Long Swashbuckling Poems
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You can move on
You can see the light of day
But you've left me behind
Behind in this endless night
You can be strong
Invincible
Indomitable
A cherished hero
Unaffected….
But you've left me defenseless
Weak
Paralyzed by fear
You can go about
Your daily life
Taking the whole world in your stride
Yet you’ve left me in my room
A prisoner in these four walls
Afraid of a world
I can’t understand
Unable to reach out
You can bind up your wounds
Stanch the flow
And continue with the fight for life
Undeterred
The taste of victory in your mouth
Your rebel yell
Sounding a warning
A swashbuckling warrior
And I lie in the trenches
Watching the flow
Of my life
Ebbing away
Waiting to be rescued
Wondering if I will make it
To another day
You and Me
Two different people
From two different worlds
Yet part of the human race
In need of grace
Remember me….
When you turn your face to the sun
And feel the breeze on your face
Remember me...
Alone in my room
Closed in by the gloom
Tears drenching me
Hurts haunting me
Remember me….
And say a prayer…
Say a prayer
For me.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
What formerly got celebrated as adventitious age of exploration...
1492 unleashed, jump/
kick started, and downloaded
a bittorrent götterdämmerung
spelling genocide of indigenous peoples
occupying Turtle Island,
now surviving tribes
just a shell of their former grandeur.
At present Columbus day
linkedin with high dudgeon
courtesy scattered remnants
of once proud nations
occupying contiguous United States
plus calling Alaska and Hawaii
their happy hunting grounds,
enshrine actual or mythologized
spectacular pièce de résistance
instances when counting coup.
I recollect needing to know
scores of years ago
when a student attending grade schools
within Lower Providence District
as an important bit of information
contributing to (white washed) history
of western civilization
(and never forgot)
recalling the names Nina, Pinta,
and Santa Maria associated
with heroic measures undertaken
by Cristóbal Colón,
(but also been referred to,
by himself and others, as Christoual,
Christovam, Christofferus de Colombo,
and even Xpoual de Colón)
five hundred and thirty years ago,
who purportedly "discovered"
the Americas, when in
fact native occupants of the land
already dwelled upon
the then island paradises.
He/him and subsequent swashbuckling
gung-ho high spirited men
set sail across expanse of ocean(s)
exhibiting eager intent to claim
untrammeled storied quintessentially
opulently magnificent kingdoms
intoxicating greedy Europeans.
Blatant exploitation inexorably nudged
courtesy trickery vis a vis hook and crook
to grab good & plenty treats
forcibly wrested by violence
sabotaging the delicate webbed wide world
constituting millenniums of heavenly bliss,
where marauders wantonly ransacked
indeed lacking absolute zero selflessness
forcing diverse autochthonous nations
to acquiesce and surrender
ancestral grounds to aggressive, coercive
and offensive Europeans hell bent
to populate occupied territory
commandeering, humiliating, manhandling,
poisoning, subdividing, triangulating
every square inch
encompassing fruitful grand home
of rightful heirs to stolen
near boundless tracts
eventually hashtagging uncharted
pristine green acres
spanning from sea to shining sea
becoming commercial real estate
falsely claiming a haven
housing home of the free
land of the brave.
the following quite quirky epistle may not exhibit the ordinary characteristics of poetry, but i decided to share this self made challenge (where every word begins with the letter "S" - no explanation can be offered why such self cerebral torture imposed, nor what motivated me to focus on the nineteenth letter of the english alphabet at the exclusion of other noble vowels and consonants.
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Sunday September seventh started seemingly same since...silver screen show secured seventy seven SeventhSeals.
Soupy Sales supreme salient strengths (starring smart pet sidekick Springer Spaniel Socrates) salvaged sagging sporting sorties. Slap stick stereotypical swashbuckling shticks supplied shipshape shenanigans.
Spartan stage set spurred spontaneous simply stupefying solution. Suede shod schlemiel. Sartre seasoned scenes. Sharp sticks supported sphere. Seats situated semicircular semblance.
SPCA, Siemens, Sears sponsored soiree. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious shouted satirically 'specially Saturdays seemingly sellout. Spontaneous spritely Shogun Samurai sangroid stance satiated slipups stripping stellar seasoned Skidamarinks substitutes sacredly, seminally, silently, slipstreaming soulfully saving saga.
Sometimes silly spouse studiously sought spurious strategy stringing superlatives showcasing senseless sophomoric soporific skills specifically spelling storybook sassy sharpshooters supposedly sleuthing shapeless seated sideways (sic seasonal slate smug spotified snapchatting skippers selfishly scooped sloop-ful seasonal six-packs) sinister Swiss scalpers sat sometimes squatted.
I cannot read small labels, my eyes don’t see so well
The labels on my spices: a culinary hell.
I came up with a system; it’s pretty hard to beat,
‘Cuz most of what I cooked before was not so good to eat.
With pictures on the label, it’s easier to know;
‘Cuz peppermint and barbecue simply do not go.
Anise is a garbage can, I kick it to the curb
Basil, I called Rathbone, a swashbuckling herb
Bay leaves, Otis Redding, sitting on the Dock
My chives, the brothers Bee Gee, ‘cuz it’s the one that talks
Cayenne, picture of a large teepee, ‘cuz man, it's real in tents
I cinnamon Jamaica way; I haven’t seen him since
Allspice, a real Transformer, it sure does add a spark
Cocoa, murdered cuckoo bird, because that’s really dark
Cardamom’s a driver’s license, to check if she’s young or old
Chili is a heavy coat for days that it's too cold
Curry is a horse’s brush, for favorite Indian dish
Garlic, a nasty tongue, to taste an ugly fish
I haven’t any Ginger, ‘cuz Mary Ann’s the best
Lemon peel, a self portrait, to scrape with zeal and zest
Sage, a wizened wizard, ‘cuz they give fatherly advice
Hibiscus, pics of flowers, because it smells really nice
Mustard, a colonel, in the library, with a pipe of lead
Pepper, a peck, what Peter picked (or so they said)
Nutmeg is a soccer ball that’s passed between the legs
Paprika, scary Lucifer, atop my deviled eggs
Parsley just has Elvis, for when you need a shake
Pumpkin Spice, a perfect pie, the kind you want to bake
Thyme, can’t keep too much on hand, the liner notes from Styx
Cajun rub, a pair of legs; it’s got a healthy kick
Tarragon, a house on fire, the smell when Scarlett’s mansion burned
Caraway, Mav from Top Gun; okay, it's breath, I'm unconcerned.
Tartar, from the Enterprise, Kirk wearing Scottish kilt
Pepper flakes, Quixote's windmill; you'll need the fan 'cuz it's full tilt.
Yeah, some of these are pretty bad, but cooking is more fun.
My family sure is happier; they love a tasty pun!
Click on connect,
To a world brought together,
By Sun, Cisco, and Gates,
And cybervixens named Heather,
You or your business,
Can be what you dream,
No matter the cost,
Or so it would seem,
W-W-W,
Preceding some word or phrase,
The destination is gold,
At the end of each maze,
Be first, and be loud,
Brand your ass tomorrow,
Because today is today,
And there's so much to borrow,
Burn rates don't leave scars,
As long as you're hot,
Though conflagration's impending,
Of course, if you're not,
Cyber pie in the sky,
Is no mere euphemism,
For the swashbuckling knaves,
Of dotcommunism,
To them, "e" in ebusiness,
Means everyone's needed,
As stock option syringes,
Filled your vain and succeeded,
Like slaves to the pharaohs,
Team members lay mortar,
And the Pyramid gleamed,
Over the cyber new order,
If we played mind and market,
We'll get our fair share,
Before they observe,
That we're dancing on air,
Now, the public's invested,
To ramp up in style,
Obscuring our vision,
Of the lavish Green Mile,
No worries, it's Spring,
No Y2K clamor,
So why do I hear, feel,
The bear and his hammer,
The market's contracting,
It just pulled a groin,
As the e-slot machine,
Imbibes my last coin,
It's dot-calm, yet not peaceful,
My sleep has been broken,
The Golden Calf in my dreams,
Now takes Chuck E. Cheese tokens,
But, I still think in Ws,
Wondering where we went wrong,
To follow Pied Cyber Piper,
Till the end of the song,
My faith never faltered,
For this new Judaism,
As the promises shattered,
By dotcommunism.
