Play staged, they came,
mostly strangers to the stage,
as first time viewers,
to watch the play -
'Stranger Things: The First Shadow'.
Noisiest crowd I ever heard,
au naturale, to boot.
They ate popcorn, mumbled throughout,
if bored they left,
if frightened they screamed,
if spellbound they gasped,
if awestruck they sighed,
if saddened they moaned.
The live stage play
in Charing Cross Road was
veritably Elizabethan,
with Shakespeare backstage
in the bleachers.
hazy morn has broken
as silhouette of solitary boat
silently sails on Thames river
where a steam train just passed
on pallid emerald bridge
leaving a titanium smoke
that glazes the atmosphere
with a gentle kiss of mist
reflections of the sun rising
a blend of peach and tangerine
mirrored on the still water
spell a fleeting moment
of dappled sunlight
whilst the Charing cross bridge
is a relic of ephemeral link
connecting two people in love
9 May 2021
Reference: Charing Cross Bridge is a series of oil paintings by French artist Claude Monet. The paintings depict a misty, impressionist Charing Cross Bridge in London, England. Monet worked on the series from 1899 to 1905, creating a total of 37 paintings depicting the bridge. ( Photo and Info credits to Wikipedia)
All Yours(May 9)Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
saffron shafts of sun~
behind lofty heights
of faded silver and sapphire
veiled by the hazy fog
spell prelude to dusk
faded titanium bridges
are galloping white horses
crossing the river of dreams
where our lost story drifts
illuminating faint gray
surrounding misty water
like when you cast
a fading smile~
as you wave goodbye
14 March 2021
Notes: Waterloo Bridge is a series of 41 impressionist oil paintings of the 1807–1810 Waterloo Bridge in London by Claude Monet, produced between 1900 and 1904 and forming a sub-series within his larger 'London series' alongside the Charing Cross Bridge series and the Houses of Parliament series.(Photo and info credits to Wikipedia).
All Yours (March 14) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Briand Strand
1st place
But it's Thursday,
the alarm clock rang and a
nightingale squawked
down in Hoxton Square.
A jump start to the day to which
I will pay a price.
Eyes still feeling sleep gritty and
moving tepidly through the
brown streets of the city
I stop for a tea in the Mozart cafe.
Moving on with the song that plays on inside me
I make my way to the Temple
though hardly to pray
Charing Cross that way,
Trafalgar
no battles
just the rattle of a tin can
the beggar man always sits there.
Leicester Square,
tackier that Hoxton
but riches that hide behind casino doors.
Chinatown
more brown streets
authentic cooking
where
East meets the West
I do my best
and that's as good
as it gets
or as good at it is
on Thursday.
10236 Charing Cross Road
Holmby Hills, CA. 90077
To go where young rabbits frolic and dance
Would be a sweet treat if I had the chance
To swim in the water where famous cottontails get wet
Where champagne bubbles are spilled by the elite jet set
Maybe I might win a million dollar lotto
That could be my ticket to enter the grotto
Past muscle bound bouncers, inside velvet ropes and stanchions
To ogle, google and spill my own bubbles at The Playboy Mansion
To escape normality and alter reality before I grow old
Playing with Playmates and Bunnies and this months Centerfold
10236 Charing Cross Road, Holmby Hills CA. 90077
Without a doubt this is the address of Heaven
Thank you
Mr. Hefner
Fingers numb at the tip of this island
Toes as crushed ice upon the only sandy
beach
The sun falls quickly from the embrace of the
days blue blanket
Landing heavy upon once rain filled clouds
burning their edges and sunburning their
depths
Charing the landscape jagged pastel hues
Quiet rising tide inches towards settled
ground
Shushing all sand fleas and latent seaweed a
comforting hiss
Salty fingers will wrap each piece of
driftwood, hiding crab, bits of plastic
A wet clutch meant to weep the sand clean
When sun lets go of expectation to heat and
heal heavy clouds of support release all
colors into the sea
Dyed soft green waves rocks driftwood
Dyed dark translucent turquoise canopy
Quickly sweet slumber captured
Black blood
Black blood trickles down the walls in the darkest of streets
Becomes a newspaper story in the morning journal for freaks
They never caught him they say as the train stops and another fat man seats
Living in a jungle is like sharing your own space with strangers that you may want to eat
A circus of buffoons juggling work with looking after children in a world of concrete
My stop thankfully before I vomit on the woman sitting next to me because she smells of meat
How I loathe the morning train from Waterloo station to Charing Cross as my fists beat a retreat
The killer kills again that very night and as of yet the profile and motive are incomplete
Who needs a motive when there are very few lions left and there are so many white Caucasian sheep
Another journey to the office to feel the banal stench in the air and eyes of peoples defeat
Yes I am the killer writing to you to help me stop but you don’t know me and the time is right to go out and kill again with my pen of deceit.
