History debunks entire mystery of satires
Deniers just liars building gilding empires
Tech Messiahs no dire high flier pariahs
From evangelical spires inspire the fires
Never tires of vicious avaricious desires
With hateful hobbies from lobbies it hires
Town criers as we drown in quagmires
Gerontocracy which never ever retires
Every protest pest laid to rest on pyres
Time
in the caldron
the hour
unstruck
Hands
reaching skyward
while boiling
amok
The wise men
among you
all wait
to proclaim
What criers
at midnight
hope to
— reclaim
(Dreamsleep: October, 2025)
shout shout let it all out, you are a peado and we want you out,
come on were talking to you, come on were talking to you,
shout shout let it all out you are a peado and we want you out come on were talking to you come on, were talking to you,
you better watch out, better not cry, town criers here and were telling you why,
peado your leaving your house, peado your leaving your house,
peado your leaving your house,
you pack your bags in the morning, you pack your bag in the day,
the police car is a whaling, and there coming to take you a way,
you better watch out, better not cry,
nonce our kids and we hope you die,
peado you are leaving your house,
you better watch out better not cry,
all the hunters are here and were telling you why,
peado your leaving your house, peado your leaving your house, peado your leaving your house.
Soiled sinners lecturing on the art of being pristine.
Innocents retreat to black pits and darkish seams.
God tucked away the red lantern and ivory ring.
Very few are rescued from the darkness within.
The good sheep are mixing gospel and fear.
Charlatans and sharks are circling in with shears.
Talking heads are in it for ratings and attention.
Town criers' race-baiting for a vote once again.
Millions gorging on fish and blue-collar greens.
Very few are sowing; they're just takers of the seed.
The horizon is deeply rouged and roughened.
Nobody cares enough to balm it up or buff it.
Bloated children are crying out once again.
Cupboard and pantry are running very thin.
The lullaby and nursery rhymes are dulled.
So, one day they decided just to snuff them.
Black crows preening atop a thorny crown.
The curtain of humanity came crashing down.
Somewhere deep in the soul of a dead-end night.
Heaven was nailed to a neon, no vacancy sign.
Saint Peter packed it in without even saying goodbye.
Newspapers can be logs for the fire
or non-functional rolling pins
Obsolete as white-stockinged town criers
along with typewriters ~ has-beens
From the valley of a lone Victor,
Hope bloomed on mornings dew,
Carrying promises of a brighter sun,
In echoes of joy and persistent smile.
Here he comes, draped In night’s shroud ,
Messenger of silent, gusty winds,
Challenging the ‘criers to a falsehood
as Gossips' tales, recounted long.
Beneath motherhood's heavy song,
Tears freeze in pain's tender gaze,
Bearing burdens, frail long lays,
In ceaseless lays, finding no solace.
The reaper's pact, at dawn's first light,
His price, a debt, oft collected,
In twilight's shade, no trace in sight,
For dawn alone, his scythe erected.
Hope, a melody hauntingly sweet,
Fading to shadows with each passing lay,
Echoes lingering , a symphony complete,
At thresholds, betraying their way.
Strength spent in fields of toil,
Make rue of Harvests reaped in thorns,
the farmer returns with his aging hoe,
In cycles old, he pursues another toil.
Oh such a mess.
The Scientific nebulous.
Deception, misdirection, misrepresentation.
Electronic misinformation.
The recalibration.
Attainment is futile.
For the vile.
Love and friendships torn apart.
Right from the start.
Traitorous laughter.
Fallen lives a disaster.
Betrayal of Magna Carta.
Distorted facts.
Piracy in their glass houses.
Shattered.
Humanity ridiculed.
Bereft, wayward as criers obligated.
Liberties, Freedoms, to dust.
Memories of trust.
Oh dear, what a mess!
Will they confess.
It’s up to us.
Oh the Scientific nebulous.
The car's engine Fred often fires.
He. simply, first checks the car's tires
And off moves, tires spitting fires:
Tubular rollers end up criers;
Traffic wardens with their "Stop!" liars:
Fred at what he loves never tires!
The strength Free Fred uses he hires
From booze and kola sold by Mires...
After three months Fred's Benz for buyers!
Often worse than cars long in mires.
