Matrons Poems | Examples

Gasp-ell of death'

If your'e going to preach it brother.? Hit-em with the Gospel
For its like no other; Spell' Speak of mercy..And  the flames of hell' and ring out the message like a ten ton bell.' Tell the truth
'The world is round' like Isaiah shouted.' He really went to
Town.' Also the village for that to matters.' No doubt giving
The matrons a feast of natters.' Yes tell of the King! With a
Sceptre of iron.' Ruler of Nations the one so much better,' by
Leaps and leauges.' Yet a donkey His steed! the pharisees bane.' He allowed them to keep their greeds.' Yes preach of
Life and tbe riches of God.' To all those destined to go under
The sod.' Some clerics may repent.?To turn away? from the
Gasp-ell of death they gasp out today.' Nothing is new as
Solomon put.' Just whitewashed tombs on top thats it.' The
Bones of this matter.' Wont be raised at all.' Who have gasp-ed
Out the message of slavery and thrall.' Its hotter than this
Poem.'The place they must go.' If you don't want to join them 'just let Jesus know.'

The Bygones

Eroding names on long-faced headstones,
a small graveyard marooned on a patch of past;
long rooted and confined while beside it
2022 blares unseeing past the forgotten lot.

An old-fangled America right there
forgotten crypts
tucked between gas station and strip mall,
a small deposit of once horse-drawn bones
amid a modern thoroughfare.

A haze of traffic emissions half-hides the secreted,
the tucked away,
yet, there are whispers on mossy mounds,
mouthless echoes of forked-over farmers,
matrons of dispersed parishes,
tanners wrapped in musty mule skins.

An olden daze leans toward us,
tilts into the present, slides sideways into
a ‘Wendy's’ car-park.

Voices sweat into the skin of a biker filling his tank;
beneath his dew rag they wetly whisper.
He shudders in the warm sunlight,
thinks about a lime phosphate soda
long defunct.

A cloudy memory follows a teenager
toward a newly opened store,
but the new won’t thrive long.

Nothing around here survives
longer than the bygones.

The Donkeys

The Blackpool donkeys have given up:
they have boarded passenger jets -
to be emotional support animals.

Once they used to plod from Blackpool pier
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying kids and plump matrons.

In a dull daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
plodding until exhausted.

Now the donkeys have retired,
when not flying
they surfboard on Hawaiian waves.
their Bermuda shorts billow,
tailored as they are for four-legs.

Those that once rode them
on that uncultured British beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
and hardly now ever see a donkey,

but if they do
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobbly donkey spine
roughly slapping their
tender time-worn *******’s.

In Favor of Women

What i love
further in this life,
It's woman...
woman of any
creed, race and color...:
female,
femme.
female...
long hair
firm ideas.
woman is formidable
pure mother,
sweet girl,
beast, feline that
attacks and defends,
  as the panther in the vision
male...
Always present
always companion.
is occasionally fragile,
other times
she is adrenaline...
night female
fiesta girl... fatal
or simple
homemade...
Several types exist,
quiet homes,
bossy matrons,
family matriarchs,
mounted amazons
everything is wonderful...
other different types
are models that appear,
are pin up hanging,
women displayed...
Arrogant socialites,
dazzled
nouveau riche, and others
fighters...Joana Dàrc
of life...
the poor women,
the excluded poor,
no vote, no dowry
no right...
Awkwardly or not awkwardly
there is no other way...
want it or not
angry, not angry,
no dispute and no fight,
the woman is all nice
is the best in this life...!

Women

You are the great dame who gives to human ,a birth,
and seems like representative of god on Earth.

Womens you are the memoriable god gift,
knowing your duty well ,you properly lift.

Matrons you are the synonym of the word kind,
thought world without women is really like a blind.

Thankful to god for such great dame creation,
i think all women's are the nominee of appreciation.

The Bygones

Eroding names 
on long-faced headstones.
Graves marooned
in a patch of the past
while 2019 blares unseeing
around the forgotten lot.

An old-fangled America
tucked between gas station and strip mall,
a small deposit 
of once horse-drawn bones.

A haze of traffic emissions
half-hides the secreted,
the tucked away, the half seen,
 
yet,
 there are whispers on mossy mounds,
mouth-lost echoes
of forked-over farmers,
matrons of dispersed parishes,
tanners still reeking of 
raw mule skins

An olden daze leans toward us,
tilts into our future,
slides discreetly sideways 'round
a ‘Wendy's’ car-park.

A biker filling his tank;
beneath his dew rag.
voices sweat into his skin,
he shudders in the warm sunlight,
thinks about a cold soda long defunct.

A cloudy memory follows a teenager,
toward a newly opened store,
but it won’t live long.

Nothing around here survives
longer than the bygones.

