The *****.
Mightier than the sword?
Flaccid ruler overseeing
an asylum of nuts.
The blade may cut and thrust,
yet an organ driven
by lust
can inflict a
deeper scar.
Kingdoms lost in battle,
which would ne'er have been fought.
Herds of women,
Like cattle,
strive to bed the King.
For a ring.
To be his wife,
which alas,
rhymes with
Strife.
Let battle commence.
Methinks a scabbard victory.
ONE VERY SECRET WISH
I’m not a cynic but I reckon I’m as close
As you get without actually bearing the title.
I have never believed in wishes being granted.
In fact the only miracles I believe in
Are the miracles I can personally make
Come true with my own two hands.
But when my children are involved
I become a lot softer, and less quasi-cynical.
My secret wish, which I will never admit to
Outside this poem, in the normal cut-and-thrust world,
Is to be again the father of my three-year-old children,
And play again with them and protect them
And listen to their secrets and fall asleep
Telling them the story of the Three Pigs.
It was undoubtedly a happy childhood for them
And without any hesitation at all I am delighted
To tell you it was the happiest time of my life.
But after this poem has been read,
If you should meet me in the street
Don’t ask me about wishes, because officially
I am a quasi-cynic and do not believe in them.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck
for Kristen Bruni's Contest "If I had one wish"
Like the strange gods of old
We wonder these streets of gold
Looking for, we know not what
Never to find and never to hold
Many face we now acquire
To get through this life of mire
To help us trick those around
To shield us from the fire
We cut and thrust to got on top
On our friends we get the drop
To get out of this ratty race
To beat this running non stop
This modern worlds speed and hate
Will have all at the devils gate
Damned to hell for ever more
Where our souls will always wait
If you could know what I know,
the depth and breadth of what is past,
the feelings in the dungeon heart,
then you would know the honesty
of that which I impart.
If you could feel what I feel,
the cut and thrust of steely scorn,
the sabre that lays bare the shell,
then you would know the agony
of seasons spent in Hell.
If you could dream what I dream,
the better days that never were,
the tainting of each crystal dawn,
then you would know the destiny
of that which dies unborn.
If you could breathe what I breathe,
the bitter chaff of tin foil dust,
the veto of the telling air,
then you would know the gravity
of love in disrepair.
If you could see what I see,
the way that you are cut to size,
deceived by fractions bit by bit,
then you would see the death of me,
of whom and why I care...