Long Lay waste to Poems
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Feel the falling nightshade,
The decent of inferno's raid.
Coins in a dead mans eyes,
he needs to be paid...
Let lose the minions of Hel.
Locked in this deep dark well
Valhalla is in rage
Taste this malignant sage
In this twisted age
Like black notes of a
Symphony; infernal.
Eternal the lone wail of empty
Souls in dire masquerade
A waltz profane: the life hollow as
This forsaken campaign
Insane in creations final cascade.
Feel the falling nightshade
End of what is known
Beginning of what is dreamed
Deep dark and serene
We ponder our meaning in this scheme
We watch our foot falls in nightshade.
Valhalla in rage
The flash of eye
In a blurred memory
As everything of this is in white
In this darkest night.
The presents of wandering thought...
An echo of soul in this dire masquerade.
We all walk in kingdoms lost footfalls
Of this blackened land
Care not; ruined by what was man.
Nightshade and Mandrake
The sour taste of ours ages impure sage.
Only heavens knows heavens holy rage.
Deep in this gospel,
Lives as drops of rain, each complex, lost
In a vast well and the ferryman is paid.
Glint of light in the unassuming night
The presents of fear
Are you losing sleep my dear?
What do you hear; just falling nightshade
And HE’s waiting to be paid.
What mortal tear?
Traces this grand and ageless face.
What min and turn's of flesh?
Can inspire divinities of old
To lay waste to dreamscapes of
A mere weak soul.
Gracing the surface of dawn ‘
Dawn of light chases away...
The shadows of the past.
What mortal fear?
Could frame thy symmetry…
Flies in a lives encompassing race.
Tools of hand
Rules of ?esh
Deities taste of forbidden
dream's...lace.
Lands of mere walking apes
That claim the waste in a time of rape
That drink the wine
The immaculate Grapes of rancor
What mortal eye....?
In this age... '
Can see the island's wrapped in
An arcane god's apathy...
A province of unknown Seas's
What face is this to see?
Divinities own... mortal tear
frames thy fearful symmetry!
[Contains - for effect - deliberate miss-spelling
and bad grammar]
That old pirate cave was a tourist attraction
The guide was in period dress
In old pirate garb and a well practiced script
This tale he would tell to impress…
*
“Rob ‘The Rum’ was often glum
It’s how the grog would make him
And spiteful too, with things he’d do
And kids would go home shaking
He’d scare with ‘pirate antics’ boasts
And frighten them with tales of ghosts
Until one day they all fled, crying
But horses hooves left six there, dying
At threat of the noose they told him deny
the stories he’d told and that ghosts were a lie
At last he conceded, then lost and dejected
said, ‘There ain’t no ghosts, I stand here corrected.’
But justice it seems weren’t too fair in them days
So though he concurred he was hanged anyways
But maybe his God tried to save that old sot
For his neck never broke with the slip of the knot
And so with legs kickin like some headless chicken
He begged and he pleaded to be cutted down
And folk turned away but one heard him say
‘My ghost shall forever lay waste to this town.’
And even today there’s people what say
They’ve seen old Rob here in his cave
I do not deceive and you should believe
That you’re either you’re stupid or brave.”
*
Then outside the cave into which they were crammed
A loud banging sound as a car door slammed
Every head turned to see what went on
And the Pirate announced it was time he was gone
An angry, but tatty, faux pirate, appeared
In fancy dress clothes and a clearly fake beard
At first he said nothing, his face wore a sneer
And then he yelled, “How did you lot get in here?”
One visitor said, “Yer man let us in,
the one with ugly great scar on his chin.”
The faux pirate said “It’s a slack time of year
It’s the middle of winter… there’s only me here.”
He turned to the clatter of horses on cobbles
And fled when he had an attack of the wobbles
And a voice, just an echo announced to the party
“You do know there ain’t any ghosts…
Me hearty.”
9 January 2022
Contest: A Ghost Story
Sponsor: Angela Tune
I rode to power on a Midwest horse,
Bearing amongst the feathers in my cap this terse brief
from my broken people:
To lay waste to the irksome order
That home and abroad now prevails.
Strained voices break out in the valley below
And many more in the world across the seas
Bidding me to dismount at once
And move to saddle the global kingdom
Of Reagan, Roosevelt, Clinton, ...
That now is mine to ride.
Yet this very kingdom I came to crush;
My Midwest horse, I wouldn't trade for it!
In her neighs, I hear a nay
Forbidding me to consider the bargain.
Her counsel I think I'll heed
For between the two, she's the easier to ride.
A horse that trots on cheap lies
Or a kingdom that floats on costly allies--
That's the question I now confront.
Live in the peace, of your own being,
for God’s eyes, are always seeing.
We are only accountable, for our own actions you see,
the thoughts, feelings and emotions, that we be.
Let not their words of destruction, tear you apart,
nor steal the peace within your heart.
They lay waste to the living things,
as they try to kill, with their deadly stings.
They roam about, seeking whom they may devour,
to kill to steal, to cause things to sour.
