At any time
After lunch
I will have my nap
For a few hours
And in the afternoon
I will wake up
I will stay indoors
Where there is
Cool
Because my air condition
Is on
And I will do
Some work for
My Father
Because I am my
Father's poet
Also when my grandfather's clock
Chine 12:00 AM
I will turn my computer of
Then I will have a quick bite
To eat because I am starving
Also I will drink some Orange juice
With my meal
Now I will pray for my Father
Before I go to bed
First I have to turn my mind
OF
Then I will close my eyes
And drift away into a sleep
At any time
While I am sleeping
I am dreaming
With my loved ones
That I am missing
For a long time
Yes Father all my loved ones
Had died of cancer
Because they smoked like a chain smoker
Every single day
Oliver often scolded Hardy, on a point of which he was
Never tardy.!
They had to have 'their daily fix' if not hourly? They were like two cats on
Hot bricks!
Their made up mayhem, garnered them gold, it was their milk and honey
A hit; 'they sold.'
Rich and famous, through their tears and quarrels, old Hardys kicks Stanley, made into Laurels!
The crowds, they grew' they travelled far! They lodged at the 'Chine hotel'
They fooled round its bar!
Yet did they take that 'new years swim?' As daybreak comes' as the waves
Roll in !
That hearty English breakfast, taken soon after.' Would sure have got Them ready; to raise some rafters.!!
Light beams across the blue
Endless dreams fade from view
Clouds in patches strolling
Stream catches the glowing
From chine gentle breezes
New sunshine that pleases
Image: 4
In Essence 2 Poetry Contest
Verse poetry form only
Rhyme Zone and Syllable count: PS
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Date: 19-08-2021
In our father's house, you were doing fine,
but you did not want to toe the line.
Father, you said, 'give me what is mine.'
Leaving home sent a jolt of joy up your spine.
No more scenes of servants grazing kine,
or picking grapes off the vine.
Feasting on choice cuts with the chine,
sporting with women, and drinking wine,
living in a ritzy ranch on the banks of the Rhine.
You have many friends who love to dine,
but you are too naive to know that is a bad sign.
Poof-poverty pounces and pierces like a tine,
now broke, homeless, hungry, you start to pine.
To earn money, you take a job feeding swine.
At nights you lie on the streetside and whine,
thinking of the servants and how well they dine.
It is okay, you ragamuffin to regret and repine.
Get up my brother and toward home your feet incline.
The sight of you will make our father’s face shine.
The Chinese (told to me by a South African)
They are all over Arica now building houses,
Railways and roads using their workers
There is little work for the local population.
If you take a train in Africa, there are many graves
By the embankment, of Chinese workers who
Died there they even haven’t got a name.
The Chinese buy-up farmland products are sent
To chine to feed the population there and the locals
Are starving.
Chine is not about individuals but the plurality
Like a locust swarm leaving the land bare and now
They are building a road the goes to Europe: and on
The way they buy farmland it until the last plant
and leaves behind devastation.
So, look out what is coming your way.
Hong Kong
Should you be in doubt
it is Chinese through and through
not a British colony
who reluctantly had to give it back?
They introduced democracy which as
false as the American kind,
China is not a democracy.
but they
have got rid of poverty and corruption is a hanging offence.
The students in Hong Kong have led
people astray, they need a good spanking,
dreaming of an independent nation was
criminals can hide like it should be Israel.
So, let us repeat Honk Kong is Chine.
nobody knows what defines once sorrow and pain without any gain
nobody knows the tears that dry with the wind as they fly to hide the pain deep inside
nobody knows the feeling of losing control of a role you must portray in order
to conceal the hindering truth to set you free
nobody knows when the doors are closed what happens to take place and make
the script that much real ready to deal with on your own
nobody knows the dark and lonely curtains that hang to keep out the light from
pulling the strings of a broken damage heart
nobody knows the fear to hear what once was whole is to be a half of what kept it together all some what years
nobody knows the bond that was tightly sealed would one day shatter the once perfect portrait of a long love affair nothing fair in love
nobody knows matters of the heart less openly discussed closely concealed
nobody knows when to chine in for respect of privacy and not feel like a third wheel on the outs looking in
nobody knows what grows together tends to drift apart all on its own circumstances be it right our be it wrong
Melting butter
Luxuriously pampering
To my palate
Gentle stream with quiet ripples
Cool placid lake at summer’s end
Soft butterfly kisses on skin
Crepe de chine
~*~
Annalise
Weave a Rondolet Contest Sponsored by Nette
Planning on crossing over
where footprints of night
are ne'er seen...
There fish are spawning
in clear blue stream ~
Surrounded by verdant green;
Nature begins speaking to me.
An antiquated chine-wood bridge
gracefully arches it back
with sturdy braids makes a path ~
That I may cross to a place serene
Where nightingales and crickets sing
It's a place where I do my thinking
Unafraid to shed my skin ~
by dusk as honey bear I may roam,
by dawn take flight as an eagle
I may be found soaring toward home.
Upon opening mine eyes
I come to realize the colors of the skies
Yes, I've crossed that bridge before
I sauce a capon
but chine a salmon
I spoil the hen
but truss the chicken
I lift the swan
but disember the heron
I side a haddock
yet disfigure a peacock
A mallard I unbrace
but a coney I unlace
Olde English terms
Now lost without trace
Lets see if I got this strait
trust no one but believe in fate,
take time to smell the roses
but don't waist time on stupid choices,
always keep you head up and don't let any thing get you down
but live, love, and laugh and try not to frown,
treat others as you want to be treated,
but give no one the bird they didn't mean it,
if you love some thing set it free?
but to know true love is to love youself that would be me.
no one likes Mr or Mrs negative
but don't tell them that's the way it is,
keep you chine up and turn the other cheek,
so let them walk all over you? thats weak,
first empreshions say alot,
but don't choose a book by it's cover is that for not?
put your best foot forward,
but don't step on no ones toes,
so lets see if I got this strait,
live life...good that sounds great.
Three blank canvasses lean against a hallway corner wall
Upstairs are boxes of paints, brushes and knives
Finished signed framed paintings hang throughout the house
Woodcarved dragons sit on shelves in homes across the world
Each Boston Whaler built after the moon landing boasts a drying chine line
conceived in the cellar
A winged unicorn tenses to leap aloft as the naked nymph upon her senses
freedom each caught in a twirl of cut planed and polished cedar grain
Some things sensed are meant to be while others wait in hallways
Or clatter constrained in cloud castle courtyards
Hands yearn to shape the forms that sing in wordless passion
As frustrated creation fills an empty page with words
Ghosted shapes of shadows wait as yet unseen
Is art an answer or a question
Is poetry an unsung song
Or third eye view so far along
Through a window
Of this corner house
In passing
Three blank canvasses lean plastic wrapped against a hallway corner wall
Upstairs are boxes filled with paints and brushes and several sets of knives
Finished signed framed paintings hang throughout the house
Woodcarvings adorn shelves in Germany, Florida, and other homes
Each Boston Whaler built after the moon landing boasts a drying chine line
A winged unicorn tenses to leap aloft as the naked nymph upon her senses freedom
Each caught in a twirl of cut planed and polished cedar grain pattern
Some things sensed are meant to be while others wait in hallways
Or clatter constrained in cloud castle courtyards
Hands strive to shape the forms that sing in wordless passion
As frustration fills a page with empty words
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