Living a fourteenth century life in twenty first
waves of electro-magnetic circles
unstuck stuck resistance to unruly burst
fierce as a tiger ready to hurtle
mind making excuses in rehearsal
Scarcity a dominant stubborn thought
Freedom’s silent scream inside remains naught
Faith strong calls no craving or aversion
Honesty and Courage together taught
manipulation flies, a dispersion
Lyrics come to me by moonlight
When the power of darkness lessens
When whispers soften like overripe
Mangoes dispatched hurriedly from India,
On ramshackle East Indiamen vessels
Sailing fruitfully through consternated
Waters and heated lines of the tropics,
Selling rewardingly on busy markets
Charged with the power of buy-and-sell,
And order-and-supply.
I wonder how Bob would react to
My girlfriend’s long and big, sexy hair
Blowin’ in the wind,
Seeking answers to horizon-tossed questions,
When howling, racing gales accompany
Frightened sorrel horses, newly freed from
Spavins, and spiked by the energy of the sun,
Hurtle home happily towards old and battered
Picket fences newly mended?
I write often under the spell of night rain,
Striving much not to blend lyrics with poems,
Which, like zucchini and cucumber,
May look alike but are quite different.
I stumble upon the fraternity between words
And promises and splice them with soft, nimble
Fingers of the piano.
Gentle taps yonder come from happily sobbing congas.
And with an unseen ensemble, a song is born.
Forsooth and forlorn ferocious I fried,
Before Bibawhack, my baboon bastard's bride.
To teachy thee a truth, Ye took And Ye tried…
On yon odorous oxters [as the ocean tide.]
Guarengriddle Green, elope, elope. Makes watery- eyed.
So send it soft, send it soon, spittle spot, easily spied.
Him and she, Her and He hurtle and hide…
Disenchanted, disabused, deceased I died.
Mr Spud Head is wearing a frown
Some eejit stole his wife’s best gown
His wife who’s called Myrtle
Looks like a gross turtle
Spud’s concerned that the chips are down
They’re going out, Myrtle gets dressed
But Spud Head sees she looks depressed
Her old gown doesn’t fit
And mis-shapes her left tit
She’s crying and looking distressed
Poor Spud Head must think on his feet
He whips off their king size bed sheet
Wife’s bod won’t be seen
Cos it’s Halloween
He’s keeping watch on what she’ll eat
There’s excellent news about Myrtle
She no longer looks like a turtle
Myrtle went on a diet
Spud insisted she try it
To ‘platewatchers’ she will now hurtle!
The playful nature of love
need not be always a scheduled
match, something to be said for the
spontaneity of butterfly kisses,
fluttering lips and tip-toeing
fingertips, as a child approaches
a cookie-jar at midnight, the
cat-like hurtle of stool and
counter, a cupboard with bells
and whistles, the Cookie Master
having had fond insight, a shared
sweet-tooth of a game….
hello everyone
I just can't stop thinking of our beloved Victor
he remains one of the first members I met here on soup
although it was always and only here through poetry
his friendship and generosity is forever true
Victor if you can see and hear this we pray for you
thank you
"wherever you are"
wherever you are may light shine upon you
fighting hard and long you pass each hurtle
now may the grace of peace be eternally yours
you made your footprint tossed into the world
telling stories writing poems that touch us all
you have fought since our paths first crossed
defying odds of every kind along with belief
we join and reflect for wholeness once again
endure for your voice to be heard once more
may light shine upon you wherever you are
SkyWatcher
07-27-23
Do something before you’re stopped by Logic,
Logic: scarcely a good friend of Magic
Rapidly grabbing its territories
Even seizing Magic’s toiletries!
Do something before Logic gets tragic,
The hardest of blows landing on Magic.
I see you side fast with Aristotle
In quest of the same size, same title.
Midcourse, you turn Attacked Helpless Turtle
And this would you out of race hurtle…
Do something before Logic screams LOGIC
Or continues to say “Be strategic!”
There has been a helpful “Just say you can;
I would pass a hotel “Be a man.”
Both, of course, neither Magic nor Logic
But upon test deliver as magic.
