"The Hoatzin is an extremely ancient and isolated type, and it has very properly been set aside in a separate Order by itself" - Quote by William Beebe.
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He is doodle of peacock -- Rufous crest
buff breast, loud call, weird stock
malodorous, clumsy walk
a link of the first bird flock
A Poem by Any Other Name…Should Smell Like a Poem
I ran out of time
to post my lines.
So, as I compose
I hold my nose.
Acrid alliteratives,
malodorous odes,
musty metaphors,
putrid pantoums,
reeking rhymes,
stinky stanzas,
smelly sagas,
obfuscate our olfactory organs.
So, as you read this poem
pour a stiff bourbon
and do your postmortem!
there was old man from Killean
who had taste for the potcheen
one day was so drunk
he stepped on a skunk
man, what a malodorous scene
Cloaked figure approached - voice of death it spoke;
“Your moments come,” manifests scythe from smoke.
Each step bereft your pulsates, dirge of a malodorous,
bittersweet symphonies requiem of the hollow - mahogany tree;
stutter/sputter/cough sanguinary pearls hell plead,
crescent sickle moonshines through the clouds this nightmare,
ray of moonlight beam ebbs your breast beat, snuff a candlelight - *goodnight*
Loose teeth and wispy hair
Shadows of memory’s cupboard bare
Mouth open, teeth gone missing
Malodorous breath rules out kissing
Didn’t I see him just three months ago
dancing a jig, cavorting to and fro
Blink twice, turn around ~
Too quickly our vitals shut down
some puffed up pieces
malodorous in thesis
require fresh breezes
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Still chuckling at Maurice Rigoler's The Art of the Short Poem.
To imitate: high form of flattery;
I flat in thy direction, matterly.
Who shall restore our land's dignity
When plundered by thieves
Who frolic about in the corridors of power
How shall we escape
From the lashes of history?
'How can the captives be delivered from the mighty'?
When engulfed by malodorous ambassadors
Who like rodents eat up the nation's trust.
How shall we escape
From the lashes of history?
I.
Ode the thrill of a tango
curled in clutches sleek
Elegance, a prerequisite
Add on a spun euphoria
Nimble is a turgid swoon!
Arms conduct to the aria
New skin, feels no tocsin
It's deeply in a you and i
Glazed, to the tightening
and a strangling organza
Necked into a suffocation
So go the tunnel deaths…
(1/27/2021: '02 Silverton MY; Alameda ...contest theme was murder in the tunnel)
II.
Ornately, I gild over my days a’ la fresco
Carefully, I wield molten gold, enigmatic
Elaborate must these life undulations be
as metallic sheen screens all insipid aura
New cantankerous crack? Just weld upon
and smooth the jagged with flowing flora
Now the feckless plaster sparkles golden
I spurn mawkish, like the silvered literati
glossing my craven, to caverns gleaming
Aurum weaves, in its narcissistic miasma
Nothing malodorous in self-love / loathin’
So imperious my bombastic art, it glazes!
(8.17.21 Redone at Willow Berm and DBW; theme was Craig’s Broken contest relating to Kintsugi)
I’d rather that my message was encapsulated in poetry
Instead of the hemming and hawing of the world
Seems a curse held under the breath, malodorous
You know what they’re thinking, as if they were pure
But the cauldron is bubbling with maleficent baubles
Just waiting to spit in your eye, which was dry…
10/29/2020
In the Dying Days of Summer
By David J Walker
Summer is not over
Until I say it over
Said Summer
Whose sweet Summer’s breath of June
Turned malodorous by the new
September moon
Laying siege to the advent
Of another equinox’
Perennial ascent
Vainly holding at bay
The changing of the seasons
Designated day
And calculated hour
Like old men reluctant to
Give up power
In the dying days
Of the reigning Summer
Fading away
Oh hi me hence to the laundromat
Bearing many a malodorous sock
As ofttimes a shepherd will boldly go
To the babbling brook where the clear waters flow
With a line of the wooliest beasties in tow
(Or sometimes merely formed up in a row)
Which comprise his caprinaerious flock
A football jersey, meant for sport
Relegated now to work
A dozen holed and yellowed shorts
Which in a dank corner lurk
Some threadbare jeans and faded tees
A brace of sweatpants lacking knees
And a woolen sweater, rife with fleas
I find I must transport
As manly heart anticipates the finding of a laundromat queen
Perhaps a Vida Guerra clone
Or Jennifer Lawrence all alone
Or Charlotte McKinney, sans cell phone*
But it doesn't seem to be my day, none such are here, I ween.
When it comes to laundromatic love it seems I am quite out of luck,
For the only lass who toils within
Sports globular frame and trebular chin
And more body hair than Rin Tin Tin
Much like Rosanne Barr with a silly grin, had her face impacted a truck.
*So she can't call for help.
What is a castle, but a vain attempt
to keep at bay a horror, dark, adverse,
that sniffs its way towards our flesh and bone?
It seeps through portals, leering with contempt
at battlements and barriers. The Curse
can find us, where we sleep, alone.
Rank weeds creep up, malodorous, unkempt:
a moaning wind weaves through them, to disperse
their evil seeds, unstoppable once sown.
Our crude carnality can fool us, tempt
a sense of something “out there”. This perverse
conception causes castles. Walls are thrown
around us. Though we toil on soil and stone,
the menace is internal – and our own.
Monomaniacal Mist
I am the finite of the infinite for the shadows bleed my presence
My habitual hunger is imminent and toxicant time is of the essence
Like the serpent swallowing sorrows slithering to sanitize your soul
In view of marauding morrows whispering winds wavering console
As a malodorous mist, I appear a demi-god of recyclable tangled time
A fallen angel fostering fear bringing forth a new pernicious paradigm
I come within denigrative dreams a diabolical debacle demanding end
A Svengali of silent screams an oblivious organism that will transcend
A jaded jackal conjured by the broken hearts withering to their demise
The grotesque genie that departs only to enslave before it’s downsize
I am the confiscating conqueror of night banishing your barren breath
Like a fallacious futile frostbite a feculent frozen fire ... for I am death.
April.03.2018
The Life of Death
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
Forgive them Father for their souls unclean
Hardened hearts that demonically demean
Camouflaged cathedrals a silent smokescreen
The towers of Babylon crumble as foreseen
Inauspicious idols obelisks of the obscene
Magniloquent mirages of man's made machine
Feeding feculent fires with gorging gasoline
Pampered populous with a Vatican vaccine
Malodorous men with a nervous nicotine
Religion waging wars like a lost libertine
Marauding morality in the menus cuisine
In man's madness a grotesque guillotine.
July.10.2017
JULY PREMIERE CONTEST
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Massive feet (are they clown's?)
marching along long long
motorway. Stepped knee deep
malodorous dog gift
mocking proboscis. Eyes
mega in disgust. Curse
macromania jinx.
Notes:
Macromania is a mania where things seem bigger than they really are.
Written 20th April 2017
Entry to "Pleiades M" contest
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