A piece of this kind I had been stalling
But it had a voice and had been calling:
A voice The Begging Thing doing,,no shame:
For more than a calendar year the same.
I don't abhor comments on poetry
No article to earn me purgatory
This one might canonize The Wrong Guy
And subtly get thee to strange ideas buy:
The untouchable thoughts of Coleridge
Begin to house some of them in a fridge;
Between me and loved poets yawning gulf
While one could point to their great jobs on shelf.
Writer's emotions need not overflow
For verses planning a champion's hard blow
While Tranquillity may not condition
Assured recollection of intention.
In the line: 'I shall my things quickly pack'
Paired up with:"If my Cursed Boss says"it's sack"
You'll agree no emotions overflowed;
The last two rhymes had Persona's Boat rowed
Same as: 'I know why Esther is crying'
Linked to: Always The Tired of Trying!
Our human mind needs only little aid
When the challenge is to have "something" said.
Some shout no to corporate welfare
And spit on those who say otherwise.
Tax loopholes seem unfair,
To those who minimize
Their day-to-day and scrutinize
The monthly budget.
The craftsmen yowl this advice,
Be a Maker, Not a Taker.
An artisan lists out what's true and fair;
A list of various jobs and supplies.
To complete his family's share
Of fruited endeavors reprise.
The labor like clockwork unifies
The sons and daughters sextet.
The craftsmen sing a fanfare to canonize,
Be a Maker, Not a Taker.
The effort rolls on in splendor
Fulfilling and occupying their lives.
Each embraces the craft and takes care
To improve with each enterprise.
They learn new ways to devise,
A trio rhythm to the minuet.
Until their breath greets sunset,
Be a Maker, Not a Taker.
Years hence others apprise
The fruits of their labors sweat.
Finished works inspire others to reprise,
Be a Maker, Not a Taker.
It's the game of the year
A contest for the ages
In attendance are celebrities
Government officials and sages
Ceremony, pageantry and pomp
As the gladiators get ready to stomp
Onto the field of battle, to contend
While we mortal onlookers pretend
That what all this tawdry tinsel signifies
Is that the combatants we so lionize
Will be worthy recipients of the grand prize
An impressive silver trophy the size
Of an altar, rests on the sidelines
As warriors position themselves on chalk-lines
To damage each other on a field of deep green
Each man prepared to rupture his opponent's spleen...
We say that teen-agers' flings and romances
Are half-baked, immature, risky flash-dances
Yet considering our game-time circumstances
It's we adults who canonize risky chances
Divine and crunchy the pizzas that you serve,
Sweet the liqueurs I get but don’t deserve!
Your eyes are dark, and moist they are like dew,
Shooting darts with power to pierce me through.
Pardon please an odd and pious hope.
I think your case should come before the Pope,
I’m sure His Holiness would gladly canonize
One blessed with power to make those hot mince pies.
Strange thoughts have I while, waiting on this seat,
I see your smile before I taste the suite.
Beatify the heart in sapphire waves...
Echoes of the piper's sweet refrain.
Amend twisting steps, wash them all away.
Canonize salted souls with angel spray.
Harpist of silver shoals stroking golden rays~
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