They all said it was absurd
To go and invent a word
I do it all the time
In cause of a rhyme
And now my secret is shared.
There was a Mock Turtle called Myrtle
Who once fell off a cliff and got hurtle
She said it was hell
With a cracked shell
‘Cos the water leaked in with a spurtle.
shadowless meadows
ears of corn sway with the breeze
dragonflies hurtle
© Harry J Horsman 2022
Out my front door; I know the way,
but to what end, I cannot say.
Encumbered by my earthly things,
no seraphim, on stainless wings
I skyward launch into the cloud.
Once Icarus, a boy too proud,
brought low to once again embark
and hurtle headlong in the dark
towards unfamiliar continent,
there, rest assured and be content.
Though I knew not, it was ordained
just to what end His purpose gained
by adding to the manifest
a guy who never would have guessed
the vector of his present course
or scarce believed its gracious source.
----------
for A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
sponsored by Brian Strand
written on 04/05/2022
Canaries
By LoLa
The afternath of crossing paths
The war that waged; our demons’ wrath
Our minds intwined in broken trust
The dawn of fall; a slave to lust
Weapons turn from phaser to stun
Countless trials we shouldn't have won
savagery done; just chasing a thrill
Searchingly seeking a reason to kill
Lovedrugs served to turn us cold
Injected fates for prayers to hold
The light that shines on broken minds
Will darkness come to drive us blind?
Heading down south to ease my pain
Northbound demons; callin my name
Take me away from tales of crime
Lasting paths where hearts beat in time
Scores Of doubt sing loudly inside
Kind minds echo subconscious pride
We can't define what never dies
Our Timeless lives with modern ties
The little death of every night
You lie awake in spite of sight
Lost memories where tears collide
Subconscious fears that hide inside
Anxiety of posioned sons
The crushing weight for Chosen ones
No mercy from our Maker's dawn
No sanctuary in a song
Remarkable, how crass the sounds
Sleepless nights, deep underground
Lets hurtle straight into the sun
The fear released when we are done
Oh, without this jet phobia, here's what I'd do:
Go traveling to Bimini, then on to Peru.
We'd hop on an aeroplane, and be there by noon.
We'd take in the sights, hike up Machu Picchu.
It sure would be fun if I could go with you…
The aeroplane's my enemy; I know this is true.
The pilot's a nightmare, and I don't trust the crew.
I'd travel the world; wish that dream could come true.
To hurtle through space leaves me nerves all unglued,
And I lose my resolve just like smoke through a flue.
Can't break away on holiday; this fear, I can't lose.
So I flip on the telly, take a journey, then snooze.
—————
To the tune of “Pavement Artist” (also “Chim Chim Cher-ee”)
From the musical “Mary Poppins”
Written on 03/13/2022
Take heart amid violent storms
Triggered by others' ignorance;
For elephants ignore all worms
Who coil under its titanic might.
Swim on to that higher clime
Where giants dine and wine;
For all closer shores promise
No treat above common line.
Strive for the luminous sun
Or hurtle down into oblivion;
Forfeit sure ground's safety
On which no medals shone.
And pine not over stale waters
That neither luck nor tiptop wit
May recoup despite their clout;
Chase fresh prize with iron grit.
Teetering on the edge of the precipice unknown
The depth of the fatal plunge to an eternal oblivion,
Is of little or no concern to him who suffers in pain
Who cannot control his colors like the chameleon,
But prepares to hurtle downward into open abyss
Who, without considering cues of his future domain,
Says farewell to present earthly toil with a last kiss
Considers not the seeds of anger and turmoil sown.
Who willingly forfeits all the rewards of life to come
Empties his pockets of whatever accumulated virtue,
The chaff he casts to winds for this moment’s sake
Like a plaster statue in the Musee he stands in queue,
A golden gate to Evermore awaits his wandering soul
In some future life he may once again be made whole.
[3. The Precipice of The Unknown]
SECOND PLACE WINNER
Written January 29, 2022
Especially for “Pick a Title Vol 28” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Extant exertion will loom you to the upcoming hurdle.
Favoring the ideal stance might empower you to hurtle.
Written: October 17, 2021
Your Best Rhyming Couplet #3 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS
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