A BRITTLE RETROSPECTIVE
provocative
innovative
sensibilities
seminal
decorous
imitations
experiments
impeccably
ingenious
determination
of
febrile
serendipity
in
possibilities
of
myriad
perspectives
I was sitting in sub-zero temperatures in the Northern Arctic
As one does when you're a Swedish spy
Caught between conflicting ethical codes...
Stuck in my tent I stumbled upon a poem
Pondering the experience of Hot British Tea.
The poem was long and decorous with adjectives.
My lips were stuck and frosted together in parts
As I murmured along with teeth chattering
With the rhythm of an African cheetah.
Though the words buttered into my soul.
"Steep," "simmering," "piping," and "warming"
Warmed my innards and radiated outward,
The imagination muscling forth the reality.
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
Crikey. Long-ranged silencers. I've been found.
(Hungarians.)
"SNIP!"
"SNIP!"
Relentless yearning colors unrestrained
the spectral edge of the halcyon horizon,
where the nascent scarlet sun unveils
the fervent facade of the decorous dawn,
bringing to me across the million miles
the seraphic sparkle of the sapphire sea,
shining with the tinge of azure allure.
I stand whelmed at the finite fringe
of the primal vastness of the aquatic vista
as its timeless vigor tosses ceaseless
on the crests of the swelling waves,
adorning the beach with pearly garlands.
The silent spread of the silver sheet
wraps your faint footprints in fluid embrace.
As the melancholic waves intone incessant
in the moonbeam ballet of the blue night,
I search in cobalt obscurity for my mermaid,
floating away along the stardust trail,
setting sail on the serenading winds
to where my heart hovers on the sea shore.
As a rolling pebble flinging lonesome
with the rhythm of the tides of time,
I’m submerged in the sea of sanguinity
of the rapturous immensity of reverie.
Through the ardent frame of my fingers
I don’t let the golden sands of longing slip,
I turn them into topaz on mystique beach,
design a dainty diadem to embellish you.
.
i
yesss i
whom you know
am not lustful
i
yesss he
who you know
i am decorous
yet
not so genteel whilst
mine mind mulls
beauty
i
yesss i
whom you know
titillates
for
your
please
and yesss
oh how please'd i become
when heavy
yourn breathe
tap
While we’re renaming things,
can we please rename “United States” to “AAAmerica.”
I know I’m tired of scrolling to the bottom of every pop-down country list.
And ARE we united? Really, even a little?
That awkward moment when you’re already said, “what?” three times,
and you still have no idea what the conversation is about, but you can tell,
by bouncy and eager expressions, that the topic is loaded. Never sit at the end of a table, dining halls get noisy.
Has a song ever been your safe place?
What if it keeps you warm in a storm,
by getting you up and movin’?
Oh, what about the inimitable effect of a handsome guy?
Now, I don’t engage in decorous affections,
but ‘Cute Soccer Guy’ (I’ve mentioned him before),
wakes us up, by just showing up, oh, we play it lose,
and all, but he makes all of our hearts beat a little faster.
A song for this:
Twiggy Twiggy by [re:jazz]
The Trouble With Boys by Little Eva
Relentless yearning tints unrestrained
the spectral edge of the halcyon horizon,
where the nascent scarlet sun unveils
the facade of the decorous dawn,
brings to me across the million miles
of dreaming detour corridor,
the sparkle of the sapphire sea,
shining with the tinge of avid allure.
I stand whelmed at the finite fringe
of the primordial vastness vista.
Its ceaseless vigor coiling
the collapsing crests of the swelling waves,
once had brought the relics
of the drowned mariners to the shore,
returned with their memory
to the fathomless serenity of oblivion.
The embrace of the silver sheet washes
your bone-fringed footprints on the beach.
As the melancholic waves sing
to the moonbeam ballet of the blue night,
I search for my lost mermaid,
floating away on the stardust trail,
and sets sail on the serenading winds
to where my heart is.
A rolling pebble tossing lonesome
with the rhythm of the tides of time,
I’m submerged in the sea of sanguinity
of the rapturous reverie.
Through my fingers I don’t let
the golden fervent sands slip,
for I turn the bones to ivory,
design a dainty diadem for you.
.
Their were hern
‘mongst known
mine
wrapped were
they
‘bout mine nervous
gest
i gasp’d
decorous mine
closing
(both)eyne
Such thuh touch
i’ve ever
never
know'd
*scop doth know; "their" from, there
*unto the astute; "their" think
ticklez
Frustrating being a poet.
If I am to write for you
I do have to read your mind.
So what are the words that arouse your passion?
And why do you love
that stew pot while you possess
ballet that is danced to beautiful music
tripped, as they say, to that light fantastic?
A meaty dish with vegetables:
carrots, potatoes, onions, leeks.
Ballet, on tiny tippytoes,
decorous, comely ankles and winged feet.
Oh, feet that fly to the level
of your beautiful eye
while your spry toe-tips and heels
are but a foot apart.
Would you be telling me far too much,
by letting me read that look in your eye,
as I guess that mélange of thoughts
of beautiful ballet and succulent stew?
(16 Mar 2024)
Without light, the world is cold and dark.
Sans decorous evergreens to light up the park.
Cries in the night, flesh hidden from view.
It’s a nightmare - a deep, unsettling brew.
The sun, moon and stars, lightning flash
all traded away for immorality’s cash.
