her life had started out small and churlish
named Maude, she never felt pretty or girlish
of all the names, that might have been the worse one
she never played like others, did not have fun
her parents were frightened to let her outside
she became so paranoid, when kids came, she would hide
but after she became a ghost, all fear faded away
She decided to live her ghost-hood, determined to play
She got bolder, bigger and better, with each fleeting year
Her parents could no longer stifle her, they were not near
She was all that now, glitzy and pretty, living her best life
Thrilled that she was more than cutting it, she renamed herself Knife
I just watched the olympic opening ceremony
from Paris.
It was sad to see how the stadium booed
the American team and vice President.
(NBC muted that for you sensitive Americans).
Let’s wax poetic - wax on..
They celebrate our country's wreck,
the beggary of brats who delight
in the cheap satisfaction of ignorance
and take their oath to the corrupt king
despite the felon’s many malicious
practises against the state
oppression feeds upon such souls
They delight in his
blunt and graceless style
and churlish superscriptions
that alter every hallowed surface
What fool forsakes friendship,
respect and alliances for enmity?
They could not be the base slaves of
a meaner party - for is there a serpent
with less good will?
wax off..
.
.
A song for this:
Auld Lang Syne by Susan Boyle
In the churlish church of the frozen chosen
Where they're called to be emboldened
Though mugwumps may frown
And complain of the weight of their crown
In God’s Kingdom they’re advancing as scolded
And in this is how God does promote
Through suffering and removal of mote
Through pain we are free
To use our free will as it be
Of the irenic scene we must take note
Do you hear how the strings sweetly sing?
From the harp to the autoharp’s ring
With guitar and with bass
Choir voices in place
Their music makes Heaven take wing
So let us help one another in accord
With God’s movement on this earthly chessboard
What we forfeit when we don’t pray
How we reject others who need help in this way
Help us our most precious and forgiving Lord
He is boorish, churlish, an overbearing lout
my old maiden aunt introduced him all about
he’s my man, she announced, with a giddy shout
they are a matched set, I have no doubt
Unexpectedly
inspired by a Péladan jeremiad,
the red moon laughs at the sea
and the possum-ness of the possum;
Churlish blood rays remain
a never never world utterance of the jungle,
Every lupercalian dragonfly
conspires with brooding
red hibiscus flowers;
On a night like this,
all creation winces and endures
before melting into a black water mirage
of broken feverish brush strokes
and fruit bats in a mangrove swamp.
Cheeky, cherubic, churlish
adjectives I no longer use
~ Why invite elder abuse
sun tanned unevenly, foxed
grimy fingers caress bruising
pounded by day's narration
churlish in onyx, was its hint
over feathered combs, see,
of flicked, creased pages
buried, stained words
were never read
while cold rooms grow colder
an author's sweat for nothing
stemmed the reader's keen
though skimmed at best
and your dilated pupils
captured out-of-breath palates
so I travelled second hand
yesterday, for just over a quid
Soft sibilance departed a while past now;
lost in family, familiarity,
an indiscretion.
Soulless silence interposes churlish crows.
The weightiness of strangled screams hangs heavy
deafening the two.
Whisper; wounded, slain.
This or That, Vol 18 Poetry Contest: Wounded Whisper
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Date written: 24th May 2023
Thou wretched spot, thou churlish little knave,
canst thou in truth believe thine own deceit?
Engendered by thy lusts, thou art a slave,
ensconced by thy morality’s retreat.
Ye target those placed trusting in your care,
such innocent, inquisitive young minds,
yet lurking in thy cerebellar lair,
a single thought, corrupting all it finds.
Thou seekest normalized attraction thus,
outraged when thy detractors say ye groom,
yet utilizing TikToc to discuss,
there plastered on the walls, thy queerish blooms.
Thou maledict, thy curse flies off my lips:
now pass through blades and lie among the chips.
—————
for the Shakespeare in 2023 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon
written on 01/08/23
This risen churlish cold
all cove like
lost in the rigging
crying out the humour
to dance the green lithe of light
as a figment of your mind
The inconsolables retain
lost memories flight
Winters club bastioned to the driving winds
Daffodils espied amongst the houseflies
once prudent pierce their aching hearts
The Ginger Whinger’s in despair,
Life’s not so easy being the spare,
Seeing succession prospects recede
As baldy brother continues to breed,
And the world seems so absurd
To go and take him at his word
When he says he wants a private life
To live in peace with his kids and wife
Then gets them all in a fix
By telling all there onNetflix,
Wonders why he gets such a public rocket
As he stuffs the cash into his back pocket.
I wonder how much longer it will be
Til they tire of him the land of the free.
Will he expect the family to be forgiving
When he has to work for his own living
He had sympathy when he lost his mam
Then he tossed his toys out of the pram.
The world of food banks doesn’t really care
For the churlish antics of a redundant spare.
It would really be a sad and pathetic thing
To be as bitter as his Uncle the late ex king
Or for his only value on this Earth
To be by the accident of his birth.
There aren’t many things I utterly abhor,
Seems a waste to concentrate on dross
I do cringe when I look at an unsightly sore.
Forced to spend time with a churlish boor
I will always consider an unfortunate loss,
There aren’t many things I utterly abhor.
Observing a child spoiled rotten to the core
Whose parents have not taught who’s boss
I do cringe when I look at an unsightly sore.
The expulsion in public of a gaseous vapor
Makes some folks grin, but makes me cross
There aren’t many things I utterly abhor.
I don’t really enjoy a movie I’ve seen before,
Seeing my shirt on which I’ve dropped sauce
I do cringe when I look at an unsightly sore.
Giving it thought, I could come up with more
Like running out of thread when I need to floss
There aren’t many things I utterly abhor,
I do cringe when I look at an unsightly sore.
Written October 22, 2022
The Escape Artist
David J Walker
He was
Well dressed
In a Goodwill sort of way
Pinstripes down his
Breast
Cuffed at the end of
Each long leg
Shoes buffed
Into mirrored shine
Checking his Canal Street Rolex
For the incorrect time
This is how his
Day goes
Blowing Orbicular grey smoke
forced through his churlish nose
Awaiting the arrival of
The next Greyhound bus
That necessarily must
take him
Anywhere else
[bard1]
To wit, sans pearl, mere grit and sand,
an irritant, sebaceous cyst,
expressive as a mongrel’s gland,
self-seeking randy churlish tryst!
[bard2]
Eccentric heel’s ethos raised grand,
eschews finesse, rough skewers gist,
a numpty dumpty, brillig panned,
thou frontal lob, now dully bris’d!
I have tied the knot
with someone new:
he who wooed his way
to the world recreated
inside my wishful eyes
Once again I live in a
Sweet Home where windows
are shut and I bear the
privilege to run the show
I am married to another
sparkling tale, a sudden vow
gleaned from the years of
my sappy writing
It's more like I script I
relish crafting and a feeling
I find engaging, named after
a boy that fits my happy ending
With his voice more euphonic
than any music in the background,
and his smile can stymie any churlish
sound, my current favorite record,
partially a luxury I can afford
Because I forged a special role for him
and I've made a movie star out of myself
in this dream, a convenient storytelling
to ascertain that Love Doesn't Hurt
albeit the echoes of my breaking
-Nicola An
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