in the mouth of desire, inverted spires
lean toward the grots of Hell.
tongues forked, skewered with sapphires
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires.
Adam's apple burning cores, as moths for martyrdom's fires.
on the path to perdition: many had attended well.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs.
the crone fanning her cauldron
a hot vat of ruin, Wiccan shrieks and whirs.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs -
a warlock's cherished heart of burrs,
tears of crocodiles, his every gentleness abandoned.
in the mouth of desire, sirens sweet, curses
lure purple wearers and weavers, beasts with saints,
low_down to the broad gates, gilt black, swinging purses.
in the mouth of desire, sirens' sweet curses
but wisdom's rare jewels, bereft in their verses.
for want of wisdom, man's sovereign will faints.
Serpents slither here. Scorpions hide beneath our bed spreads.
Spiders, bugs, sticks, ants, and centipedes occupy our beds.
We have coasts. But what use of these? They burn with sultry heat.
Pirates sail to our harbours with their armour-filled fleet.
Predators of all kinds have filled our once lovely islands.
Where, once, flora and fauna flourished, wattles and burrs shake hands.
Our architectural castles seem to crack and collapse.
Dilapidated sanctums of temples reveal time's lapse.
Archaeologists try to explore our mausoleums.
They find noxious inland Taipans in murky museums.
Dogs bite their masters; cats, like tigers, cull their lords with claws.
Cows, bulls, and goats butt, stamp, and pin their herders for no cause.
Arrogance and aggression emblazoned by humankind
Their hearts and minds by evil thoughts, words, and deeds are maligned.
This place too is made by God, I know, like other places.
But, to cut the heads of others, here, each one runs races.
Notice how the birds sing long after we listen.
We oft’ are engulfed with our trampoline thoughts.
With gossiping beaks, they chirp and they flap.
We mimic their tweets, in our minds, as we beat
out the negativity of tenacious tumbleweed and burrs.
When wings catch the air - either we can’t breathe
or we catch commonsense & attempt a sound mind landing.
The canal, closest to the great outdoors, detects signals
of the sweetest sounds, beckoning the eavesdropper -
reminders of a mother’s cradle drop; will we fly?
Let go; indeed fly. Flap those wings. Give it a try, baby bird.
All ‘round, the spellbound flight of robins, bluejays, sparrows.
There are horses for the courses,
We know, and there are race horses,
What we know’s too little,
Horse bets on no people,
He knows with men all sense ceases!
_____________________________
Limericks |12.01.2023|
Poet’s note: They say: as a rider, the best compliment you can get is not from your trainer; it is from your horse. This is horse sense. I don’t know if the best compliment a poet can get is from his pen, but wish it were. A horse can advise: ‘Take life’s hurdles in stride. Loosen the reins. Be free spirited. Keep the burrs from under your saddle. Carry your friends when they need a ride. Keep stable, and gallop to greatness’. And as someone said: when in doubt let your horse do the thinking. He has the horse sense, as man you have little.
Read these words,
no Not ‘these’ words,
read the words
that are laid to rest
under a thorny bush.
See how they emerge
to eat the spikes and burrs
become this life of yours?
Tell the teacher
the one with the gray heart,
tell that teacher
you have known all his words before
and they are now buried
under a briar patch
hidden from the light.
From barb and thistle
your own words shall flower;
they will utter a wisdom
only the wounded may know.
Grotesque Gimply the Green Eyed Witch
Was trying to rake her hair without a twitch.
Tangled burrs and fleas made her skull itch.
We watched in silence, myself and Fitch.
Fitch is the cat with who knows the switch.
For Grotesque Grimply can be a rather mean witch.
I sat in the dark, hiding away in the pitch.
The silent bat, who understands her niche.
Another Australia Day has dawned again
The question s why can’t we all be friends
A flag flies over us
Including the Union Jack makes a fuss
We are here now and will remain
The years and wars attest our fame
And there are things that I feel
Were abhorrent in our deal
The first Australians had it raw
And it’s difficult to even the score
It seems that colonialism still echoes on
Even though it is long enough gone
So our national day occurs
Where excuses are like saddles with burrs
Should we be left to make it right
When we weren’t even in the fight.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Most of the time flowers will do.
Those gentlest of ambassadors
commissioned to disarm the caustic ego.
Trim burrs from misunderstandings.
Temper the burn of good intention gone awry...
To most they whisper of peace and love
they're brooch to the breast of forgiveness.
Conflict and Confusion often arise.
when the blossom stompers arrive...
a brute cannot comprehend the language of flowers.
