I can't help it. As I lay under the most beautiful blanket of stars, it's hard not to be selective in my focus of attention, better yet my undivided becomes undecided as I gaze further into depths one could lose ones self and yet i cant take my eyes away from it.... ' Phone Home ' That's what ET said. But where is home when all we know is the unknown of what we're shown. Supernova's live for the moment of dying. Goin out in such a huge, raging, ball of fire, one last hoorah if you're that type. I don't know exactly what my purpose is in this life but it's hard not to see the stars in the sky n not know what they they're for right?
Before the day turned into night,
with pen and pad by waning light,
my love of living at its height,
I wrote of all within my sight.
The neighbors’ kids were still at play,
their last hoorah to this fine day.
They’d romp outside till that last ray
was gone. “Come eat,” they would obey.
As last light filtered through the trees,
a bird’s song and a pleasant breeze
awakened sensibilities
to Nature’s tendencies to please.
My rhymes, begun that afternoon,
were finished under stars and moon.
Final rocket
An empty box
Tumble drier's
Lonely socks
Rabbit's foot
Now key-ring hangs
Dracula
Retires his fangs
Satellite
Back down to Earth
Millionaire
Rejects his worth
Shoe's lost sole
Beyond repair
Luscious locks
Now absent hair
Tasty cheese
Now furry mould
Fervent love
Gone icy cold
Sunset fire
Yet, clouds obscure
Common cold
They found a cure
Friendship
Folded, packed away
A coloured life
Just fades to grey
Life's a test
But have we passed?
Results come due
As breathe our last
CV
10.9.23
Ambitious treasure seekers on a pirate ship
They bob up and down as the waves give a dip.
We see them coming, and we give a loud shout.
Giving them a hooray and hoorah from our homes no doubt.
We know they have money in the forms of silver and gold.
They came to the coast to gamble – both young and old.
We open our blackjack stations and light our casino sign.
If there is any real big spender, I hope she comes to mine.
Gentle is the growl of the distant traffic.
The heat of the vanishing night
Tumbles through the wide inviting window
As summer's last hoorah cascades
A tsunami of over-ripe heat
Across the surface of the dusty duvet
Where I lie
To suck the resistant moisture
From my pores
And simultaneously steal my sleep
The wild creatures are subdued.
Lucid thoughts crowd into
The sleepless void like
A second unwelcome visitor.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Want to wrestle me into the world..
I reach for the ropes with hopes of
A friendly hand, to tag me back
Into the realm of unreality..
Gentle is the growl of the distant traffic.
Jinjagoliath
10th September 2023
4am
A gentle kiss, sent love to her forehead,
unmatched to the unboxed dozen of roses.
Silence, comforted by re-assuring smiles,
they danced together, to their last hoorah.
A lover's tear, slid in the face of fear ~
will she remember who she was, before him?
10 July 2022
Bite Size Poem no.49 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
The meal deal, the power crush.
The entitled airs they seek so much.
Swallow dignity, swallow pride.
The panelled walls of entitlement house their hides.
What of humility, what of honour is left?
Power and greed above all else.
To the sycophantic grovelling horde.
Your spines were not meant for you to crawl.
Make your deal to have your snout in the golden trough. Quote your Latin spiel and have your hoorah intercourse.
Your faustian deals will burn your souls.
When my time comes,
I hope I can look down on those having fun
And telling jokes at my expense,
Like the ones I was too afraid to tell,
When attending someone else's last hoorah.
Able to hear the stories about me,
Never before told in public,
And be surprised by those who I never knew cared,
When I was alive.
But most of all,
I hope I will have done enough,
For the laughter to echo down the years,
To help those left behind to carry on and on,
And when their time finally comes,
To request those without a joke,
At their expense,
To respectfully stay away.
** Winter’s Last Surprise **
How strange it seems
Being within a few days of Spring
To see the landscape
All covered in white!