Beware, watch and pray, lest ye be found,
out walking on, the unholy ground.
Live in peace with all, to the best that you can,
for the devil roams about, in the heart of man.
If you can live in peace, within self you see,
then you will live life, and life more abundantly.
The bombs wailed out
In terror they scream
Her fears come to life
He was only fourteen
A young boy whose life is gone
A mourning family whose life has changed
A murderous government supports change
Isreal lay waste to beautiful homes
Isreal crushed them with bombs
Thousands of natives crushed under stone
Yet told to move and stay calm
So they calmly meditate in prayer
They ask the world to like and share
They ask us to speak up
For citizens to be made aware
Palestine has traditional crops and culture
Isreal acts like vultures
Picking away at Palestinian land
75 years of Israeli torture
But they sing out
The mother still screams
She knows without a doubt
This is what it means to be from Palestine
Form:
Lollipops for good little boys and girls
melt like tricks onto rotting teeth;
Full of intense flavor and colored swirls;
Nightmares freeze into all that spun sugar,
cotton candy pinwheels on pumpkins;
The wigged Jack O Lantern’s such a looker;
There is such a buzz hanging in the veil,
candied spiders pick up the scent;
To their nostrils it will never go stale;
You can almost capture the bands of air
that permeate raw fear through treats;
Still they walk wanting to collect their fare;
Specters and witches partner with a clown
to lay waste to this hoggish pile;
Sugar drunk they harbor a busted frown.
See the blue moon that shines so bright;
Apt midnight noon in luna light.
Yield heart and soul to feel magic;
Sense a pure whole in thoughts mystic.
Live your best wit with rhymes that tell;
Explore brief fit as words cast spell.
One by one see pathway insights;
Now seize beauty as feel takes flight.
Embrace the truth that tells on you;
Notice fine proof in lines that cue.
Rise to each dawn with cheery feed;
Invest this morn to happy seeds.
Quiet times slow haste as grace floods peace;
Urge can lay waste to vain increase.
Explore the dream with steadfast steps;
Zeal and zest scheme with clear mind map.
Work each thought well with steady pace;
Rise to sculpt spell as verse finds grace.
Indulge sure heart with what you say;
Thought in time starts a sensuous play.
Effect and cause unfurl sure writes;
Reap intercourse with voice that cites.
Leon Enriquez
14 March 2015
Singapore
Who would lay claim to know,
The greatest story ever told,
Perhaps Homer Simpson Doh!
For none else is so bold.
It would take a mere simpleton,
With the mind of Crusty Clown,
Best he’d come up with,
The sky’s falling down.
Let’s not judge him too hard,
After all he’s a mere cartoon,
I’ll tell the story myself,
The world will hear very soon.
Bet this’ll pique some interest,
Even raise pointed ears,
For what I’m about to impart,
Will unleash your inner fears.
This world is going to explode,
I’m afraid the end is nigh,
No other way to say it,
Earth will be blown sky high
I’ve contrived a great weapon,
Called “The Doomsday Device”,
Just one more button to set,
Your all gonna pay the price.
Guessing I’m some crackpot,
Not a genius or child prodigy,
Everyone will die nonetheless,
For nobody’s getting off free.
By the way, Hi I’m Stewie
I live on spooner street,
Now I’ve set the timer,
Here’s an hour as my little treat.
For I’m not the son of man,
But kid of a family guy,
Why I lay waste to this world,
Lois my mum hid my favorite toy.
By
David Kavanagh
What mortal tear?
Traces this grand and ageless face.
What twist and turn's of flesh?
Can inspire divinities of old
To lay waste to dreamscapes of
A mere weak soul.
Gracing the surface of dawn
New light chases away...
The shadows of the past.
What mortal fear?
Flies in a lives encompassing race.
Tools of hand
Rules of flesh
Deities taste of forbidden
dream's...lace.
Lands of mere walking apes
That claim the waste in a time of rape
That drink the wine
The immaculate Grapes of rancor
What mortal eye...?
In this age...
Can see the island's wrapped in
An arcane god's apathy...
A province of unknown Seas's
What face is this to see?
Divinities own...
A mortal tear.
The roaches keep launching attacks.
Then scurrying back into Satan's dirty crack.
Covering their backs with the children of Gaza.
Launch, then hide- launch, then hide.
When they lose ground, they call for a ceasefire.
Understand, there can never be peace.
As long as these hellhounds are off their leash.
Nobody in these three-ringed regimes mentions the hostages anymore.
Nobody remembers October 7
or September 11
let alone the holocaust.
Short-term memory problems for those with long-term limits.
Nobody dares to put the bullseye on Iran.
Who has the real blood on their hands.
Billions of U.S. dollars fund the attacks of these ogres.
Whose soul do they own, just asking for a friend?
Get their undivided attention.
Lay waste to the Persian oilfields.
Parch their treasure chests.
Maybe then peace can prevail.
Then the Bedouins of heaven and the children of Christ can rest.
Until then, I think we're heading down the plutonium throat of Armageddon.