The wind leans in sideways to drink every word,
Just as sailors must tack sideways to go upwind.
It's only with angles we know the wind's wrangles.
Its riddles, scattered among willy-nilly answers,
Whispered as secrets, spilling to shake the leaves.
When gales blow hard; many tumble quaking in fear,
Others stand up to harness its power and steer,
Watching their vanes to predict omens ahead,
Hoping for kind winds to come their way soon,
In the wily wandering ways of the gusts and whims.
The wind is an oracle, chanting psalms on wing.
It carries the chorus of birds calling at dawn.
The rumble of thunder in an approaching storm.
The calls from a distance; bells whoops and cooee's
But it's no secret its gathers can ever stay still—
For all sounds are bent to the command of its will.
For sound needs winds in the air to transmit downhill.
Only falling silent; when wind's becalmed and still.
For with no wind, all is just silence, dressed to kill.
Dancing on my own grave,
both sides of the same coin;
The power’s in the flip;
Is it righteous or the night?
A slow waltz can give lip;
Dancing on my own grave
rattles the underground;
Unruly sounds fill the air;
Ombré locks dressed to kill,
a bit devil may care;
Dancing on my own grave
the necromancer moves;
Calling the wrong magic;
Bare bones expand wanting,
nowhere near poetic.
Byron, Your Poetry Sings To Our Wanting Hearts
He gave us images, the raving beauty far within
and romantic dancing words that ate up the eager page
he met the world head on and absorbs into his white skin
Ahh but, a great calamity he dies at a young age.
In dreams I see him, singing great poems all dressed to kill
His countenance, that of a handsome prince on a new lark
Yet when reading his poetry, don't you get such a thrill
Man was a poetic genius, certainly left his mark.
That of great beauty, his life's tragedy, death far too young
Verses he sang to us, such true and deep pleasures they gave
And those magical words, translated into many tongues
O' the deep truth, millions of readers read and then they rave.
Lord Byron, your words have often soothed desirous souls.
Poets honor you and take your deep accomplishments our goals.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
June 10th, 1971
Note: Lord Byron is one of the top three Romantic poets- Byron , Keats and Shelley. I have often mused which was the greatest poet among those three.
At different times in my life I have decided each one as the greatest. And now I favor Keats...
Grandpa and grandma formed a senior gang.
They dressed to kill with matching shirts that hang.
Logo; Old As Hell Angels.
Three heavenly archangels,
Pit stop had to make, "A Semi," they sang.
There is no cliche in my loves song
Beautiful when you choose to sing along
Soak me in, the only request I solemnly plead
Emotion, the source of this waterfalls need
Discomfort should never be found in my affectionate adoring stairs
You climb them comfortably, understanding the reasons for my cares
Let me make this easy, I mean the chorus, I shout
Love is always dressed to kill, I'm calling it out
These words are in time, along with all the rest
Synchronize the rhyme, with the beating in my chest
Characters in action
Talents in multiplication
Shapes and sizes of many version
Skills on display with tension
Over the top ropes one would gape
Under the ropes one can escape
Apron of thick mattress
Arena of countless matches
Highlighted are dressed to kill
Fronting the crowd that fill
Seats of spectators that cheer
Feats of competitors, not jeer
Matches roll with blunder
Rumbling and grappling like thunder
Crutches and splints spread over
Bodies of the bruised fall over
Grueling matches live on
Under any pressure show must go on
It's not "business as usual" that linger
Players of theatrics in danger
Venues are slated by dates
Participants stipulated as mates
Previews of expected bouts
Reviews that excite and shouts
Year after year is the Rumble
Inside the ring that crumble
Event that sounds so noble
Fame, not fortune that bubble
A prelude to Wrestlemania
An interlude of regalia
A shot coveted in spotlight
A spot asserted with delight
Let's get ready to rumble!...
In the company of little devils
Forever dressed to kill
And us men fall for these creatures
Hoping our sexual greed fill.
These devils, though little, are risky
With exposed bodies in our faces;
Nonetheless, praise be for their efforts
Always situated in the right places.
Without their warm and tender passion
We men become unfulfilled;
Our sexual apathy loses its grip
And ****ing is well and truly killed.
Once the little devils turn to little angels
Accepting the equality of sexual delights
For the sake of our cravings and theirs
If mismatched, we face inexorable heights.