How odd it feels
For all the trees’ branches
With all their twigs, too, showing
Every tip accentuated
— Ready to bud
Open to Spring —
But now how so jarring
To see the frigid air’s blanket
Of snow fallen
Heavily over everything…Is this a
Wanting act by Winter,as if
It were wishing to kill
The early-risen daffodils? To
Infuse despair into
Winter-weary trees along with
All the early green
Of the ground being turned white?
And, too, we must wear our gloves
Yet one more morning, going out
To clear the cars and walks
Of this snowfall’s final hoorah.
How much more marvelous will feel
The opening days of Spring’s clear,
Soft, azure blue skies!
——————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 3/12/22
Thanks be to God
Winter's last hoorah
Silent snowfall covers the blooms and newly budding green
Hear the mourning doves sorrowful cries
It's supposed to be spring
Our winter takes a stand to come each year:
beyond the spring, and after summer days,
accepts the brilliance of late autumn cheer,
which spreads a last hoorah with fiery blaze-
then winter shares its sparkling, snowy glaze.
What peace dwells in this purity of white
that cloaks the hills and valleys day and night,
while bare tree limbs, adorned with fluffy shawls,
present their charming, visual delight.
Quite joyful is that time when winter calls.
And yet, while nature sleeps beneath this veil
of white, the landscaped beauty is not firm.
Devoid of color, mounds, and swirls of pale,
white glow- sparked by the sun- does reaffirm
its shiny brilliance is enjoyed short-term.
And in that warmth, icicle gifts are cast
like jeweled shards of crystal, holding fast
on limbs and branches- clinging for a time,
till the next storm- or spring awakes at last-
to fully melt away old winter's clime.
December 15, 2020
Contest: A Lovely Day Poetry Contest
Sponsor: BJ Legros Kelley
Form: Dizain- Rhyme Scheme: a b a b b c c d c d
I used to be a "hottie"but now, I just go potty.
What on earth could be the matter with my ever shrinking bladder?
I hold no affection for my sun damaged complexion. Too many summers at the sea have caused barnacles to grow on me. Alas hoorah, horr ray, at least my
hair's not turning gray..My aging back is not that great and with these hips I negotiate, and try to keep stiffness at bay, just to face another day. I now write
a weekly "to do list", so things don't go awry, things I might miss..I think growing older really sucks, unless ofcourse one has big bucks and can afford those nips and tucks.
A cornucopia of symposia
hoping to make the future rosier
banging a gavel to unravel
multiple knots of itinerant thoughts
billing and queueing a crisis slow brewing
the same old charade a grand masquerade
where everyone graces the room with two faces
theater heads one alive and one dead
solving the problem of how fast can we rob’em
scatter the cash in an off shore locked cache
hoorah for symposia, no doubts all supposia
a game of three shells all whistles and bells
just keep moving the pea so no one can see
we’ll never be rid of this schemed pyramid
John G. Lawless
©8/23/2018
Stout Hearted Men
Alas for the Irish ‘tis fate
to drown in Guinness this date
and “quietly” shout
hoorah for the “stout”
‘Tis an insatiable thirst I must sate
John G. Lawless
©2/25/2018
WHEN JUDY COMES MARCHING HOME AGAIN.
When Judy comes marchin home again.
Hoorah. Hoorah
She'll know that she'll have to leave again. Hoorah. Hoorah.
She knew how to sew, and she knew how to cook,
but lately she's readin our old war book.
And We'll all die for Microsoft.
Hoorah.
Hoorah.
When Jenny comes sailin home again. Hoorah. Hoorah.
She'll look like she might be pregnant then. Hoorah. Hoorah.
She'll sue all the captains out on the sea
cause she don't know who daddy might be
And We'll all die for Google Chrome.
Hoorah.
Hoorah.
When they carry Janes body home again. Hoorah. Hoorah.
They'll bury her there in Arlington. Hoorah. Hoorah
They'll make a nice speech up in washington
and give her mama a flag when they're done.
And We'll all die for Hollywood.
Hoorah.
Hoorah.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
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