Long Hedge Poems
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Penuriousness long did acquaint
yours truly, who feels loath
to lodge complaint
regarding series of unfortunate events
(Lemony Snicket be damned)
imposed monetary constraint,
now aghast with horror
(ain't no trick),
I unwittingly did faint,
only negative indebted interest accrues,
now if ever mister money bags I haint,
no gainsay purposelessness
to air principal plaint,
yet to fulfill personal daily quota
regarding poem writing
subliminally eases restraint
prompting good samaritan
deeds subsequent anointed saint
homelessness looms around
the corner crimping psyche
argh mental health depressed
courtesy poverty doth taint.
Seriously folks (especially Bugs Bunny),
I best coon sitter
turning over new leaf versus "fake"
gilded pretense success and posthumous
famous author doth leave me awake
nsync courtesy restless leg syndrome
shakes bed (lamb - spouse) like earthquake,
whereby thwack with her elbow
finds broken rib cage, when thus spake
Zarathustra bidding me to branch off
and leave writing... say kickstart
panhandling as faux grubstake
with global warming...
formerly deeply buried
untold bajillion dollars free,
for taking, thus best not forsake
golden, silver, bronze... opportunity
analogously swimming within monied lake,
or accumulate stash tall as Taj Mahal
and/or Trump Tower livingsocial footloose
and fancy free gourmandizing
till I resemble Mar-a-lago sized beefcake
recklessly splurging penny wise
and pound foolish
proudly arrogantly boasting
what cutthroat tactics can accomplish,
hmm... perhaps contemplating
on whim purchasing Greenland
for a song (infringing,
extracting, bilking... copyrights) swish
goes signature scribble to abolish
purposeless law meant as hedge
to sideline ruthless machiavellian brash
art of the deal done courtesy genius
eh... so what if the global
financial market doth crash, viz fillet of fish?
Being Veggie
Here I am.
From top to toe
A meat-free human
Don't ya know
People asked me
Why the shoes?
I do not eat them.
I'd often muse..
But now I'm older
And life's moved on
With larger issues
To dwell upon
I'll soon be forty
Years a veg.
No highland castle
Or trust fund hedge
My account is clear.
My conscience too
But still with plenty
More to do
It thrills my soul
The human-race
Denies nutrition
With a face
A greater cause
Now lies before
The victims no longer
Just legs of four
The truth is out.
Our selfish ways
May just have numbered
All our days..
And who'd have thought
To cure our blindness
We must return
To love and kindness.
Jinjagoliath
23rd September 2021
There was a pair
Both having creative flair
Then another two
Having nothing to do
Twins on two wheels
Looking for a steal
No need for a club
Being in the woods with these guys who were studs
Partying at the lake
Spending what they make
Not thinking this is a mistake
A DJ was not there
No one cared
Dancing the four
Ignoring she walked out the door
Searching for Leprechaun green
Wearing tight tailored made blue jeans
Eyeing to purchase a Porsche
This film work was par for the course
Acting like a driving wedge
She did something behind the hedge
To get out of the rough
Her emotions taking rejection real tough
Using a cobra iron
As a warning siren
Stroking the little white ball
Making sure she made the call
A fair way to handle a difficult situation
Getting a good lay and position
Into the bunker it did land
A sandy hazard needing to get out of a jam
With a little twist and grip that was firm
At first the cable television gallery showed their concern
It reached its goal
Sinking into the hole
All this happen when she was asleep
From out of nowhere was the underwater creep
Nothing much after that
For the Princess brat
Champion players enjoy the Seminole skins
Betting on who will win
Take each match
Where an eagle or birdie may hatch
Like it is your last
And remember your lucrative past
Since science overnight can turn weird
Spreading a viral infection revenge demanding fear
In the end see the results on the card
Digesting the negativity could be hard
Especially on the back nine
Marching in rhythmic time
Knowing this is the chapter’s finale
Realizing the positive tally
As the golfing masters put up their cleats to hang
One may ponder over that space drink orange Tang
Promiscuous Miss Samantha Lane does look like Danielle Kang
Zoya sits, now all alone,
just staring through a window pain
to where a pink magnolia blooms
in someone else's garden.
And all her dacha's winter buds
are crushed and tombed in oil and mud
where tank and track has churned
and soldiers on their backs are burned
and seep her garden soil in blood.
Net curtains dim the window pane
but she can count each passing train
seen through the boundary hedge,
and glimpse each combed
and coiffured head
at eight, and half-past nine, and ten,
as Zoya sits upon a bed
and sees them coming home again
at five from Waterloo.
Her curtains flap with icy blasts
damp cushions lie with shards of glass
and where her gentle cats once basked,
dog packs now run her Kyiv street.
Although the hosts are warm, and kind,
Sweet Zoya is now seventy-nine.
Her smile conceals her inner tears,
her loss of ending peaceful years
sat gazing through her bedroom window,
towards her glowing sunflower fields,
her husband still asleep beside her.
