Many moms make a mishmash of marshmallow melon month of rites
Marmie and Magnus mined minx’s minestrone meatball mites
Magnificent Marmaduke mollycoddles minute rice making mush.
Merry majestic Mallificent minced magnetic mimosas in a rush.
Mushroom men marbled Marley’s meatballs mooing with madness.
Muddobber’s melancholy miniscule mites were wooing with sadness.
Magnificence of Manny’s marsh mediates in miniscule rites of badness.
Ma makse a mishmash of marshmallow melons, and it is pure rad-ness.
The Untold Story
The flashing headlights intensely illuminated the gloomy faces of the sweetgum tree
The tears fell from the sky like God's Shower , constant and cleansing
The troubled night shrouded the steady strolling figures like an unfulfilled corpse
The Killer parked his hesitant vehicle upon the eroded curbside
The indifferent priest discharged his shallow yet nessacery words upon the silhouetted congregation
"We are gathered today to mourn the death of Linda Whittington..."
The words were unclear due to the remorseful rain
Buffering the consolation like a badly tuned radio
Suddenly, an irrelevant relative broke out :
"She didn't deserve to die ...a moment of silence please"
The Killer smirked to himself
As the theatrical tears of distant relatives who arrived for the free food Conjoined with the Shower droplets
Headed towards the drainage
The Killer picked up a pair of sodden dandelions from the moist ground
And heard, staggeringly clearly , through the rain
"Thank you Magnus"
Magnus placed the now blood-stained
dandelions in the grave
And allowed himself to be encapsulated by the determined Darkness
~Whoever
Blasts of Dorcas for what she’d done
And for thinking that she had won:
For being the cause of what Ray did
And for treating him like a kid.
Off a scene, Magnus had thrice slid
To be of Dorcas’ presence rid
His flat rejection of her hid,
His firm plans now: to waste The Seed
And get lost like a child’s bead
The clumsiest of Quick Farewell bid
While leaving not halt at a mid
Magnus’ way he’d find without grid,
Happy to have dared this one deed
Purposing Dorcas good riddance
And keeping at a good distance.
Music makes our spirit rejoice in sonorous numbers for sure,
a true proposition, lucid and irresistible to endure.
Another dress in destinies wardrobe confined,
inordinate mysteries of creation what cannot be denied.
Vapors of memories through so many cultures perceived,
plunging into state of fervent pleasure by the beat conceived.
Transparent flow and move to the instant open of musical eternity,
active texture of melodies with certainty.
It opens the substance of the sound of fabulous antiquity,
accepting the resonance of supreme formidable gravity.
Recreating worlds in worlds in fragile states,
communicating with the invisible by joy declared.
Timeless moments at the threshold of beatitude,
sensuous mental recaptured art in debt of gratitude.
Dancing circles of light proceeding from heart of the self release,
when the light turns from silver to gold as sense of deepening peace.
The peace that surpasses all understanding with the pulse of energy,
where in the center all opposites reconcile and genius is the key.
Your face
simply
masterpiece...
Your amazing
eyes
pure
dazzling !
These eyes
so stripped on
this colorless face,
make all difference.
It is all beauty
all enduring and lasting
magnus opus
painting... !
I am the axiomatic master of my fate; the King of Maxim state.
I sit on a throne of axions, maintaining discrete time symmetry to keep my line in place.
With ordained and sovereign rule, I rise to the dominion of my life’s decisions; even when they do not translate to my intentions.
Blazon insignias are inscribed by my position.
Posed by social status and affluence, alongside it a physical constitution.
Each of us having idiosyncrasies by means of paradox.
As if to say I'm right handed and made of left handed particles, with momentum opposite to intrinsic spin.
By what parity could this arise?
Alas a vast enigma, derived by the perceptions of body soul and mind.
At ease and at odds to forego and prevail.
In concert of my peers, I will unsheathe the Magnus Opus and uncover the vale.
The ignorance of our own empowerment that I overtly forswear, and so goes on the allegorical tale.
It’s given narrative defeated, torn to tatters by The Sword of Gale.
You're standing on a window ledge
on the 50th floor of your building.
It's Valentine's Day in Manhattan,
clouds cruising, sun everywhere,
a nice breeze tossing your hair,
the taste of that woman always there.
Do you wonder what happens after
you jump or do you simply not care?
Does God meet you half way down
and say "What a foolish thing to do."
Or does Satan appear and shout
"Here's the Magnus Doofus of my day."
Do you begin to wonder when
you're a foot above the asphalt
whether you'll hear the splat or
do you jump and simply not care?
Donal Mahoney
In a boat
Rowing around the moat
Of my family’s latest castle
The one with towers and a flag with a tassel
And it really seems to me a lot of hassle
That the drawbridge is up and not down
The water’s very brown
I could drown
* based on Prince Magnus of Sweden, who nearly drowned during the construction of the castle drawbridge (another time, he allegedly leapt into the moat believing he saw a mermaid).
18th May, Jack Horne for Nette’s Trois par Huit a Bridge contest
Magnus can’t run wild
since he bolts
once given liberty
of tether.
I identify with his struggle
as he pulls with vigor
to center the fray
in frolic
only to get denied
with a plaintive yank
at the limit of
influence,
placated and sequestered
in a panting pen
without regard for
dignity.
As I unclasp his
durable chain,
he licks my face
then jets off.
one diminutive flame
wields sway over shadows surrounding
embers at birth, embers at death
flickering wildly between
there are some of whom it is clear
walk the earth as spawns of fire
an eternal blaze the blood of their vein
brandishing the sword of their brethren
adored are they, abhorred are they
and yet dishonored are they never
risen up like the harvest moon
tasting sweetest wine upon their lips
one diminutive flame
wading gently into night's black clutch
embers at birth, embers at death
untouchable, if but only for a moment
Fugax praeter tardisanum,
Cum omnia memento temporis,
Pecunia et potestas,
Famae et gloria,
Illea isti istae ista vero illud magnus?
Que de illea minorus reis,
Un candlae in illea tenebrae,
Un beate catalus ad tuus pedos,
Un bracchium undeque tuus umerous,
Un subrisus in tuus flos amicus faceies?
Ubi voluntas nos be sine ea?
Que de a lodiscis in illea frigoris?
Que de id?
Apud illes lapis.
(Fleeting but slow,
With everything in the moment,
Money and power,
Fame and glory,
Are they really that important?
What about the little things,
A candle in the dark,
A happy puppy at your feet,
An arm around your shoulders,
A smile on your best friends face?
Where would we be without those?
What about a blanket in the cold?
What about it?
Apud illes lapis.)
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