HOLODOMOR
How the sun slept
Cradled in wheat
Far off in fields
Just within reach
Demons defiled
Aided by plows
And all that is wild
Cried as we howled
We feasted on flesh
The hunger of hate
And our finger's bled
Clawed the fresh graves
We dragged off the dead
Called them by name
Like curs, how we growled
And cried as we ate
The round table spins,
all is a roulette wheel,
now I am the favored Knight.
Yesterday I was the least,
children made sport of me,
scrawny curs snapped at my heels.
The King's favor is fickle.
The Queen shades her eyes,
her demure down cast mien
a façade, a veil beneath which
simmers a flame we both have ignited.
Today I ride ahead of the throng,
my banner tall and straight.
Tomorrow is uncertain
the table will turn again,
for what can be, may not happen,
and what may happen never be,
better to let the world spin on,
for even kings and queens know
that any gambit is just another
uncertain gamble.
This gamming table
goes around,
and just where your feet
touch firm ground
or slip
none may predict.
Femur sighs, given a break and transformed by love.
— by poet (inspired by Ira Byock)
What’s worse than an illness, an accident?
Imagine with me
helpless in the abyss…
Open to the curse of curs.
No warm or cold compress
No caress
No handkerchief
No matter how hard you have it,
if surrounded by compassion,
you’re not as broken.
The round table spins;
yesterday I was the least,
children made sport of me,
scrawny curs snapped at my heels.
The King's favor is fickle.
The Queen shades her eyes,
a demurely cast down mien
a veil beneath which
simmers a flame we both have ignited.
Today I ride ahead of the throng,
my banner tall and straight.
Tomorrow is uncertain
the table will turn again.
For what can be, may not happen,
and what may happen never be,
better to turn the table
take the Queen by stealth,
let the world spin on.
Jagged like spurs, harshness of curs
Relying on instinct
Spewing slurs, heart’s radiance blurs
Roaming ego’s precinct
We flounder in stupor
Rabid desires anchor
Enmeshment in rancour
Ragged
Jagged
11-September-2021
Quietus
In an hour a thousand pass
Doctors, lawyers, truck drivers
Small and fat,
A straggly cat.
Six ladies in elegant furs
Two little boys chasing curs
A tottery, old man with a cane
The same scraggly cat again.
The local newsboy laden down
Big and small,
A runaway ball,
The corner cop awaiting the strike
Five o'clock, the rush hour jam
Wondering who I am
What I'm doing--
The round table spins again;
now I am the favored Knight.
Yesterday I was the least,
children made sport of me,
scrawny curs snapped at my heels.
The Kings favor is fickle.
The Queen shades her eyes,
her demure down cast mien
a façade, a veil beneath which
simmers a flame we both have ignited.
Today I ride ahead of the throng,
my banner tall and straight.
Tomorrow is uncertain
the table will turn again
and I must creep into the queen
as wickedly as she will allow.
For what can be, may not happen,
and what may happen never be,
better to crack the circle,
take the Queen
and let the world spin on.
Wulf and Eadwacer
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game;
they'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
Wulf's on one island; we're on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens. (fastened=secured)
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
My heart pursued Wulf like a panting hound,
but whenever it rained—how I wept!—
the boldest cur grasped me in his paws:
good feelings for him, but for me loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your seldom-comings
have left me famished, deprived of real meat.
Have you heard, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods!
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
No? You don't have pity on me? You should!
I'm sure you'd rather be a stick of wood
Food that doesn't smell so good, if you could
~ Rather than be me ...
Spend your days rained on, snowed on
Hailed on, stepped on -- why stop here? --
Spat on, urinated and dumped on
~ Sniff my coat of rancid beer
What I've suffered, what I have endured
From yellow rivers to cursed curs' turds --
The very thought of it all is too gross for words
Dogs
loyal, friendly
licking, playing, rescuing
companions, sentries, threats, enemies
barking, biting, mauling
mean, mangy
Curs
Thankfully, another Fourth of July has come and went,
Providing a day for folks to celebrate to their hearts content!
Its good that a day is set aside to honor the birth of our nation,
To enjoy parades, hot dogs, hamburgers and a tad of libation.
All of this is well and good yet I have a genuine complaint!
Why can't obnoxious neighbors use a modicum of restraint,
When setting off their fireworks all up and down the street?
It sounds as if world war three has begun as each of them compete!
Adding to the din is the howling of dozens of neighborhood curs.
Even my cat gets upset and starts to yowl when this occurs!
Fireworks vendors swarmed into town by the legion;
Mercifully, they've folded their tents and left the region!
Now, maybe I can get some much needed sleep 'til next July,
When all hell breaks loose again and on that you can rely!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Sunday Morning
Puddles on cobblestones
Had a film of spent
rainbows,
clouds rested on rooftops
and tear streaked windows misted;
dejected curs
sniffed the air as a damp army
of washing hung limply on balconies.
Church bells peeled
the faithful prepared for mass,
unseen and
under arches the tormented
waited for the bar
to open and release them
from the agony of
their lonely inferno.
Smell Clean!
Sometimes
no rhymes
do we
all see.
Blogs read
instead
can be
ugly.
Some peeps
are creeps.
So sly -
they spy
like moles
in holes.
Yes, sirs,
those curs
bait lambs
and ma’mes.
Some joke
with folk
or tease
blog-ees
Don’t mind
those kind!
But they
can say
mean things
with zings
to poke
at folk;
start fight -
they bite!
As hogs
at blogs
they squeal
to feel
like Kings
of things.
Beware
them there.
Shy guys,
be wise.
Just stay
away.
Trolls might
one night
just roam
your poem;
slam it;
say sh#@.
I think
they stink
with words
like turds.
Advice:
Be nice.
Smell clean,
not mean!
Written March 20, 2017 for Jan Allison's Fabulous Fun Footles Contest
that love is freedom shared by the willing,
is truth we hold to be self-evident,
and thus we mold flamboyant bells to ring,
declaring ourselves still as relevant;
but what remains of dawn’s once early light?
so dim the morning, grim, growing hungry,
no different than stomachs worn by our own;
the Romans once, designed such plans of plight,
with soldiers starved and charged wanting to flee,
so weary they became - victims in stone;
I say I see an empire, fallen, here,
repeating mistakes made once long before,
but let’s build a new mall, just over there,
then send our children to pay with a war;
we stupid people, yes I’m included,
laughing with love freely changing our mind,
are spewing out lies redolent of vile;
for all will starve when the grain’s polluted,
and all stomachs too, shall hunt with eyes blind,
curs-ed be we, embracing denial.
7/30/2016
Submitted for: DENIAL
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
The life without you
is like a tree without flowers,
the moon without the stars,
a kiss without lips,
long wandering love,
the weary heart may faint for rest,
and a body without soul...
The life without you
is like a drifting foam of a restless sea
when the waves show their teeth
in the flying breeze,
and wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed.
The life without you
is like village curs that bark when their fellows do,
a shadow of a great hill,
that reaches far out over the plain,
and the setting of a tropical sun.
The life without you
is like a sea-worm,
that perforates the shell of the mussel,
which straightway closes the wound with a pearl,
and rainbow, thou didst fade.
The life without you
Is like a blossom blown before a breeze,
a white moon drifts before a shimmering sky,
and my memories burn like a living coal in my soul.
By Seth Yuhi Musinga
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