It is that time of year again
wooden clog upon the cobblestone
the red telly in view beer maids
slide the giant steins across
long tables inside the crowded tent
huge pretzel and brats hang sparingly
over the doorway entrance while misty
fog pour in chasing hedge hogs
throughout the forest a rather full
Marketplatz beckons my attention span
I notice the Bavarian alps in view
while riding the mechanical bull
I'm quite taken by the lanky block
in the far corner adjusting stocking
dashing to buy a few more hummels
wooden nut crackers and incense burners
taxi!!!
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
Gloriously "FAKE" Early Boyhood
Yah, ma brew their,
and American sister golden hair -
afar and away
book as aye ken ream hem bar,
yea when yar whiz jist a bay
bee, hun me
verily hoppy goo
loo key lil boy whar 'r each day
o'r flowed with giddiness oot nar the
secluded Harris estuary
frolicked amidst muscled shoals
gnome hatter sky turned
f'ty shades o' gray
hawk cool when
barf heat squished sand
hall lung pristine beach hooray
ah...those memories (hmm...oh...well)
wii ch war newt mine,
boot bar rowed fur room Jay
son and argonauts cave his Oh kay
seance ah waz tip poor
tuff ford me own may
mar ease, noon thee lass nay
var tha lease, aye fain tis eyes hub boat
hoof "FAKE" sea
yuck rat passageway
along tha loon lee coo west
hove yar hug quay
thee pass sea if 'ick Ou shin sum
moo with as ray
dee aunt gull lass oon lake now win me
daughter ring auld age aye
wharf heal moss elf ill eagle
red dee tug hoe bye
bye, cuz hive eel
emotionally frenzied, harried,
and jangled as if
o'er dost hay'n reedy to die
on barb bit char writs eye
lichen to a class five
Saffir-Simpson Hurricane, no...no...no...
methinks oh pen hee van
thar iz a big oop stares "guy"
seen 'm once, when we booth said "Hi"
aye whiz juiced up t'har - me no lie,
what, a stripling lad,
(thus jist man hedge gin my
flat hand outstretched wheel nigh
fin gars call loess tug getter try
tou pet yar palm awk
coo pull hove feet
fur him tha floor),
now (NOT FAKE) chalk
wii ch hide id hawk
daring ma prime er skool daze
didst slip smooth white
totally tubular woo din
lock (like) thin small
round joint long stalk
con vein y'ant lee a'signed
tuck clap 'race ears oot side den maze
wen axed bite t'eat char, me Noah talk!
Travelling down these sentences we find
Unknown,unsought, unthought, but always real
A home where we can rest our fragile minds
The people dropped,the habits left behind.
The good, the mediocre, what we steal
While travelling with the sentences we find
The hate that frees,the love that too close binds
The heart, the soul, the body, how we feel
For homes where we can rest our fragile minds
The touch that chills, the distances unkind
Unwished for yet demanding all the soul.
Unravelling are our sentences unblind.
The freezing looks,the glories undermined
Ill timed,ill gotten, ills both new and old,
Hedge homes where we could rest our fragile minds
I have never dwelt in realms of gold;
But there are many stories never told.
Suffering our own sentences we find
A home that welcomes, our more liberal minds.
A wealthy hedge manager was arrested
Friends said he was
Demanding
Bold
A risk taker
Impeccably dressed
Impressive to watch
He didn’t tolerate mistakes
Because time was money.
His wife cried in court
Stood by him
Until the girlfriends came out
Hints of lavish parties
Money spent on expensive jewelry
Secrets kept
Signs ignored by those
Paid to watch.
Dozens of executives
Arrested
Now cooperating
Operations closed down
Employees let go
In an uncertain economy.
Investors
Lost
Money
Savings depleted
Trust never regained
For some it was the end of the road.
The market goes up
The market goes down
Because of a man
Who stole in plain sight
With nothing to hide.
Diabolique!
It's so tragic, in poetry!
There is no safe place to be.
Knives come at you with your
poetry, if political.
I do understand people
now border on the hysterical.
Anyone on the right, in danger
of poetic execution.
Unjustifiably, diabolical!
But as in life, poetry is just
personal expression.
I wish it were not considered
a dance, so evil, one needs to
rush, find a priest and go to
confession.
I want to be accepted as me.
Crazy, but I want to be honored
more than any animal or tree.
I will not hedge on this, freedom
of all expression,
Requires depth, not just a hug and
a kiss.
It's integrity, lies in the freedom to be.
Freedom for all .....trumps imagery.
June 27, 2019
10am PST
I saw her yet unopened love in bloom
So fearing then another suitor's chance
I reached to steal it from the hedge too soon
But felt the sting of thorns upon my hands
So then instead I chose a diff'rent scheme
To seize the object of my heart's desire
With cunning I might steal her love unseen
And pluck the rose from out within the briar
I shared with her the places of my soul
Where neither light nor love before could cull
I gave and yet somehow became more whole
And by the time her love had blossomed full
My heart had found to its great disbelief
That she'd become the crimson-handed thief
7.31.18
Contest: Not Just any Old Rose
Also submitted to contest: Rose Poetry