These are the times when powder must flash.
Bullets must strip the gold from its silence...
Blood must get the attention of the icy rain.
To glean a grain of humble from the ogre hearted,
who's every breath wishes to singe the garden.
I don't care for snakes
They hiss and bluff me
I'm not really sure
Is he friend or foe
Cats, I really take
Though cats don't give she
any return purr
any loves warm glow
Steps away not fake,
soft as cotton he
claws like prickled burrs
begins tapping slow
Around pretty lake
Strolling light as bee
Among fair flowers
Light dainty halo
Set atop him, make
head held high as thee
proud hero allures
and females follow
Prancing gay fine rake
along path, high knee
dance he follows pure
His own tune mellow
I don't care for snakes
They hiss and bluff me
I'm not really sure
Is he friend or foe
By Doris Culverhouse
6/12/2021
The gentle pull of floating waves,
The current strong that sinks or saves.
It stirs my heart to sing along,
A voiceless tune that turns to song.
It brings to me eternal rest,
Cradled to the river’s breast.
It welcomes me with open arms,
A peace that keeps me from what harms.
My soul will journey on to send,
As spirit mingles with the wind,
A freedom floating over all,
It catches me so I don’t fall.
I spend forever in the deep,
In waters dark my soul will sleep.
The oceans carry me away,
In places far I’ll make my way.
The sea will claim that which is hers,
Be rid of all that clings like burrs.
I’ll join a place away from time,
A place to rest from life’s long climb.
His Life
Written: by Miracle man
2-10-2020
Life consisted of habit and attitude,
and neither would he willingly surrender.
One day he discovered his thinking was skewed,
and no more was he labeled a pretender.
Sometimes as he stubbornly clutched to self life,
unhealthy routines became burrs in his path.
Then his subsequent days weren't engrossed in strife
he’d swapped his rebellion to escape God's wrath.
Concerning our hobbled earth~
God must yearn to start from scratch
we've been given multiple chances
but have turned Eden into ash.
Our minds are filled with plastic thoughts
and the burrs of nuclear rust.
A hellish-metal hearted-selfish species
that no other species should ever trust.
War species-filthy DNA staircase...
bleach it clean with a mutating gene
splashed with peaceful sequences.
Until our gilded God intercedes
he should float a no vacancy sign
upon the shallows of our minds.
When burrs of winter snow
come knocking at your door
and caprice winds
begin to whip
the windows of your soul
tuck your blanket firmly
round your chin and smile
Wing the dream, perch it
on a snowy branch
watch the snowflake
flirt and dance
like a diamond of
appendage glee ,
give the winter a chance
to woo you with her
white skirts of puritan beauty
soon spring will burst forth
with violet hints that flower
and send winter to booty land
for good. xo
Mystic Rose
SLEEPING BEAUTY AWAKENS TO FATE
Beauty shrouds its sovereign brilliance under extremes
The oppressive Black Forest of fairy tale dreams
Buried far below the palatial sunrise
Dressed in farmer’s jeans, burrs in golden nest
An orphaned princess plays, regality suppressed
Godmothers ensure her fingers bleed no spindle cries
Rose, cosseted from laughter - the lust, that hopes she dies
Malificent doth yearn to steal her enemy's royal crest
Mine ears hear music
A sultry song of beauty
O steed so strong ~ ride yonder
Magnificent prince!
My heart shudders ~ I’m frightened
Sifting winds doth change my fate
4/20/2017
Laura Loo’s Three Style III Contest
One couplet, One stanza, One sedoka
A-A; A-B-B-A-A-B; 5-7-7-5-7-7
An old cowboy still wore his spurs
As he entered the cool dark bar.
He brushed his jeans of cockle burrs,
Waved his hat for a whiskey jar.
He looked 'round at the Friday crowd,
Smiled and recalled his younger day.
And then he heard him brash and loud -
A young cowboy with hell to pay.
He slammed through the old batwing doors,
Sat down at the old man's table.
He said."Pop,I'll give you 'what fors'
If you don't leave while you're able."
And then the old man kinda smiled.
He said, "Son,I'd leave were I you.
Things 'round here are 'bout to get wild.
You're 'bout to lose a tooth or two!"
The young cowboy leaned back and grinned
As the old man swung the bottle.
They swore that you could feel the wind
As he hit the chin full throttle.
And then he laid there 'neath the table
With a changed view of these old men.
Don't take on more than you're able -
You don't know where these guys have been.
4/17/2017
For contest And Then..
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