High born, the persnickety Christmas Unicorn
Had one problem, and it was not her sharp horn
She was wearing red for sure, and white so pure
But she had no green at all, and she needed a cure
Christmas is made of red and green, both colors true
I am a laughing stock, this will never do
She trotted around the kingdom seeking green
But this was a color no unicorn had ever seen
I guess unicorns are color blind, so she did not know
She could not know, even though she hunted to and fro
She was wearing green because of the way she was bred
Being color blind, she always saw green as the color red.
How do I proclaim the Jewel of Jesus;
I’m just a fool. The words delight
and disappear. How does one praise
the holy one? He’s too much for words.
I’m not worthy to lift him up in song;
I sing along with those duly gifted.
The wonder of lyrics with such treasures:
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Let highborn seraphs tune the lyre,
and as they tune it, fall;
I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away…
How do I proclaim the Jewel of Jesus;
I’m just a fool, a fool who leans
on scripture and gleams truths.
My biblical articulation is mute;
how do you describe eternity, infinity,
true love? In simplicity, perhaps.
He was put to death by sinners,
buried and three days later
breathed forevermore; we’ve
been invited - we choose
our afterlife. Do you really
want to obtain the most precious
jewel ever offered? You can only
embrace, you can’t give Him away.
Ruby-red, sapphire-bruised, pale-opal…
Fiery-garnet eyes, many crowns on his head…
I’m just a fool to try, but I must try
to put Jesus in a human box -
can we even describe how breathless
we will be when we see divinity?
Sumptuous sensual satin surroundings
Treasured plush, palatial, plushy pillows
Upholstered sofas, tasseled tapestries
Valued prized spoils of war
Wealthy coffers of the lucky highborn
The highborn woman and her sons.
An old woman has died she was famous for having no opinion
about anything; talking about “families” soft as flannel patting
a child’s stately bum.
One of her sons has taken her place at the top of the table.
A rigid man with a complaining mien has to use an intermediate
to get his rather trite opinions across.
His mistress, once a reviled woman who came before and after
his wife, who tragically died, but the public forgives her
thanks to sycophantic newspapers views are companion sits
at the top table.
The new enemy in this idyllic world is his youngest son’s wife
a hurricane from America, detested by the public for stealing
this charming but intellectually limited man, looking for a sign
of distress, and actually are encouraging, a marital breakup.
The people at large and the papers they read do not understand
how obscene they are; as the ship of fools sails on and on.
A strong Knight,
with sword in hand;
stands smug
in his shiny
suit of armor fit
for a Lord
or King.
A surly
highborn,
sworn by oath
to uphold
laws of chivalry
with honor and valor,
for
both church and country!
Highborn, regal Skiddaw
Such grace in one so high,
A countenance of majesty,
A fortress to my eye.
Looking down on all around you
Immense in all your might,
From your foot, we lift our eyes
To wonder at the sight.
Rising like a titan
From the verdant valley floor,
In splendid isolation
Heavenwards, you soar.
A transfixing, noble aspect
Such wonder you exude,
High and mighty Skiddaw,
A king, in solitude.
Entry for
YOUR CHOICE(5),
Any form,any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand.
10/6/2019. Placed 2nd.
Immigration
I walked along the old road it was replaced in 1951 by the new road,
Nothing much left, it ends at a stone wall. Yet, one can still see the mark
the cart wheels carts made and if you look closely you can see the hoof
track of man’s best friend the donkey and if you look over the wall
you can see man and mule ploughing the soil one furrow at the time.
The people here was a robust race those who survived the hardship of
a childhood lived to be old as the stones in the field.
They had nothing in the fifties but wanted more so they found work in
the industrial France and their women cleaned houses when coming
returning they built houses big as the highborn but their children stayed
in France, they had embraced modernity.
For them, as they sink into indifference, the valiant struggle of their
race is forgotten as the hoof mark in the sand of time: until one asks who
Am I, where do I come from? And the answer is as silent as the passing
of time and they will see the ruins of their grandparent humble abode sit
down and cry, caress the stones and lament the loss.
Fillers overlooked
Reading the papers and the news on TV channels
the festive season has begun like an eager tractor
there is little time for those caught up in wars;
we will remember them at the dinner table.
A woman was given £8 million as a divorce settlement
she had had aroma - therapy worthy of a queen.
The knee caps of Queen Nefertiti has been found
glinting white In the sand. Now there is a hunt for
her thigh bones and perhaps a tuft of hair where
her vagina used to be.
The finder would be the archaeologist of the year
and have his/her picture in the paper plus a story
to tell of daring do and near misses and a place at
the board of the Guardian which made me think
if the highborn has classier knee caps the rest of us.
Beneath the evening lamplight, I sit on nature's floor
Entreating those emerging from their crystal paneled doors,
To ask a single farthing, or penny they might give,
And grant this humble beggar, a means where I might live.
And as they come and go each night they disdain to notice me,
For beneath the evening lamplight, my cup is all they see.
The carriages they click and clack upon the cobblestones,
As highborn men and ladies, go to and from their homes.
And as the snuffer has made his round, and morning chased the night,
I'll drag these lifeless legs along and wait for end of light.
For beneath the evening lamplight is my place on nature's floor,
Entreating those emerging from their crystal paneled doors.
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