The maple trees red tinge sounds the alarm
Begins a blushing curtsy, bowing slow
For Autumn’s but a fleeting warmth’s farewell
The heat of passions peak prepared to go
Weep not as lover’s petals slowly fall
For lust was never meant to linger long
Nor lingering somehow sustain the bees
Or from a frozen beak coax loving’s song
Yet in their passing beauty waves her wand
Exposing in their season life’s parade
The guessing game of Winter, Summer, Fall
Unfolding in the game of Time’s charade
So, let us not weep for the sun and moon
But marvel at the Butterflies cocoon
Despite your intelligence mimicry,
You still come far short in your gimmickry,
Throwing down the drains fine masterpieces,
Flushed away as a fresh bout of faeces.
Nights without sleep to pen wonders on sheet,
Yet a lame detector brands one a cheat,
An app claiming to be a true genius ~
Is far from being labeled ingenious.
How long will your pretence rule human minds,
Before you're swept off by the southern winds,
That your charade may stop to fool the world,
And your foolishness may at last unfurl.
Strange how your fanbase keeps on increasing,
Even the most smart, you're daily fleecing,
These cursed detectors come in many brands,
Some free – yet some charge dollars and rands.
I'm amazed you didn't claim this was by you,
This bitter pill, your pride has had to chew,
But that won't stop me from calling you out,
To nip in the bud your infamous clout.
The Charade
A wealthy man dressed up as a poor guy walked into a bank to see the employees' reaction naturally it was predictable, that the rich man found it upsetting and gave us a lecture that everyone is equal
If the poor guy had a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket if that was true the last thing he would do was go into a bank, the likelihood is he would buy a burger, with chips and drink a few beers, feeling good
When a wealthy person pretends to be poor To put himself as a good guy, he knows nothing about poverty; he can go back to being rich again and the poor guy stays stuck in poverty tomorrow and the day thereafter
Its wet and drear in London dear, the pomp in on full trope
Though hope is gone, not dead for Jesus is the only hope!
Its foolish to trust in others; dopes.' In robes and words
In fear and force, its hackneyed ethos, solid dross of course
One hundred mill, so bums can sit.' and ears listen to
Waffle and some titter, and scraps and traps such slippery
Tounges we'll no doubt hear, yet will we sum? A throne of
Gold in a nation sold, to the w e f, just same old same old.'
The crowds are thin, not much the din' dis-enchantment is
Setting in.' geriatrics in phylactics gather and throng how
Can such traversitys continue on? Food in piles is stored
Away, as childen are hungered, its the British way.' Some
Vassels also, it seems agree although; their people need
To be set free.! Free to thrive to grow and prosper, yet to no
Reason i now return, to the parody of vanitys and a useless
Crown ' thats just the head though, i'll make this clear on
A British day of pomp and drear, might he take a little trip?
Before the throne..As ascends he it.' Twould be indicative of
The wider nation, that needs a real King not this Abberation.'
Peaches have blossomed,
My heart has been doomed,
Your smile has my reality zoomed,
Towards your scarlet lips that I groomed.
Chasing your shadows blindly,
Hiding in your dark resignedly,
Glancing at how you smile divinely,
Looking at your dancing hair sublimely.
Following you in the dark,
Closing your ears to have people bark,
Living in your shadow as a worthless rock,
And hearing your syllables as of a lark.
Making my mind numb,
Having my heart splutter to crumb,
Letting down all my hopes with a hum,
You will be the only one to whom I will succumb.
flood of memories
drought of goodwill and kisses~
off that rainbow scene
Written: November 13, 2022
A New Hiku Footle Tanka Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
When we first met, I was happy as can be
I thought we’d stay together til’ the end
As the years went by I’m in total misery
When we first met, I was happy as can be
I’m stuck in a charade and I don’t feel free
In a blasé union our hearts no longer blend
When we first met, I was happy as can be
I thought we’d stay together til’ the end
Alexis Y.
10/03/2020
Alas, there lingers deep within
a war that neither side can win
while the vanquished ran and hid
those triumphant forgot they did
and history, that lying vamp
would seat an angel with a tramp
so lives within the soul of men
an urge to fight the war again
for age and “wisdom” oft conspire
to reignite a flameless fire
a dream of victory’s charade
flag draped coffins on parade
John G. Lawless
©4/16/2022
Nothing lasts forever,
even the laughter fades
before the crying...
Only the unknown
remains... !
There are two famous politicians who hold the stage,
they should be in this year New York's Halloween Parade
to attract huge crowds: they are stuttering Biden and hysterical Harris;
these two have shaped the theatrical perception of two charade clowns!
One is hideously scary, the other is theatrically funny,
America has become a battlefield, a nobody's land:
there's no impenetrable wall to protect this country;
no regard for police, no gun control to stop the blood!
It's a bad time for them to engage in a fierce battle,
this rampant pandemic doesn't discriminate;
who chooses to get the vaccine shot is saved,
who refuses it is someone to be alienated,
going home without a check and feeling miserable,
shouting their inalienable rights that aren't sacred
anymore; alas, they won't transform their fate!
Oh, turn off Fox News: it makes this house rattle!
This lovely fruit that clings to tree:
it beckons shyly, just to me.
Not an apple to pick, alas;
nor a fine pear--I almost pass.
But then a perfume fills the air,
almost too sweet for one to bear.
And so I pick this lovely fruit
and give to one in my pursuit.
She thought it beautiful, at first.
I wasn't ready for the worst.
The face she made was new to me,
her screaming fraught with witchery!
She threw the beastly thing at me,
and ran away: I watched her flee.
What smells so sweet but tastes so sour?
That, I now know, is lemon's power.
What a faux pas I had just made.
But it unmasked a grand charade.
As lemon and the girl portrayed
that which lies within and not displayed.
From the realms of my heart
And my soul
Hard to separate
What I want
And all I know
The circular motion
Figments of my imagination
Knowing there’s nothing worse
Than a cryptic charade
That seems like
The perfect escapade
It may be colourful and wild;
Over fantasized
But still remaining;
Undefined
When light fades into night, one becomes the night,
conversing in silent language, one feigns no fright,
one hums gentle hymns to bring the dark to heaven,
assumes a child’s innocence like bread with leaven.
How alive illusions are when one feels no pain,
leaves rustling in the wind let dreams go down the drain.
But reality pierces memory, forgets
not the face loved in innocence without regrets.
To close one’s eyes from viewing sunsets, reduces
innocence and wonder that nature seduces -
landscapes meshing green on gold when sunlight sparkles-
beauty strengthens the heart to bear hurts it hurdles.
One asks of fate if all these were just mere charade
like crescent puffs of dust blown off in life’s parade -
dancing to the flow of waters in gurgling streams,
mocking facade of innocence, betrayed it seems.
@jjote 011021
An absurd idea slipped from my head
That, in my dreams, would best be left for dead.
This chimeric charade turned global rage;
A mighty and monstrous meme for our age.
Perhaps someday the p.c. and the woke
Will finally be aware of my joke.
Too late to put back in Pandora’s box
I shrugged it off for some bagels and lox.
Woefully, the footlights dim,
the magic fades—the chorus grim
A curtain falls as memory fades,
the ending near—one last charade
(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2019)
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