The consequences known, foretold for years,
a crushing blow would break the country’s back,
eclipsing the most pessimistic fears,
a devastating night of blackest black…
The zealots would be working ‘round the clock
to mete out punishment to those opposed,
while sheeple, noses pressed to glass, just gawked
’neath red bills lest their faces be exposed.
Impossible as it might seem to most,
the world did spin much like the day before,
though once the quakes were dampened on the coasts,
it tilted to the right a little more.
Go hug your neighbor, whether loss or win;
In four short years, we do it all again!
“So many things we know as true...
are redefined in future's view.”
-by Poet
What's happened to our measurement of time?
When I was young, a Summer was sublime.
From end of Spring to the first day of Fall-
that space of time seemed epic, never small.
Our clocks and calendars compute time well-
the way they've always done, to surely tell
the days and months we spend mete out the same;
but now, perhaps has altered its old game.
Oh, time has changed- for young and old now say
it's passing quicker in a puzzled way.
One week, a month, a year- advances fast;
presents an altered value from the past.
Perhaps time is a mystery unknown;
not bounded by our measurements alone.
Let this world mete out to thee unjust blame.
To me, thy fairest eyes shall ever shine,
Let tongues parrot what so eyes at fault frame,
Thy praise alone shall reach keen ears of mine.
Let humble thou of thyself speak modest,
Me, knowing thee well, shall always exhort
Thee to hoist whatever be the fairest,
Modesty never plays a partial sport.
It’s rare still if one in love’s worldly-wise,
My views when weighed by love, are purified
By fire of truth can never once be lies,
An if my faith in love’s fairly applied,
I know, as well as thou, ye love me more
For who I’m than all that I said afore.
_____________________________________
Sonnet |11.05.2024| love, romance
They were butchered in Bucha
Victims of unprovoked aggression
Wrapped in body bags of wickedness
Like chicken preserved in the cold room
What a world of brutality
What an act of bestiality
What a display of man’s inhumanity
It is man’s basest depravity
Let the world rise against this insanity
And bring the blood thirsty scoundrels
To the path of accountability
The world is watching
The God of the defenseless is taking stock
To mete out punishment
To perpetrators of crimes of war
It's meet that we met
that we met over meat
at the Met
where they mete out the meat
~ s'Howie Met
An Orwellian Conception
As long as they see what you assume they see, and they agree,
then, that’ll be the reality we’ll assume you want to live in.
If this makes sense, then be at peace among friends.
You can sleep innocently; no-one will mete out punishment!
The past can’t be erased, but we can mitigate the consequences.
There'll be no misunderstanding unless you fail to define yourself,
without definition, we’d disagree and that would be unfortunate;
Co-operate so others will live, deep sleep is wonderful.
We (your brothers and sisters) are watching everywhere you tread
(There is no umbrella of protection for a protagonist).
Our duty and purpose is to ensure survival of our genes;
So follow the rules and be rewarded with peaceful sleep.
“I am a sojourner pilgrimaging in a foreign land;
When my name is drawn, I will step aside and let others go on.”
Put on your soft mittens as you mete out punches
The stench of despair has sent the flies flying
As wretched voices die in the agony of the trenches,
Smoke, fire, death, silence, blood slowly crying.
Don't let those tears disappear without telling
Of how they came to be. From aching gland burning,
From swollen heart entrapped dreaming of belling
Of events that cause in all for justice a yearning
Don't let the fires chew up the browning pages
Where once sordid tales told the willing student
Of what would come this way, or that way, the wages
Of right, wrong; the way of the vile, of the prudent
Telling of wretched voices dying in the trenches,
Of smoke, fire, and of blood slowly crying.
Don't let memory die as they split us into tranches
To silence half, then lead both halves into trenches.
(c) nyonglema
A Tom Wright opinion
(Do the crime, do the time)
11-14-2019
White collar crime,
such as “Varsity Blues.”
Perp’s haven’t spent a day,
in a poor man’s shoes.
Generally a judge admonishes,
with a slap on the wrist.
The Rich & Famous crimes,
will be nearly dismissed.
Oh, a judge will mete out something,
due to public outcry.
