“Serving two masters one can’t win
The One true God is Savior from sin”
Quote by poet
Like a black bull in a china cabinet
One can do much damage in sin
Especially if so lost and focused on
Things and worldly people of passion
That the soul and the Word is abandoned
Life is a bullfight and we all want to win
Satin means to distract derail destroy
But what one means for evil
God will bless for good for
His ways are not our ways
So at times in life one may be the bull
Other times the red distraction
But as we grow in God we will see
How He becomes our salvation
God is the Matador and
He will always win the bullfight
Beneath the stormy sky, the Taurus stands pliant
to face the world with profound inner strength,
confronting life as if it’s a bullfight
where the aggressive world acts as the matador,
flapping the crimson capes of wavering crisis.
Obstinacy fostered as the survival mechanism
turns the bitter fight into a personal triumph,
proving that true power is the ability
to stand the ground until the arena is quiet.
Life is a bullfight
replete with an ugly, snorting beast,
with murderous eyes and sharpened horns,
trying relentlessly to kill you
in the most painful way possible
while your friends and family in the arena,
drooling, laughing, and cheering,
eagerly await the outcome.
When both my feet don’t touch the ground
Lightheadedness proves overwhelming
Turbulent thoughts going while coming
They swirl about me round and round
Cloaked in black a moonless night
The howling dreadful spiteful wind prevails
Spellbound drags me over hills and vales
Like a ragdoll in the midst of a bullfight
Trails of lingering spirit ghouls
Hover over murky haze of mistiness
Harassing in dark gloomy cloudiness
Wrangling reaping mangled souls
Blurry visions twirl above
Creating mayhem in their path
Unleashing bold raging wrath
Till afar I think I see a dove
Fearing I’ll break into a coma
I force myself to get a grip
Catch my breath with every dip
Holding out for familiar terra firma
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Do you remember Ferdinand,
A bull who wouldn't fight?
First published 1936,
The pages black and white.
He liked to sit beneath a tree
And smell the blooms that grew;
A simple soul, unlike his friends,
A stomping, rowdy crew.
They chose him for a bullfight,
Wrongly thinking he was fierce
As he bucked and snorted when his rump
A bumblebee did pierce.
Of course, once in the ring he sat
And some of you, stop reading
If you do not want to know the end;
Despite all human pleading
They couldn't get that bull to move.
He simply sniffed the air,
Enjoying fragrant flowers
In the fancy ladies' hair.
My grandkids listened to this tale
And tried to understand
Why they'd want to fight a bull at all
In Spain, a far-off land.
Yet the message somehow made it through
And I was gratified
A beloved story can such pleasure
Still, today, provide.
Wood burner, smoke choke,
Dog shite, bullfight.
Hashtag, manbag.
**** bleaching, hate preaching.
Save the fox, change your clocks.
Prom queen, crime scene.
Chocolate fountain, food mountain.
Buy to let , insure your pet.
Cake bakers, bookmakers.
Dash cam, phone scam.
Raise the bar, electric car
Make your own, payday loan.
Lendlease , family feast.
Babestation, masturbation.
Homogenised, androgenized.
Male grooming, future looming.
Cold war, Godwin's law.
Online games, baby names.
Many, many many more......
Like a buffalo stampede
On a march unimpeded
By rock nor barrier
By lock nor river
Chop them into timber
Leave then blue and limber
Like a freshly uncovered thorn
Born hungry for the throne
A raging bull into the bullfight
Charging matador in a red suit of lights
Endure every crushing pain
With every tackle, a yard you gain
Turn the Sharks into sushi
Give it chopsticks like a rice patty
Crushed into compost with every blade of grass
Unstoppable with each rumbling, accurate pass
A bull on the rampage
A ball in the try stage
Count every drop of sweat
Forgive no sins for decent
Toast every bloody nose
It’s a blue flood they face
Sound the victory horn
For the blue bloodline
A tribute to
The Blue Bulls
In Beijing, China, there’s a sport
That has a mighty pull.
It’s kind of like a bullfight,
But it doesn’t have a bull.
Competitors get special food
Like shrimp, red beans and liver.
For extra treats, a maggot’s
What the trainer will deliver.
The champions are often those
Whose chirps are really loud.
The most ferocious fighters
Know just how to amp the crowd.
It doesn’t have much danger
Yet excitement runs real high.
They toss the losers to the streets,
But no one has to die.
Contenders draw the gamblers in
And sometimes there’s a raid;
But mostly it’s a wholesome sport
Where moxie is displayed.
In case you haven’t guessed it yet –
And I, too, was amazed,
It’s Chinese cricket fighting,
Leaving fans psyched up and crazed.
Perhaps a lesson can be learned
By watching their approaches,
For surely we can have events
Employing New York roaches!
A Gourmet Treat
By Elton Camp
Joe went to Mexico to see a bullfight
Then to the arena’s café to eat that night
The waiter, “Our testiculo is the very best
And I recommend it over all of the rest.”
It was a dish of which Joe had never heard
To be adventurous the idea to him occurred
Two hunks of meat proved to be king size
To ask about them Joe decided was wise
“Senor, these are from the bull killed today.
They are of the best quality customers say.”
Joe’s stomach gave a heave and a flip,
But he wanted to be daring on this trip.”
He found they actually tasted rather good
And ate a lot more than he likely should
Days later, he ordered testiculo once more
But the serving was far smaller than before
He asked, “What accounts for this tiny size?”
The waiter at first stalled, then gave sighs
He then replied with a chuckle and a grin
“Senor, the matador doesn’t always win.”
I feel like a portly and bearded
Hemingway
in a bulky fisherman's sweater
after a bullfight when
I ingest barbecued pork.
A bona fide man
clutches the ribs
with his creased
and hard-working hands,
sinks his incisors deep
into the roasted flesh,
and with a quick
forty-five degree
snap of his head,
shreds the dead
animal’s brawn
from its bone.
And like the full-bellied lion
who rests in the verdant shade
with gazelle blood
dripping from his lips,
the man leans back in his chair,
rub his enlarged stomach,
while not realizing
that he’s wearing
a moustache of
barbecue sauce.
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