
& the earth's core
"Death is the mother of beauty;"
Death
as nothing is
not separate from
beauty~
death is
mother appearing
as beauty~
resulting in This
as it is~~~
She says, “But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.”
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
~~Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning
Every pirate west of the Caribbean had heard of Captain Gary Bee.
He was reputed to be way younger than the next captain at twenty-three.
We were anxious to meet him, so we invited him to tea.
He strutted in with short pants, that barely covered up a knee.
It is rude to ask pirate captains their age, so we did not.
But he could not have been a decade older than a tot.
He spoke with polish and finesse', was unassuming and not brassy.
After a lunch of bean curd and bean salad, he was a bit gassy.
Excuse me! He said after each burp, belch and break of wind.
We thought he was delightful; he became an instant friend.
Captain Gary Bee, the notorious pirate king of the seven Seas
I was glad he decided to stop in often for our cakes and teas.
When I can’t think of anything else to draw
I draw boxes
They lead to swirls, stars, flowers, elves, faeries and mushroom houses
When I can’t think of words to pen, I write down verbs and adverbs
Jumping, whirling, swirling, glassy, classy, brassy, hopping, skipping words
When my painting muse is stuck, I reach for my orange
She is my go-to color
Orange leads to turquoise
Turquoise leads to red
Red leads to yellow
Yellow leads to green
I have a pattern
It is a method that works for me
Greet me
Spring sprite,
fresh docile smile;
Whose whispers woo
with hymns of lover's tune.
Enamor me
with fizzy phrases;
As doting night
enthralls, with stars,
the bashful moon.
Cove me
within bossom's veil
of plusing
neverending
blazing charm.
Congenial hover,
like clouds do
to pacify and soothe
the brassy, heated,
brazen sun.
Dreach
my dreams
with valiant gales
of furor baron
kisses gained.
Like Nature's gift of life,
revives plains' drought
with cloudburst,
Heaven's
inundating rain.
The sun, a brass gong,
a brassy, blazing command,
it wakes the world,
with a fiery, golden hand.
The air, a hesitant breath,
in a nascent, cool embrace,
now exhales,
warming with the sun's grace.
The earth, a jade canvas,
in emerald light, it lies,
dappled, vibrant,
shimmering under golden skies.
The trees, a verdant legion,
stand tall,
reaching for the sun's rays,
in an arboreal, vibrant thrall.
And then, a slow descent,
the sun, a tilted coin,
it's light, a slanting fire,
on a canvas, now stained with wine.
The earth, in ochre draped,
hushed, in golden afterglow,
embraces the waning sun,
as shadows lengthen, softly grow.
The wind, a sigh of cool air,
brushes the twilight sky,
with the day's farewell,
as night's curtain begins to lie.
And on the tongue, the lingering taste,
of sunlit warmth,
a fading, sun-kissed sigh,
a promise of dawn, in the heart of the night.
I put hot pink pajamas on my cat Scat.
She twists her tail, for she knows where she’s at
A sassy, brassy, classy, ritzy, ditzy, diamond cat.
worth all the trouble, said my cousin Pat.
For she is smug and self-assured, a joyful cat.
I hear her coming now, with her pitter pat.
Dressed in her fancy pajamas, my cat, Scat.
Uh-oh, I think what she is carrying is a live rat!
We played a game amongst twisted trees
Then studied the decaying river bank
And as we crouched down onto our knees
Our paper boats sailed away and sank
We rolled around the blades of grass
So fresh and pea soup green
That shone in the sun like shards of glass
It was the happiest we’d ever been
My father spotted a Heron in flight
We watched in awe as it flapped its wings
Flying gracefully away till out of sight
Indescribable is the joy it brings
Across the river some cows had broke free
As they were clambering across the stones
They were in a place where they shouldn’t be
All mooing orchestrally with brassy tones
The arching bridge rose high across the water
Like a rainbow across a darkened sky
A man made feat using bricks and mortar
The safe corridor that kept us all dry
Then it was time to head back home
Hungry but full of beans
Children along the river love to roam
Anyway, any how and by any means
Chetta is the nom de plume
of a brassy, classy, sassy, and a little bit trashy
sister of the summer sun,
she's a lover of sugar and spice and everything nice;
feels sunny, funny, and a little poetic,
but fears the wrong word, the wrong rhyme and the typo;
her dream is to see the world in peace, children in laughter,
and all the people in love with each other~
Chetta lives in the city of wonder in the state of creation
where she always knows the Achara is blooming...
...then will be delighted to see
the lights of eternity,
and the daughters she imagined
awaiting her in heaven.
We used to have a wonderful crew at work.
Sixteen, men who thought alike.
Then someone upstairs decided to hire two female engineers.
They hired the wrong two.
These interlopers are not demure, dainty or feminine.
They are brazen vixens.
With their bobbed hair and their wanton ways.
They read the financial pages, as if they understand them.
More like men than women, they are manly women.
Independent thinkers.
Way too brassy.
Too bold, too confident, too vocal.
We make fun of them from the window.
Because we dare not do it in person.
Noah Sharp wakes up in the middle of a fitfully frantic Friday night sleep.
Compelled to bring forth elephants, dinosaurs and tigers out of the deep.
The toy chest has fashioned itself into an arc, big, brassy and bold.
There is music wafting in that sounds straight out of heaven’s gold.
You are the keeper of the animals of the future, Noah is promptly told.
He uses his nightstick, commanding the creatures to plank up into the fold.
They come two by two, ready to take to the sea or Elmo’s fire.
We have to hurry, he tells them. To linger would be foolish and dire.
The brassy sassy cocktail napkin winked at Jim.
He looked around quickly, wondering who saw.
The other patrons at the bar did not seem to notice.
Have another drink! She said. I’ll go home with you.
He had two more before stuffing her into his pocket.
She had been giving him sexy promises all night long.
“Do you want an extra napkin?” the bartender asked Jim.
He could feel his face getting hot.
Shook his head “no” and ran out of there.
Now they could be alone.
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
We used to have a wonderful crew at work.
Sixteen, men who thought alike.
Then someone upstairs decided to hire two female engineers.
They hired the wrong two.
These interlopers are not demure, dainty or feminine.
They are brazen vixens.
With their bobbed hair and their wanton ways.
They read the financial pages, as if they understand them.
More like men than women, they are manly women.
Independent thinkers.
Way too brassy.
Too bold, too confident, too vocal.
We make fun of them from the window.
Because we dare not do it in person.
comes forth the rain, riding a cloud
bucking, straining, fighting the reins
snorting, cavorting, brassy and loud
comes forth the rain, riding a cloud
rambunctious colt, kicks loose the drain
landscape obscured, wrapped in a shroud
water is sheeting, down to the plains
comes forth the rain, riding a cloud
paired but untamed, neither is cowed
rider gets thrown, back on again
headstrong, stubborn meets angry and proud
comes forth the rain, riding a cloud
----------
for the 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 13 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Mark Toney
written on 05/05/2022
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