I've dreamed of traveling to equatorial Egypt
To see the Pyramids of Giza and even the Sphinx
And then onto the jungles of darkest Africa
To meet voodoo doctors, unafraid of their jinx
O, in my dreams, I've coursed through the canals of Venice
And met the Queen for tea before Wimbledon tennis
I've climbed the Eiffel Tower, spent hours in the Louvre
Been to Mumbai, New Delhi, by the Taj Mahal been moved
Once dreams such as these were the province of Kings
Yet today even you and I can realize all these things
From whaling expeditions in Norway to bullfights in Spain
They're just a click or two away, and a seat on a plane
William Shakespeare was a play-write
He really wrote a play right ...
Yet if his 'words were magic'
~ Why were his plays so tragic?
Charles Dickens first addition
of "Olive or Twist" was darn good fix-shun ...
The epitome of 1800's political correctness
~ Monsieur-Monster Fagin's vile "semitic' invectiveness
Ernest Hemingway's son all ways rises
as the old man caught a fish in the si
of the Spain and the bullfights he at ended
~ far from the USA, where he couldn't bend-o'er his gender
Today Dan Brown and John Grisham are the right oars
who rule the roost of the literary pie'll ...
They rite and they right and they write till they drop
~ their draw-ores ... it's the latest literary sty'L
No Title
There is a reason why
Just let the brain roam
It is in the morning in town
The ground green
The sky blue
I look up high
I wonder when I too die
I accept and move on
To all it is common
I forget and pay for the coil
I want to make a meal for the gone great
To buy candle and light the air
Then to all fallen soldiers R.I.P
I carry on till I pass on
I also remember to buy a cake
For a time in life
With the Greats of Great.
Back at my tin roof
My radio makes me laugh
That an African man is turning into a woman
Again I hear of bullfights in parliaments
Then I confirm power madness is permanent
The news is too much
I tune to another channel
'Welcome to power poetry'.
My mind feels free
I decide to take a pen
Try some lines
'' If I write about the end signs"
I'll sound a preaching poet
Better preach than conform
To a night in the light pretending to be the light"
I stop and read through
I stop and realize I am not through
There is no title
And it seems simple
So I don't stop
I write.
Then the meal
The candle
The cake
To the greats R.I.P
Portugal is a place of dreams
It's natural landscapes covered in
green and yellow
Moderate tempertures all year long
Houses built of dark and light stone
Friendly people greeting you with Benvindos!
Making foreigners feel right at home.
The food alone is worth the trip,
with the freshest sea food
sweet bread, and the finest wines.
Folklore, Carnival, Parades!
One can forget their troubles
in the enchanting beach resorts,
azure waters of the sea, and the silky sands.
It is a place known for the Lusitania horses,
Christopher Columbus's homeland.
Bullfights of the Terceira island
villages with Farmers, Fisherman, Craftsmen.
I am proud it is my families culture.
On the news was a man beating his cattle
It sickens me so this ongoing battle
For a human to hurt a helpless creature
Is so disgusting,our very worst feature
Saw a man kicking his dog one time
To me he'd committed a horrible crime
That poor pup hung his head and cowered
I screamed at the man and he just glowered
Like I was the one who was doing wrong
But he felt my glare as he moved along
And drowning kittens puts me in a fury
For this I will be judge and jury
Making dogs fight to the death
I get so angry I lose my breath
Bullfights in Spain just seem so cruel
Seems we forgot the golden rule
Another take on that phrase might say
Do evil to animals and you'll pay!
It might sound harsh but I don't care
I think swift justice is only fair
We share this world with them,it's true
And karma applies to animals too
*for Catie Lindseys "Outrageous" contest
Elegant
short
choppy
dialogue
War
women
bullfights
and wine
Early morning
backyard
shotgun
a perfect ending
This is as philosophical
As keeping the count,
Binoculars trained
For a whale
That will never spout,
This is not the season,
Hamlet knew.
The Pilgrim knew,
As did the Wife of Bath,
This is discovery,
A poem on the Underground
By Sylvia Plath.
This is the season of butchery,
Bullfights without rules,
Lions shot with a precision rifle,
Selective breeding
On Noah’s ark.
This is as dark as it gets
In a daylight forest,
As stark
As one isolated note
From an aria,
As lonesome as one straggler goose,
Squawking, ‘take me along’.
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