Abandoned and Forgotten

Furious females take to the streets, shouting
   Staid matrons join them, newly doubting

Angry young males overturn cars, defiant
   Older men surrender their values, and riot

Lawyerly senators attack each other, at virtual war
   As the issues that really matter, go uncared for

Civility is abandoned, all but forgotten
   A nation's lifeblood tainted, utterly rotten

Sorrow O'Er Youth and Young Love Lost

When I look on my life that's now half-spent,
     I sigh the loss of youth that's forever past,
wishing myself better Fortune's consent,
     love, friends, and wealth with naught to lose or waste, 

but for the mean expense of young love lost;
     despising this, I oft' bemoan the loss
of vestal company's first time the most;
     for matrons offend like mouldering moss,

which, like Time's sure, inexorable march,
     destroys the juvenescence of life's spring
year by year till extinguishing Youth's torch,
     a dead flame for which I am most desiring.

If I could live and love anew once more,
I'd not err this time: and lay a rude whore.

The Blast of a Cast

The blast of a cast aghast with fuss on a blunderbuss
Flew and grew a crew who rued chances and stances to discuss
Differences in conciliation conferences that coerced cooperation
Amplified by the serenity and dignity delegates drew from desperation.  
 
The blast of a cast aghast with fuss on a boss bus
Flew and grew a crew who chimed chances and stances to fight fuss
Concealed in deals and peals of laughter undaunted daughters dismissed
When matrimony matrons measured erasures of kisses missed.

The blast of a cast aghast with bling on strings
Flew and brewed a concoction whose cadence retrieved riveted rings
When hearts in reward ramparts opted for votes and pots of conciliation
Empowered to drown doubts among strategy scouts who touted reconciliation.

The blast of a cast aghast with rum on conundrum drums
Flew and brewed a libation that lifted spirits among tankard tantrums
Tempered among embers in September to remember responsibilities
Assumed under sums and plums plucked, packed and tucked among domestic duties.

Rome Fairest Home

Rome is Glory

         Fair Republic

         Loyal Citizens

         Manifest Might 

Rome is Home

         Chaste Matrons

         Fair Maidens

         Adorning Hearth

Rome is Blooming

         Fertile Arbors

         Fair Orchards

         Purple Vineyards

Rome is Divine

         Godly Temples

         Jupiter’s Pearl

         On Seven Hills





 Work released into public domain

Art of Chatter--Grook

Matrons decked in thick jewelry
who find pleasure in soft chuckles,
exploring the art of rumor
long their hours... fulfilled or empty?


Grook Contest for Silent One
2/15/2016

Two Mayflower Matrons-Poem 7

They are the last ones by the peaceful shore
under the gloomy twilight darkening tones;
one holds a seashell in her cupped hand,
a delight for two Mayflower matrons.
Her fingers brush off all grains of sand;
such a revelation astounds even more.

Perhaps in Plymouth they never saw 
a similar one, being far from any beach;
the curiosity they display is very raw,
nothing ahead of them is out of reach.   

Taking a stroll before sunset is utter joy
while their soul search for inner serenity,
but besides stilness there is another reason,
to admire the awesome works of creation.
    
They will take this gorgeous seashell home,
put it on a window sill next to an Amish stone   
whiter than a grand cathedral's round dome; 
no match for the ocean's waves rolling ashore.

The Old Songs Play Themselves

Some heard as his mother 
stood over ironing in the 1947
summer of Hatboro, Pa.. 
Some of the songs
in black and white
Saturday evening television circles. 
Some later, songs of folksy pretension.  
The songs persist 
anchors of memory, 
like the crystaline 
seeds of clouds, 
matrons of tribes.

Pollinators Attend Rose Feast

Coiffed petals glad tidings tell
Vintage red cup raised to the sun
Whose heat mellows hearth's veil
Enticing host signals feast hath begun
Aromatic vial with sweet scents stew
Hypnotizing fumes already suitors cue
Maitre d' winged banqueters will review
Whizzing minstrels waft toward rendezvous
Arriving guests with sweet libations do woo
Neon-draped Bumble bees enter flickering buzzing strobes
Metallic Green bees browse corridor; each succulent scent probes
Ebony-caped, Wasp beetle antenna fondles light, delicate lobes
Orange, sequined Monarch butterflies prate in paper machete robes
Salivating, virile male patrons imbibe freely from nectar fount
Nubile, female matrons nibble heartier fair;  pollen from stamen mount

9 Kisses In the Library Contest of 9

9 KISSES IN THE LIBRARY

        First kiss meandered through Sci Fi by the purple 
        wall. The tender second kiss arrived around the bend.
        mumbling 3rd and 4th excuses as she frog jumped 
        twin matrons chatting with their dead and absent friends.
        Sweet and slow-- the next three left her breathless-- 
        Zinged and knocked her senseless to her bony knees.
        She braced herself--for just two more--oh, please--
        At 9pm she's startled by a subtle shoulder tap,
        Bodice ripper pages shuddered with a final schoolgirl snap.

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