If deathless prose there be, forsooth
In poetry lives on more truth
Through life in soul which outlasts all
Whose breath is life, and death is small
As stone will claim what bones remain
And all ends in public domain
I looked out the window, and I saw a cloud,
as I sat at my desk, and wondered aloud,
"What will I do for this fellow named Bartley?"
My brain is all used up - well, at least partly.
My thinker was once quite good at thinking,
but lately, I notice, it's started to stinking.
I got so nervous, I started to bite
all of my fingernails, both left and right.
I bit them all down to small tiny nubs.
Now how can I write with ten little stubs?
Next, I decided to pull out all my hair,
but on top of my head, I found nothing there.
In order to write, I got an strange inkling,
I needed an electrocardial zinkling,
but zinklings, I found, cost quite a lot,
twenty five cents more than my pockets have got.
I'm sorry my thinker thunked out. I sure am.
It has all the sense of green potatoes and ham.
If only I could have written more smartly.
Well, here is my poem, Benjamin Bartley.
Filled with trepidation
(not amalgam)
paid a visit to the nearest sadist
he who thrills
to the sound of drills
and not the first
on my Christmas list
(DDS Jack Flash)
as for him it's all gas gas gas
but with an aching tooth
(forsooth and alas)
what else was one to do
but turn the other cheek
in the hope I would pull through
and while seated there in the chair
(to extract a page from his book
Weapons of Mass Dentistry)
with WMD in my north and south
I repeated into thin air
'Dentists all look down in the mouth!'
Quote from Berowne in "As You Like It"
"And I, forsooth, in love!". Now Shakespeare speaking with his good friend Richard Burbage.....
I must tell you forsooth
of my midsummer dream
a witch conjures bluetooth
her thoughts an air stream
oh crucify me not
t'is just a fantasy
and a wonderous plot
for some more alchemy
my very dear Burbage
this bluetooth will be king
Lear is merely garbage
when the airwaves can sing
now what madness is this
my dear friend, think again
to an ear no such kiss
of an unseen refrain
t'was an enticing thought
but I must beg of you
the notion is but naught
to taming of the shrew
ah well Burbage old friend
your counsel I so respect
thoughts of bluetooth I will end
my thanks for your connect
What happened to the word “forsooth?”
Modern poets rarely use it, unlike the Bard
And I miss it, if you want to know the truth
Finding a better word to replace it can be hard
Like that archaic phrase “long in the tooth.”
I suspect most of us don’t know what it means
It was generally followed by an exclamation point
Except when uttered from the silver screen
I have never heard it spoken in a local beer joint
Forsooth! The thought causes an ache in my spleen.
written April 27, 2022
from depths of our heart desires arising
crystallises thoughts with potent power
with universe instantly responding
manifesting wish of the soothsayer
all seeming reality illusion
being but thought forms by ourself chosen
this simple truth known in meditation
recognising our divine origin
having chosen to ensoul fleeting form
we descend into vibrations lower
each node containing bliss elixir warm
rescue device if from fear we cower
manifesting fine but for indulgence
entrapping us in a hypnotic trance
succumbing to ego lost innocence
delusion compelling earthy parlance
let us then use the lifeline created
present within each and every impulse
let us no longer be thus sedated
void of silence liberates us at once
19-November-2020
(syllabic rhyme)
Trapped in the open we are free within,
Enmeshed in cyclic fear and desire.
Inner silence cognises ignition;
Yearning within our heart all afire,
Borne of cravings the ego did sire.
The pulse cyclic bringing joy and sorrow;
Yesterday’s regrets, fears of tomorrow;
Indulgence therein cause of delusion.
In deep inner silence we do burrow,
Imbibing the throb of bliss elation.
Entered for Dizain poetry contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
10-October-2020
I'd guess some of you'd say I invent truth each day,
That's not true, though I would post my answers.
If I've choice why be vain? When I share joy and pain,
I do dream I might null common cancers.
Though verse can lower stress (my life still is a mess),
No one's closer to knowledge than you are,
For ALL truth's dimly seen (and I often feel green),
More a lightning bug trapped in own 'Ball Jar.' (1)
There must be ways to grow, some 'jars' bigger although,
It is certain restrictions do comfort,
Most build own jar themselves seems much safer than shelves,
Is a 'hot dog' in bun such an expert?
But is ALL 'truth' just scam? I know I'm not "I AM!"
And the humble one can be a winner.
Still, I pray with each dawn, that I'm not just a pawn,
Cannot hurt! I would not be your dinner!
Brian Johnston
2nd of August 2018
Poet's Notes:
(1) A 'Ball Jar' is a brand of a glass jar that is often used by
gardeners to preserve food that they raise in their gardens.
Sure this is familiar, “I am one who loved not wisely but too well”
At times feel like Shakespeare, you make my lower regions swell
“What light through yonder
window breaks” I ponder
Methinks been into the sauce which is not totally nouvelle
Forsooth!
In a world ruled by gods and men,
who holds in their hand nature's pen?
When words are smitten to deaf ears,
dost one conclude their deepest fears?
Thy skilled soothsayer is portrayed,
as nothing more than a beggar paid.
A wandering derelict of the past,
his bardic tongue now shall avast.
On a park bench, he sleeps at night,
oft Poe's "The Raven" he does recite.
'Tis thy chilly nights he dreads the most,
so in his prose, he gets engrossed.
The birds doth come and hearken in,
as he weaves his tales and rhymes within.
This man was once like you and me,
so sad this world could never see.
Forsooth! My husband lost a tooth;
The fairy never showed.
He called the dentist, figuring
Some loyalty was owed.
The secretary set a date
But since we are away,
He could pick up some dental glue
To last another day.
Instead, since he is not in pain,
My husband chose to wait.
A brand-new crown is what he needs
And what is on the slate.
Until that time, the tooth remains
Wrapped up in silver foil.
Although to parts original
I guess you should be loyal...
There comes a time when you must cede
Your body parts to age.
A chapter ends and though reluctant,
You must turn the page.
Alas, Abe Lincoln was fatally shot forsooth,
By that nefarious cad John Wilkes Booth!
Booth was shot by Sergeant Boston Corbett,
Sending him on his well-deserved eternal orbit!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
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