Historic buildings
railroad tracks run by feed mill
churches still ring bells
Pearl valley cheese
world's largest cuckoo clock
butchering by hand
gateway to Amish
unique shops and wineries
small hometown feeling
*Population 828
Some of the above mentioned places are within 20 miles of Baltic
Why can't the world be like it was when I was young
No one cleaning up dog-due dung
Kids dying right and left of polio and measles
Mumps running rampant like scorpions and beetles
Fathers employing razor belts
on recalcitrant sons and leaving welts
Mothers teaching daughters to clean and cook
poor-mouthing math and science textbooks
White folks lording it over illiterate Knee grows
Butchering Espanol -- and a few unlucky amigos
It was all so much simpler way back then
Cowboys shot Indians on the count of ten
So, why can't the world be like it was when I was young
Well, hey, I guess it is ~ English still ain't America's mother tongue...
I am an angry man
I considered butchering my mother
So that the government could offer me
Other accommodations away from her
Just because she asked me to clean
A pot in her house
She is so gracious
My mom
She accommodates me
But I blew up shaking with rage
Eyes bulging teeth bearing
Voice raised saying all kinds of nonsense
Earlier in the day I was angry again
At my girlfriend for nothing
I said some hurtful things
I must be a horrible human being
Thankfully she chose to never talk to me
But my mother my dear mother
What choice has she got from me
I even got angry at my dog
When she was trying to sit close to me
I yelled at her even though
She truly leans on me
Maybe I am all the evil yet to be
What happens when anger burns
All the love left for me in this world
What will I do with the memories
And the Ashes of what I had
The love I could not understand
What happens to me when I die
Alone starved and alone in the dark
Will there be anyone to place a rose
Or sing a dirge on my final verse
I need to stop being angry
Or I will not be there
To kiss my mother goodbye
Because of all the shame
I carry inside me
Upon this Pennine peak
in stretch of wilderness,
where ground is silver grey
of moorland millstone grit,
a glistening piece stands out.
I take close look and see
small flake of shiny brown.
Curious, I pick it up.
This stone is not from here
and shows the hand of man.
A thumb size crafted piece;
one edge neatly saw-toothed.
It is my first flint find.
A hunter's blade I hold.
It is a hide scraper
from ancient butchering.
Once used by Stone Age man.
I felt it in my hand.
A peculiar feeling.
Now something primal stirs
deep in my spirit core.
I feel strange connection
with folk of ancient world.
That little piggy who chose to beg off
going to market, stayed home with a cough.
He bragged he was a cut above
butchering, "when push comes to shove
I will always be king at the food trough."
While "king" was napping in the best mud hole,
roast beef pig tied his four feet to a pole;
had-none pig slopped glue in his eyes.
When "Come, get it!" the farmer cries,
stay-at-home pig finds out who's in control.
November 25, 2022
Sponsor Eve Roper
Contest Name Children's Limericks
Lately a person begins to read between the lines
how a network of human beings devalue another's worth
battered and bruised internally exhausted at times
they make you invisible shying away from the truth
To hurt someone that only wishes to speak and correct wrong
a violent nature lacks any respect to honour Justice correctly
certain groups have become hostile to straight talkers even violent
Charity cases crying over sin and vices to be accepted as normal
to carve the hammer into words etched on stone cold laid facts face
The bully is enslaved by their desire to overturn God
burning hate pretends to be polite sticking the dagger in
lacking innocence it poisons the purity in defence
You can be a murderer butchering defenceless beings
but you can't be seen to pray without being insulted
Her blade was her tongue, sharper than any axe or hatchet
Her husband was the butchering block with slices stabs and punctures
Others saw it. He complained sometimes, but she had no ears.
Only a tongue that sliced and diced,
taking him apart gradually one little chip and chunk at a time.
skirted, wind blown from afar
I was not to be late for the affair
bells struck midnight
and there were two left in in the square
twelve strokes to signal we were there
we circled right
looking for a place to disappear
tongues tendered to the herd
we kissed
my bones bent to your will
it was late
stars begged us to stay
the moon in her blushed
less than casual rose state
checking out as clouds ruffled by
we were high
and you, smokin'
like you always do
the time, the place, the memory
the face
fingers dancing as we knew the end
much more than the beginning
heartbeats pausing
pleasing, my ears
romance, encapsuled
in the singing
desire, a choir of one
and we won
thirty beats, pulsating
blood in-between the bludgeoning
a sense of belonging
longing for days to never come
nights slashing through the dark
butchering arms
grasping
charred, bodies
steam
whistling as she walks away
Absurd is the business of disappointment with meaning
crawling to our knees in defeat
and panacea for healing that lasts
a full moment, before vanishing forever.
Absurd is the claim of victory over a raging battle
when one is in self-retreat and the enemy runs
rampant in the streets.
Absurd is the virus's real vocation
butchering us like flies and
then taking a breather before
resuming its onslaught.
Absurd is the cruelty of faith
in post-virus that carries hope
to self-destruction.
Absurd is the mercurial moment
of suspense between now and future
laden in ambiguity.
Absurd is the true essence
beating in the heart of darkness
enveloping the horizon.
Absurd is the light of
enlightenment promising
relief.
Absurd is the nature of
humanity yearning for
what it fears most.
oft times brutal not so short,
but nasty acknowledgement,
(this anonymous, conscientious, efficacious...
frivolous gent writhes at bloody history),
yet mindful premeditated how to be worthy,
and now feels forced to be acquiescent
(as well other citizens might) calling
(er...actually writing), an August
aegis body vowing to be adherent
to codas, doctrine, ethos...adjacent
with government sanctioned destruction,
and indefinite adjournment
of peaceful coexistence with native peoples,
who never accepted unfair (raw deal) adjustment
(most often forced with violence) preceded,
and/or followed by admonishment
of aggressive, corrosive, deceptive...
indiscriminate butchering and adolescent
women and children,
an irrevocable Janus-faced advancement
fate awaiting all aboriginal tribes
fueled by advertisement frequently with bounty
fast forward to present age of affluent
price tag to lobby and or represent
deliberate gerrymandered voting districts,
where trumped up agent orange
iz new black aggrandizement
finds Donny Brooks saturing the media
with proclamation defamation of this very day
stigmatizing valuable news as so subtly "FAKE"!
Mohamed and Khaled
The best butcher shop in town
In the deception of silence
they butcher those with sound
Voices against their Kingdom
they fear and do not like
Raping their women with modern views
while butchering a protesting man
Both Prince, King and pork herder
Vehement denials throughout the land
Yes the color of red, proof of blood in their sand
In the shoes of Aysha, these cowards cant even stand
Intoxicated Salman, butchered an innocent man
as Trump applauds, the free press in a grave
situation... Tyrants kissing and holding hands
A thousand lashes, to the butchers of Riyadh
Prince Mohamed be damned
I, the end of man
The son of Mala
The offspring of Lamia
I care not for testaments
Ripping out the crimson hearts
They lie freshly dead
I kill all there angels
Crush their halo’s, falling fragments, down to the Earth
With Hellish hate, from my father’s seed, my mother womb
My perverse gallivant, spreads death
I feel ecstasy, I am voyeur with darkest dread
I, the pulse of existing burning fate
Crushing the skulls of sapphire lyre
I am the act of god
An act of a true god
Myriad morals shall fall in the unbridled dusk
As darkness grows, my craving for your demise becomes starved
The dead will surge
Nothing will ever collide with my throne
I am redefined nectar of massacre
The principles of odious made my flesh
Drowning life in my Imperium infliction
Butchering all that you can loose
I fabricate a graveyard of dead corpses
The cause of incubus and lioness genocide
Weaving the art of my craft
Tearing Heaven and Earth to asunder
White hair over there
Black eyes oh honey dear "dove"
Rainbow butchering!
It’s Butchering Time
By
Tom Wright
I once watched a long-haired goat,
In a race for its life with a shoat
The goat stuck out his chin,
And by whiskers did it win,
And then had the audacity to gloat.
They are ashamed of what they are today;
butchering fellow humans, growing viruses in labs,
using "lesser" races as guinea pigs in experiments.....
Everything vile they have done is in black and white;
grace has put their remaining conscience and morals in life support -
the only salvation from their own selves is Enlightenment.
The gods who made them from stardust are far beyond the stars
and time itself. The twinkling stars in the sky is the only memories
of them that the mortals are left with....
It is by becoming better than their previous selves that they can reach
the level of the gods, though it might take time....
"Let's gather the stardust of virtue, and make a bright image of ourselves,
like our gods!" the sages say.
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