Don't tell me men don't care about their hair
They care about it even more than girls
As soon as they were open they were there
All queueing round the block with all their curls
Tucked up inside their beanie hats. 'Short back
And sides perhaps, or how about a fade
Or maybe just a trim today?' And whack
A bit of gel on, or a nice pomade
And it is done. He springs up from the chair
And brushes off the hair and pays the bill
(With tip of course), and out into the air
As fresh as baby's breath and dressed to kill
Don't tell me men don't care - I saw the way
They bounced out of the barbers shop today
© Gail Foster 12th April 2021
The crook of vampire’s bed, the moth and silk.
Each time he slept, a century’d gone by.
Afraid of key and lock, and lock of ilk—
hers golden spun atop the steeple spry.
The belfry bell at midnight’s bite, a cry—
no priest did hear confess as blight befell.
The fading moon, the hollow breach of hell.
Awakes to candlelight, the shrouded draw
of curtains forestry in thick of knell.
She hears the eek and shred of sharpest claws.
The bat is never satisfied, his eyes
do pierce the longest gloom of Winter’s white.
His dark decrepit cape— a purple vine.
The brood of brows and lids release no light.
Along the drift, one’s cross is much too bright.
The bloodsucker attentive, her laughter—
his strife. He clasps his ears. His thoughts chase her.
She hides below her hood— she’s dressed to kill.
This century he’d caught a chill— class fur
with stake. Her prowess aim— to break his will.
9/21/20
Emile Pinet’s Dizain contest
All submitted poems must use :
https://www.rhymezone.com/
https://www.howmanysyllables.com
dreamt to relieve myself
of fearful thoughts, patriotic
plots. dressed to kill in Washington
skirt, no pants of a farmer
wielding a British brown bess
blessed with happiness before
the frightening knock at the door
exploded out of shock
towards the door...towards the door
while family holds their revolutionary breaths
the bouquet
of children unaware
of dangerous situation
a shot in the dark
a shot heard round the world
that never stops
7/16/2020
Yet I rise
With dressed to kill nazi knee
on my knee
because of poetrysoup
Or?
I
If Jesus held his knee
on my neck for sins and crimes
it would be DARK indeed
II
Blue terror
evokes quiet from those
who hate terror
III
Neatly "dressed to kill"
as storm troopers
LEADER in the bunker -again
IV
why execute a suspect
no matter the crime
Milosevic died in his suit
NOTE: The police were called to a convenience store that had a complaint about an apparent $20 note that was fake. No evidence George Floyd was the one who had the counterfeit $20 bill. The CO$T of a life ???
Such a romantic evening
Both engrossed in watching
A movie in the theatre
Naturally ‘together’
He occupies the aisle seat
Away some 20 feet
She’s on his left extreme
In between
He messages
In response
She blows kisses
Movie over
They head for dinner
Yes, candlelight dinner
Soft music and sound
Perfect background
Sitting across each other
Lost in chewing and chomping
Can’t bother
Sumptuous food
Getting them into the mood
The long awaited date finally on
Her company so captivating
Four hours already gone
She glances at her watch
‘Oh Gosh!’
He asks for the bill
Now notices
She’s dressed to kill
The bill arrives
Dues paid, off they drive
She in her Honda City
He in his dad’s Maruti
Escorting her all the way
Telling himself, ‘What a fabulous day!’
Reaches home
Hears a ping
Her message read-
“Thank you for everything
Wonderful time spent
In this age of social distancing.”
Impoverished, destitute no money to spare
This woman with green eyes and cascading hair
On a mission to find something to wear
Impress she must as though she hadn't a care
Green velvet drapes hanging in her foyer
Torn down and fashioned just for her
This woman in green shown like a mare
Femme fatal, Scarlett O'Hara, as no others compare
Dressed to kill as only she dare
In the green dress that she did wear
Happy Thanksgiving/
My stomach full of emcees they stuffing/
dressing
Dressed to kill if looks could kill I’m drop dead gorgeous/
Wings golden like the Cherubim on the ark of the Covenant/
I’m looking with Indiana Jones and Sherlock Holmes/
I skin rappers I’m trying to read their thoughts/
Then I turn them into Gems Crystal skulls/
Crystal Gems I’m in Stevens universe/
I’m light years ahead I’m leaving the universe/
You got a little buzz/ I’m on my way to the enemies fortress/
Few survived Halloween it’s still heads popping up inside pumpkins/
I don’t like actors I crashed the filming doing the movie production/
Tackled the director/ Now I’m in a jacuzzi bubbling/
Spiritual Warfare it’s been a long day let me loosen my buttons/
Now I’m in a suit I just infiltrated through the Government
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