Criers and Listeners
Miracle Man
4/6/2023
Mercilessly,
many are drowning,
in the stress of everyday life.
We cry out for help,
but most ears are only attentive
to crowd generated noise,
and thus ignore the whispering,
of a drowning, solitary voice.
Young man, just try a glass of sangria,
Now, we all can see you are angrier.
Audience is not a ‘a must’ for Town Criers;
Their job can now be discharged by flyers...
One cries too long and one lips get drier,
More pacing about the legs look sorrier.
In some circles you become a pariah,
For being of all things Hollow Wood Carrier.
Yes, you keep that in mind, Prepared Crier:
A town crier’s voice might go higher
But to his critics “A Hopeless Liar”
Or in short, he is the no more needed,
His colleagues in other towns fast weeded.
Dim the lights low and let me dance,
To the memory of you engraved in my brain.
As they lowered you to your palace with a timing,
My whole being, drained.
Mentally, emotionally, physically,
You tore.
Yet you gave everything up willing,
I couldn’t bother to ask for more.
A twirl for the laughs,
A sashay for the tears.
Don’t brighten the lights just yet,
I’m still mourning for my dear.
Sway, sway, sway through the room,
The drums in beat to your beatings,
The piano, o! The piano,
In tune with your teachings.
A tune for a dance that has been meticulously practiced,
And, as repulsive as it may sound, I HAVE dreamt of dancing to this tune before.
Before,
You were lowered.
Before, criers of the spheres arrived.
Before, all else.
Before our reality has turned into nothing but a memory that I now sway to.
Therefore…
Dim the lights low and let me dance,
Let me wallow,
Let me die slowly inside,
Let me twirl till my heart’s content,
Let me rejoice for the greater good,
To the memory of you engraved in my brain.
As they lowered you to your palace with a timing,
My whole being, drained.
Aeilnnorvy. S
Asked to assemble
Things that resemble,
Henry remembers
The Racy Embers:
Months of Baptismal Fires:
For man waiting with criers
Attitude – changing September
And attitude – worsening October,
Kennedy – snatching November
And Robbers – multiplying December:
Months for ruinous steps on Mamba
And Urine’s loss of its amber.
Urged to still assemble,
Things that resemble,
Henry remembers
His family members:
His wife whose every joke tires
And their kids, incurable liars.
Morning’s Broken Armor
by Sy Roth
Squeaky crawls the moon’s light
Falling briskly against the chinks in the window
Uneasy sleep
A voluble accompaniment to
An out-of-work cello.
Scooting, crawly insects beat against it
With a frenzy of scrawled brevity
Tattooed on its soft shell.
Horns bleat somewhere in the inky distance.
Town criers bellowing news to a somnolent brain.
Alternatives roll away from eyes
Cemented closed with a.m.’s dream glue
And the clinkety-clank of Sir Gawain’s armor
Makes its way into the room.
Declaring additional valid seconds
Feet flopping like pimpled pancakes ready for turning
To the cold floor
The morn ready to mourn another day.
Tears some men easily wipe
By smoking a waiting pipe,
The same tears most women shed
Precariously perching on a bed.
Big tears male criers crave
While on female cheeks they’d rave:
Some tears a man strenuously forces,
On the eyelids of a woman racing horses:
A wounded pride’s would eternally last,
The physically injured’s drying up fast;
The messages in men’s tears are short
The ones in women’s a well-aimed shot!
I know not when we shall shake hands again
Or hold in warm embrace for the sheer joy
Of each sunrise and moonlight
For the plague and news of frightful deaths
In faraway lands
Have erected monuments of fear in our hearts
This scourge knows not the old or one with gold
It has made unsure the prophesies of seers
Who did not foretell its emergence from the East
Though bearers of the Rod of Asclepius have
Responded with their art
Each day is made uncertain
With sirens announcing the next patient for isolation
And the morticians awaiting the next carcass
Of the mighty and the lowly levelled by the plague
The king’s men and town criers have told of
The enormous chains at city gates
They have forbidden us to act as free men
But a woeful lot propelled by raw ignorance
Have defied the king’s edict and
Like stray goats tempting a rustler
They dare the plague to come nigh
Our store houses have grown lean
And Like a century ago
None from this can flee except
God shows mercy
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