Zombies
She left her head in the town
Look at her headless body floating in sky
She said the day is cruel and rude
But the night is her neighbour
I saw her skeletal brain sipping blood like
a juice
With her maggot-infested teeth charing
babies
Dusting the flesh from the bone
With her arrogant claws crying for more
If you think she is a devil because she has
lived in hell
Watch! Your intestines shall be her next
meal
Last night, i saw her devouring the state
law
Defending the rights of her fellows zombies
She is outraged at the system
Zombies got no rights, said the jurists
Well, now the ghosts are in town
Defending their rights
Ravaging and feasting on the government
heads
Clawing and clubbing bodies
Eating in the pool of human blood
A harvest of carnibal
A harvest of anger
We are not the Maya
We are the zombies
We are fictions
We are real
Watch, as i east on your flesh tonight
Written by Awoh Kingsley
The Ghost Town
My limps were in town
But my head was in a coffin
Like a terror i float in the dark
Feasting with flesh
Charing bones
Stiring and steaming fears
We are of the dark
We own the dark world
Always scared of the sunlight
Never shall mankind take our place
In the bath-tub of blood is our haven
We are scared of the crucifix
We are scared of the sons of God
But we shall hold sway as long as they
feast in ignorance
They walk and tumble in ignorance
Their ignorance is our gains
The town belongs to us
Pending when Shiloh comes....
Awoh Kingsley...
At midnight the solid tapered etch of concrete wall
Viewed from Charing Cross Pier, paraded headstrong,
It highlighted in as much an accompaniment to the call,
Where eagerly, old father Thames saw him walking along.
Surmounting steps where the view of Waterloo Bridge,
Made assessments to the whereabouts of the Festival Hall
Imaged silhouetted dignitaries like Dame Edna Everage,
Made the Grand Savoy seem like a fine old Dame to all.
A variety of sepias throughout the entire stretch faded
Entered by shadows where blurry figments to an illusion,
Became a night time London, where history was paraded
Brought Big Ben’s final clamour to a mighty conclusion.
Dark! The stark content of breeze from the Embankment
Whispers an alluring attachment to the ripples on the river
Bringing with it, fears from the past where thoughts cement
How it was still possible for the dead postman to deliver.
unknown darkness,
indecapitating love,
lifeless corps in a dark void,
useless in life or death,
bloodless void without a soul,
limp and dying with nothing to hold,
was once a beutifull window of hope,
now laying there by a nuse on a rope,
family crying tears of sadness replaced by what was once joy,
burning and charing in a hopless void of burning corpses,
the people scream and yell upon vingionce as they star,
raising the pitchforks and shovels in the midnight air,
darkness consumes them,
they dont care !
ignorance swept among the people caused by greed and the unknown,
a hellstorm arose and people stormed and sense went out the window,
after the crows of childrens darkenss arose,
in the town of salem,
what was once a happy place were all was free,
the church decided to impale the hearts of another bielife,
crime they said! sin they said!
the serpants child!
they must pay!
well crime has been done and nothing has become,
crime was paid,
and time has stayd right at the window !
life is ubundant and so is the soul, eternal in life and in strife,
rite at the window!
blessd be!