(1/19/01)
Streets awash with mewling cats
and surly swashbuckling pirates.
Somber skies with swirling bats,
and ghastly goblins chasing rats.
Wicked witches’ evil glare,
grisly ghouls' ghostly stare,
taunting with a double-dare.
All in fun to give a scare.
Haunted houses with darkened walls;
afraid to walk spell-bound halls.
Toffee apples, popcorn balls;
eating brains and toad eyeballs.
Trick-or-treating door-to-door.
Treats too tasty to ignore.
Harmless tricks more smile than roar,
kept us giggling for much more.
Parents, neighbors joined the fun.
Scary ghost stories spookily spun.
Fortune tellers’ crystal balls to shun.
Homemade costumes unique to one.
Creamy fudge and devil’s food cake,
all wrapped up for us to take.
Mom's scratch treats, nothing fake.
She took all day long to bake.
Bewitching hour over, fun now done,
to our homes we’d quickly run.
Goodie bags that weighed a ton.
We would share with everyone.
Playing games and laughing out loud,
good times again next year we vowed!
Sex 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections...
The most unlikely coupling—
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
Keywords/Tags: first love, sex, sexy, lust, passion, desire, school, student, teen, teenage, learning, bus, foreplay, fingering, odor, musk, romance, romantic, humiliation
Fear does appear might be the last tier of Ben’s career
Not after Ashes nadir but dafter going out for a beer
Pundits in press pulpits confess we should be severe
Rafter of Puritans cheer stress ECB do make it clear
Fans feast on our beast from the North East a panacea
Won't forget the reset no more regret Bazball engineer
Our brigadier bringing up the rear all singing pioneer
Our white knight up for the fight bright light chandelier
Tarnished but varnished players’ peer friend puppeteer
Plucking for our swashbuckling and rucking buccaneer
Scaling new heights orienteer & trend bucking cavalier
Our bombastic and iconoclastic fantastic bombardier
Not chipper our ripper skipper do hold dear will be a tear
Done like a kipper for being a sipper now team can’t steer
For argy bargy with rugger bugger nipper who did sneer
Wokery no is jiggery pokery by a seedier media profiteer
We're getting a clue there maybe a coup is all very qu*er
Fans ire spiking as us all forever liking that Viking veneer
Baz and Key let Ben be for it is his team to commandeer
A Prince didn’t always convince still wince at Shoaib Bashir
Out too late mate no Cinderella slipper so fall on your spear
Not for the Ashes clashes nadir but lashes for a mere beer
Souvenir in cellar is this the end of great fella’s stellar career?
It was "The Cape" in early June
Along with her sister Vie
They had strolled down past the dunes
Under a cloudless sky
She could taste the ocean salt
On a swirling southern breeze
In new dresses mother bought
Instead of their dungarees
On a rock, the eldest in blue
Matching ribbon in her hair
Going on 'bout a boy she knew
The youngest pretending to care
But sailing on a green grass ocean
Drifting in a pirate's dream
A young girl with a swashbuckling notion
Stealing gold from a Spanish queen
Looting up and down the coast
Black patch over one eye
Sailing with Blackbeard's ghost
Skull and crossbones flying high
Then suddenly, back in a blink
Captured by mother's call
A girl pirate dressed in pink
Her saber, a red parasol
an original poem by Daniel Turner
Dreams can take you to far away places
Like deserts or jungles where tigers give chase
Sometimes you may even become a pirate
Where swashbuckling adventures await
In another dream you may be a rock star
with screaming fans as you play your guitar
Many have dreams of going to heaven
Where angels sing and golden thrones glisten
Some dreams are made of apple pies
topped off with an ice cream surprise
Others may comprise beautiful sunsets
with the deep blue sea for a net
Still others are made of candied yams
sweetened with teaspoons of blueberry jam
But some are made of thorns and thistles
that jolt and make you bristle
While others are made of barbed wire
that cut deeply and make you tire
Some are nightmares which can be quite a scare
And can intensify your fears
Here's hoping your sleep is serene and complete
And that all your dreams are sweet