On a warm, dew-weakened day,
Watching the grey void of a lost
Sense, anxious moments recline
On whiffs of ancestral propitiations
When rafters regain possession of
Filched roast fish, balanced with
The fumes of a wild dance heckled
By chokes of a chagrined weekend.
Who rises faster than smokes of a
Low tar, ascending
Gently,
Whimsically,
Lazily,
With rings of white life
Extinguished through banalities,
Through clamoured waste? . . .
Such rise — gay, sensuous rise
Of the thin beam,
Goes with every thread of meaning
Long since posted on the banner of
Meaningful dreams.
There was once a rotten scoundrel named Reid
Who filched a horse in a moment of greed
As the noose was secured
His final words were heard
I'd rather be fishin' today, indeed
The day of reckoning
A bird with an enormous wingspan darkened the sky
it was a night of horror in the Middle East.
A new country born in sin and filched land arose
blood ran in ancient, narrow cobblestoned roads.
The people fled over a broken bridge, now live far
from the homeland, the dream of returning is alive.
Young men living in squalor are attracted to Islamists
the grim head cutting people, who know no mercy
know they will win one day, and more blood will flow
Into sand and time.
When everything is forgotten, walls erased, the losers
will flock back to Europa, whence they came.
Thundering downstairs, my sister charged me with theft;
wondering, Dad questioned the source of her inquiry.
Blundering like a buffoon, at last I confessed,
plundering her coffers, I had filched her diary.
Deft hands suddenly snatched the book in question.
Bereft of my fun, I pulled a downplay,
“Theft is taking and KEEPing something not yours.”
Left with nothing to speak of, I just stole away.
Freddy filched Frankie’s fav’rit fudge,
fearless Frankie flattened Freddy to the floor.
Father Fletcher fearing fratricide
fastened Frankie’s feet
firmly to the farmyard fence while friends
fixed Freddy’s fractious frame
fast to the family Ford.
December 8, 2020
contest: Alliteration
sponsor: Eve Roper
Slowpokes
Written: by Miracle Man
11-5-2019
My wife isn’t one to just sit and piddle,
She cares about others and is always on the go.
She’s forever busy but accomplishes little,
Saying “where this day’s gone I do not know.”
She’s always saying “I’ve gotta get it in gear,”
But I’ve learned my “sweetie” only has one speed.
When we leave the house she brings up the rear,
And “waste not, want not” has been her creed.
Most things in my life I have done posthaste,
Now it seems that age has filched this touch.
Twas never my nature just to let time waste,
Fast is now slow, and I too, don’t achieve much.
My grandparents’ home was both tiny and plain,
Quite lacking in places to play,
But my brothers and I and my cousins, at times,
Still had fun when we went for the day.
From the bowl of mixed nuts, we filched filberts so we
Could play skelly across the wood floor
And a deck of Hoyle’s cards kept us busy enough
So the grown-ups we got to ignore.
When the dinner was served, we all gathered around
And attention was naturally paid
To the meal – nothing fancy, but tasty enough,
That my grandma had lovingly made.
All those visits were weekends or holiday times;
Since they ended, it’s been a long while,
But the mem’ries are sweet and suffused with such joy
That I think of them now with a smile.
I hold a mirror
to my soul,
and there I find
a gaping hole
that naught but love
could ever fill.
But yet I thirst
and hunger still.
I hold the mirror
to my heart
and find that it's
been torn apart.
It slowly sinks
into the hole
that filched the essence
of my soul.
COLD WAR ARTIST
The art of such intention is fatigue
At living lies outside the scope of death,
To wear in the last blitzkrieg
A shroud meaning artist, a wreath
Of columbine in the hair, but the kitchen eyes,
Carbuncled knees betray the giver’s art.
Down on the doorstep, she’ll scrub your lies:
To her gift of total self she’ll add a part -
Your own tongue sliced and severed on her plate
Of 20th century design – taste
The dust of pointillism, the cubist fate
Of newspaper and cello here embraced –
The emptiness filched from the master’s past:
Mankind’s death wishes, home to roost at last.
1964-1987
published IN MEMORY OF HER, Dublin, 2008
GOLDEN DAYS
CHILDHOOD DAYS ARE LONG GONE
BUT THE MEMORIES LINGER ON
HAPPY TIMES, SOMETIMES SAD
FRIENDS REMAIN, BEST WE HAD
HOPSCOTCH ON THE NEXTDOORS PATH
ENDURING THIER RAGE AND RATHE
KNOCK! KNOCK! GINGER. THAT WAS FUN
HIDING FROM EVERYONE’S MUM
PLAYING DOLLIES, PRAMS FROM OLD
SOME WE FILCHED, OTHERS SOLD
SKIPPING IN THE DOUBLE ROWS
STEPPING ONTO PEOPLES TOES
ELASTICS, STRUNG LIKE HUGE BALLS
BOUNCING NOISILY ONTHE NEIGHBOURS WALLS
CARE FREE DAYS, PICNICS, WALKS
LISTENING TO MUMS ‘CAREFUL’ TALKS
OUT FROM EARLY DAWN TILL TEA
NEVER HAD TO WORRY ABOUT ‘ME’
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES WILL REMAIN
HAPPY DAYS, HAPPY GAMES.
Thrusting against the wall erect from my youthful womb
I alone must go from the tree that shelters the grave
of her umbilicus, and the place of Ma Puddy’s tomb;
the woman whose foretelling is come to pass in me.
I went down, and up the fleeting crags
garnering memoirs, yarns stilled
in passing notions; that’s what was wished-for
but I misplaced details while going downhill
I took her beautiful eyes that laugh when crying my tears,
the ones I no longer spill on satin and fine silk;
they went when bottles brought fists to my face
She was to flee, and by no means continue my days
For her it is to reach and grasp opulence,
and look at nuisance fleeting, the sudden that came
with rapture evoking youthful musing
she is called to make this climb.
She came and spread
like honeysuckle, arresting the sun
and calling birds to feast. She took my shell,
forfeiting me, and lives in novelty and wonder
I found my youth in sparkling eyes
that do thoughtful things (things done boldly).
I cuddle me in the life I filched
and lived her life a thousand times with my little girl.
Balmy by the looks so beguiling
A sudden feeling aroused by the essence so quest,
You simply smile by the au jus of your lips -
A solitaire awaited by the presence so lest,
Whoso you deserve – a solemnity within shone;
A panorama of thoughts, a swain to be, yours
A secret admirer.
Yenned for the day so longed
A fortune behold by the ephemeral so cadged,
You simply versed by the espy of your eyes -
A moribund velleity now braced by the apathy of days,
Whoso you deserve – a solemnity within shone;
A panorama of enamors, an amigo to be, yours
A secret admirer.
Faith for the beguile so au fait
A hollo minced by the depth so pulsated
You simply filched thy heart by the ires so true
A nascence of juvenile by the paroles of numb
Whoso you deserve – a solemnity within shone;
A panorama of wordses, a promise to be, yours
A secret admirer.
Filched fabulous February cover,
And I have but seen you scantily dressed,
I see the buds & flowers all over,
By the wild wily winter camouflaged.
Cool breeze sends messages to my senses,
Not to be blamed if March may madden me,
Sure I shall be in April amorous,
Adoring you till Midsummer Day glee.
Maybe June can make me unsteadier,
Dear me, July keep me quiet joyous
I’m not sure of sensual September,
Lest I may be way-out but courteous.
Whatever is conceived in March fever,
Gestation starts from sober October.
===========================
Third place win in:
Contest: March Madness sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire