My love for you is Interstate 93:
not beautiful, but there for all to see.
How summarise your worth in my affection?
Isabella Stewart Gardner’s louche collection.
Though dowdy, your hair to me is dear,
as is the rainworn house of Paul Revere.
I long to take you for my wedded spouse,
like wanting chowder (Union Oyster House).
To win you, I’d cross infinite frontiers,
just as I cross the Common (beers in ‘Cheers’).
My heart accepts you as its oligarch,
like Jarren Duran rules at Fenway Park.
He threaded a hand through her long blonde hair
She shifted from one foot to stand entranced
Their eyes locked together, a constant stare
Grey/green eyes, his sensuous lips enticed
Everything changed within, soul sacrificed
As she pressed both hands to her cheeks
Could such a love develop within weeks
Her heart and mind in a constant turmoil
Smiling, a knowing louche grinning he leaks
Burst bubble, releasing doubt to uncoil
Date 23/9/20
Dizain Contest
Sponsor Emile Pinet
I sense a feel of panic in the air
As if the Ark is not quite waterproof
I wonder if we’d welcome Tony Blair
To the poor this life was rarely fair
But now it seems unreal, is it a spoof?
I sense a piece of Putin in the air
I am looking in the mirror at my hair
It looks like Boris Johnson’s but more louche
I wonder if we’d dye old Tony Blair’s
The Russian wolf is licking his rich fur
He’s happy Britain’s weakened with fake truth
I feel a sense of monsters near, oh dear.
Putin won his Trump with that strange hair
Now it’s cyber warfare on the hoof
Will he soon take Leave from Tony Blair?
The Russians in Crimea are still there
The Ukraine weeps because we did not care
I sense a feel of Russia in the air
I wonder if they’ll fragment us and tea
Something is going wrong
With me or others
But for sure…..effects are on me
You also have to jump obstacles
And have to learn lessons
But gradually know
I am only a minx
Still life is taking me as minion
In the time being of last days
I had a louche
My closer ones announced me jinx
Still I am happy
Cause I know life throws
Situations once in a life
If we learned the lesson
In this rollercoaster of life
I am gonna enjoy every bump
Rather than screaming
I got that something is wrong
With others not me
Sometimes life is unfair
We are stuck with what happens to us
Our heart and mind captures our worst and best moments
and all this they call memory
Why the hell it was created is beyond me
but how it can be ended is on my agenda
Sometimes i sit and think
When will all this end?
I have had in my mind what memory is
and decided its the synthesis to history repetition
When will all this end
Bitter-sweet memories leading to an everlasting series of heart storm
Same scenario, different characters
I seem to play the lead role in this absurd movie
My naive ways are to blame
My fickleness a trigger to this insanity
Feelings that need clarity to be expressed
Fear of the unknown to be exact
Leaving all that is ablaze to burn inside
Yet it seems I am consumed outside-in
but fate proves to be a louche I cannot shake off
So as I am suffering in this absurdity
Unlike before I am ready to crash for I have yet again suffered the fall
HERO WITH NO MEDAL
Could be you or me fallen out of the net.
Just an old guy, down and out -
Park bench newspaper-blanket :
Drop a coin in his cup as I walk about.
Never was any great hero - high-flown
Lawyer,actor, preacher, top of the championship.
Had a wife and two kids now grown -
Now all gone - end of the line, end of the trip.
Bad luck in his small shop business:
Lost everything. Lost everyone. Not sorry.
What was it all about? The hurry,the mess,
The bustle, the scrimping, the worry?
Could’ve been a drunk, a louche trying
His luck as a gambler, a no-good-Charlie.
They end up just as easiy lying
On a park bench, but enjoyed the trip. See?
His only possession is integrity.
He faced his problems head-on, solo.
Didn’t win, went down fighting his enemy.
That’s called being a hero.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . .
Written by Sydney Peck
Entered in Janette Fisher's Contest Holding out for a Hero
HERO WITHOUT MEDAL
Could be you or me
Just an old guy, down and out
Park bench newspaper blanket
Drop a coin in his cup as I pass.
Never was any great hero
Lawyer,actor, statesman, preacher, champion
Had a wife and two kids now grown -
Now all gone - end of the line, end of the trip
Bad luck in his small shop business
Lost everything. Lost everyone.
What was it all about? The hurry
The bustle, the scrimping, the worry?
Could’ve been a drunk, a louche,
A gambler, a no-good-Charlie -
They end up just as easiy on
A park bench, but enjoyed the trip.
His only possession is integrity
He faced the problems head-on
Didn’t win, went down fighting,
That’s called being a hero.
Murderer.
You killed not only pigs, but also reason;
you killed not only others, but also yourself.
You started like the others;
just as accustomed to society,
and just as severed from it.
You didn’t know what to do,
just like the rest of them,
but you felt it best to organize.
Organization was the first light,
but then you started slipping,
falling into your own louche misery,
dragging the others with you.
Painting your face with blood,
you stole the fire, which you envied,
at the cost of your gang’s sanity.
Paranoia set in, as you knew it would,
and being the leader, you had to capitalize,
utilize, and set their eyes on the Beast.
The Beast wasn’t real; it had no real force,
except for the force you gave it;
it held no metaphysical power itself,
yet you held its power over their heads,
making them cower with fear,
and fearfully respect you as a god.
Fear mongering was your tool,
food was your net,
and you trapped them with nothing else
than promises of a better plan.
You destroyed not only their hope,
but also your own chance for salvation.
Murderer.
As the essenes of
Eden play lovely
quartets, a brief
interlude o' mine.
Oh. . . boisterous meadows
of entrancing enthralls
so fine.
As angels hearken
the harmonies of
our precious St. Uriel,
defiant.
The whimsy's of
bitter attempts
for lovely laughing
girls, made bitter
pantomime.
Oh, the Louche,
the heavenly Louche.
Its embrace
of vigorous
nostalgias
with little excuse.
So sorry,
so sorry,
here we are
oh mighty Zeus.
Falling from grace,
as pale a ghost
as the infinite
truth.
Oh! The Louche,
the heavenly Louche.
Keeper of secrets,
ours and yours,
together we're found. . .
frequenting ,
the inviting,
narcotics lounge.
A testimony of
love, why the essence
of St. Gabrielle,
you are,
you are.
As St. Uriel played
a ballad so fine,
I found myself
begging for more
amphetamine!
The Louche,
the heavenly Louche.
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