Preterists want back their laurels lost, fingers crossed.
Predators pray for their ruling permanence at the rest's cost, fingers crossed.
So many fingers, so much paltriness; So soon their crossing, their anagnorises so late.
Commanding o'er the entire terrestrial has always been the fickle finger of fate,
from which no one can e'er escape, from prehistory up to date.
Be you owning mansions grandiosely gilt or holding royal sword's hilt,
unaffordable is this finger's slightest tilt-----
Power and prestige, worth and wealth, quick as a wink, all sink into silt.
(My thoughts about doing the project without getting the credit)
Without grandiosely postulating
I will offer my opinion.
I don't know whom you're quoting,
I presume he's not a minion.
For he's not the one, I'm thinking
who is doing all the work
just for the love of working
while the credit seeker shirks.
Do the work because you're proud of
doing such a peerless job.
The irony in those cunning words
would make a lawyer sob.
The Lords and Earls took all the gain
while the serfs and vassals strove.
They were thrown a larger slice of bread
and told they worked for love.
Slave labor built the pyramids
and so many things since then.
All of the credit for their work
was assigned to lesser men.
The sneaks have used that line before
up past the time of rockets.
They gladly take the backslaps while
they're filling up their pocets.
It's time we had a turn around
and recongize the shirks.
Any credit that is given
should go to the man who works.
6th place
You have loved me through the worries.
You've stood by me through the pain.
I have found you there still waiting
When the world was bright again.
Now to you, my loving soulmate,
All my vows I would renew.
Are there any words so worthy
They can tell of love so true?
In the battle of the poets
Closeted within their dens,
Words their only ammunition
Shooting from their ink filled pens,
Seeking phrase, uniquely pretty
And an unused metaphor,
They have not the time to help me
Woo the one whom I adore.
Without muse or bard asistance
Am I equal to the game?
In trite words of deep devotion
Will the message be the same?
I can't say it grandiosely
As I show this love of mine.
The old hackneyed words must do then.
You're my one, true Valentine.
By Joyce
Revised for Deborah's contest. won 3rd place
The Neapolitan tarantella
is a folk dance very graceful and lively,
it was inspired by someone having been
bitten by a poisonous Taruntula.
It's fast up-beat tempo
induces a frenzied dance in a solo,
or a couple...and as they dance they sweat out
the poison of the spider's bite.
Grandma used to sing this folklorist song,
and I danced with her while loud mandolins
and tambourines accompanied her cheerful singing...
there wasn't an awkward note in her voice.
The Neapolitan tarantella, with its frantic rhythms
and shrill harmonies infused passion in great composers,
and Mendelssohn wrote his symphony...
a song dance was composed by Rossini.
The Neapolitan tarantella grandiosely plays
and everyone stops and listens to its low and high-pitched melody,
and with little hesitation they start to dance...
beneath my veranda, these folks put on a look of festivity.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I walked this path narrow wide or straight.
In the corners, voices are of many to bout.
Every single one just wants to get in or out.
But many felt beyond grandiosely great.
Tables turned and Sunshine came in,
They all took a twist and fell in place.
It was a madhouse at a race.
But again, traveling did begin.
One was to my left and one to my right,
I promised to bring some gainful insight.
I loved and learned taking a lesson or two,
Never say never, and to not forget about you.
I shall place a bet,
And time I shall set,
For a day to the side,
Where you can’t run and hide.
I’ll dance under Moonlit skies,
And behind I’ll be surprised,
You are wondrous to me,
You are such beauty to see.
In your heart I shall sit,
I’ll eat you alive bit by bit.
I am hungry for you,
And you are to.
So don’t sit and wait,
You may be too late.
I am by no disguise,
For, I am in your eyes.
From dusk till dawn,
My love I spawn,
It is you and me,
And forever we shall be
In the battle of the poets
Closeted within their dens,
Words their only ammunition
Shooting from their ink filled pens,
Seeking phrase uniquely pretty
And an unused metaphor,
They have not the time to help me
Woo the one whom I adore.
Without muse or bard assistance
Am I equal to the game?
In trite words of deep devotion
Will the message be the same?
I can't say it grandiosely
As I beg you to be mine.
The old words will have to do then.
"Will you be my Valentine?"
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