“Think…think…think…”
Can’t remember one iota of ink
from the treasure trove of prophecy
and its fulfilment. Despondency -
weeping and gnashing of teeth
in an angry and funereal bier underneath
the sheath you thought protected you -
world was your oyster, avoided the pew.
Laughter and arrogance like thick fog,
now you reside in a fiery bog.
Dear one, this is not what the Father wanted,
however you, in reverie, were not undaunted.
“Commandments, rules, bah-humbug…”
Your claws, to the center of the earth, dug.
Your plot led to your eternal plot.
You’d close your ears to what was taught.
Is it merely a nightmare? Is there time left to believe?
The hourglass sand of 2,000 plus years. Rapture’s Eve?
12/15/2022
The Captain had a penny whistle
Which he wore around his neck
And he played it every morning
As the crew danced on the deck.
Sometimes it was a Hornpipe
Sometimes a Palais Glide
As the crew danced fore and aft
And from Port to Starboard side.
Prompt every morning
When the Bosun rang a bell,
And if he was feeling frisky
The Captain danced as well.
Sometimes on sunny mornings
The crew would stand at ease
While the Captain and a subby
Mimed a decorous strip tease.
Rain storm hail or shine
Until twenty minutes passed
When on a given signal
The crew would climb the mast
To set the sails and rigging
And get the ship under way
And so it continued
Every single day.
Two or three times a year
All the ships would meet
And the Captain and his crea
Would dance for the fleet.
It was on the good ship Venus
Which had been a ship of shame
Until the Dancing Captain'
Gave it a better name.
He became the only Admiral to wear
A penny whistle around his neck
And even in his dotage
Would dance around the deck.
Ship shape and Bristol fashion
When she was away at sea.
Oh on the good ship Venus
Such a happy place to be
The Queen is dead; a kingdom mourns
And all through her domain
There will be countless tributes
To her long amazing reign.
Ascending to the throne so young,
She ruled with style and grace
And no one (certainly not Charles!)
Will ever take her place.
To us, across the pond, she seemed
So decorous and prim,
Requiring a curtsy (from a her)
Or bow (from him).
Her matching suits and hats defined
Her monarchy and yet,
Beneath that stiff demeanor
Lurked the Queen most never met.
I once read that her handbag,
Always draped across her arm,
Was moved quite subtly to
Her other elbow, an alarm.
She did this when she’d had enough
And wanted to take leave,
A signal that her handlers
Were on lookout to receive.
That story showed her human side;
Will wonders never cease?
We’ll miss you, Queen Elizabeth,
And may you rest in peace.
A dog’s day
It’s not that I’m lonely I like the beauty of the landscape
without having anyone to interrupt my thoughts, telling
me how nice it is.
My dog sees my mini-Savannah as enemy territory
barks and birds take flight leave her in the car with
open the window and try to take a few pictures.
We are going out for lunch, my wife and me, food
is not as great as nature, golden grain and green vines
it is about forks and knives looking decorous talking
about nothing and chewing in silence
The door to the yards is ajar so the dog can go into
the living room when we are out.
She pretends to be distraught it is an act, she knows
I will bring her leftovers; when we return, she great us
theatrically, I know she has slept on the sofa, drinking
water in the loo and barking at noises outside.
The caricature of a gentleman, nameless, scorned,
The infamous savage of the famous street was wobbling:
Scruffy, shaggy, ruffed beared, tousled haired,
Disheveled,
there went the odious appearance, bumbling.
Soubriquet: lunatic, fierce, rowdy with murky torn clothes,
Was sitting stigmatic with grubby means,
Was teased and thrown stones,
To drive away from the decorous street!
He was spotted pitied with meagre chuck,
While feeding a destitute;
Taunting and sneering didn't perturb him,
Gave his share simpering, only to be starved!
The antithesis of savage, the man of the hour,
Silently paved his way then, bare footed tottering,
To be again the savage of the decorous street!
Tinkling trickles everywhere - bathroom, rain and coffee pot
Roaring warmth from the heat source after clicked up one half notch
Old soles of slippers whisper tales to the hardwood as I stroll
Cars swoosh by, tires scrape wet streets as down the street they go
Open the drawer where flat ware is with a soft sandpapery glide
Spoon in hand, thick pouring cream, silent honey not far behind
In my mug, tiny circles burst with decorous plip
Gentle, rumbly, raspy snores from Kitty in her sleep
Dragon breathing gas poofs on, cracked eggs soon gasp then bubble
F sharp kabong when toast springs up, scorched bread is healed with butter
Contented sounds from fridge, computer – clicking, ticking, bleep
“We’re in good working order”, they say in the land where electronics speak
Vibrations bounce with ringing bells soft or booming in my ears
When noises cease abruptly, that’s the sound I love to hear.
11/6/2021
Onomatopoeia Poetry Contest
Emile Pinet
My sonnet has the temper of a screaming child
because I'll not allow it to run free and wild
Mired on a pad, it damns me. "I want to fly free!"
"You're not ready," I whisper. "Put your trust in me."
It cried, trying to hold on to its pregnant dreams
blaming me for aborting expressive rhyme schemes
"Ask your muse to find more decorous selections."
On her advice, I began to make corrections.
I purged all the rhetoric and made a new start
resulting in the birth of a sonnet with heart
I danced for freedom I'd granted to my verses
No longer do I hear the yowling of curses
I will continue to write with a pliant quill
and an open mind with the ink I choose to spill
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