Causing much head scratching,
not understanding why?
Just because a person lives,
higher up on the stalk.
Doesn’t mean they’re entitled,
to a free pass, and walk.
Villanelle : Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
Pull Pound down tear veil off event horizon holes
All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre
Invent a machine feed it Homeric fire
No enjambement perfect rhyme rhythm metre folds
Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
Whoever tops the charts which poem's ire
Shines through Apollo's defiant mien Zeus scolds
All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre
Ne'er short the naive champion of the ephemère
Paid up club member the mutual backscratcher roles
Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
Machine that thinks can it rasa taste inspire
Mete out criteria merit sound sense enfolds
All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre
Art of artifice best profits business liar
Poets at the stakes burn to free the poems' souls
Should one reorder genuine vers libre entire
All to make for one's own sacre the pur sang lyre
© T. Wignesan - Paris, December 15, 2018
Rejoice not when her financial muscle dwindles
Gout her feet and hand joints assails
A kleptomaniac her little cash swindles
The love of her life from away sails
Rendering her social, financial and metabolic status repulsive
When in your considered view she reeks of misery
Driving your judgment and assessment compulsive
For a victim of usury projecting an appearance so dreary
Her bearing, demeanour and gait
Paint an apologetic figure
Teeming with an imaginary threat
That stands no chance in the rigour
Laughing at debacles the fallen
Surf at church, at home, at work, at social functions
Where accusing fingers swollen
With hubris mete out sanctions
According to gang and clique standards
Demanding ostracization and demonization
At the earliest excuse gang bards
Demand to promote the most evil stigmatization
Despite a river of tears
She pours from her swollen eyes
Battling genuine fears
In the midst of heinous packs of lies
She strives to fight though her stamina at the lowest ebb
Staggers
As she navigates for several hours the web
In search of elusive answers, endeavouring from her aching back to withdraw barbs of daggers.
I stand awed by the greatness of your soul;
that you who are indeed true nobility
would stoop into the mire to such as me
to lift me, as you have, and backward roll
the heavy weight of sorrow's bitter toll.
Ah, love, I am not worthy, not of thee;
I know naught of your generosity.
I long content to mete out but the dole.
I pray you of my worth do not despair,
for silver by a pearl does richer grow;
and one who knew for long your touch, your care,
who lay as instrument beneath your bow,
would somehow grow more pure, more kind, more fair.
Ah, love! 'T is this, your love, I wish to show.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
Rondel Pain
Poetry can inflict pain like a sharp rondel dagger,
Encircling each word with bigoted judgments on hand.
Down a spiral staircase a poet’s thoughts may stagger.
Semi-circular fashioned, ideas traverse memories’ span.
Hysterical, political…subject does not matter.
Orderliness and cleverness mete out the author’s plan.
Poetry can inflict pain like a sharp rondel dagger,
Encircling each word with bigoted judgments on hand.
Banter securely bound, released by creative augur.
Can choose many words found in vocabulary land.
Lexis gone thrilling can kill the heart of an iceman –
Stop, please! Choose kindly words; become a pain free enabler.
Poetry can inflict pain like a sharp rondel dagger.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
June 2, 2010
Poetic form: Rondel (Rondel Rhyming Pattern: ABab, abAB, aabbA)
Thanks Jared for making us think!
LEARN MORE:
1. POETRY: http://www.ehow.com/how_16711_write-rondel.html
2. DAGGAR http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rondel_dagger
3. STAINED GLASS http://www.anythinginstainedglass.com/glass/Rondels/rondels.html
The message they mete out is strong
It's cooked at the top but smells wrong
This cursed wurst to eat
Slice of life that looks neat
A baloney treat for the throng
Through chaos flies the wyrm of time
Unyielding wingbeats do not pause
Untroubled by the pantomime
In constance serves no cause
Experience shall take its toll
And mete out pleasure with the pain
The fickle dice will always roll
And fall - but they will roll again
We husband all our self deceit
To ward away the truthful knives
Cutting clean and cutting neat
They slice into our lives
For what we are and what we do
Is decoration in the dark
Preventing truth from showing through
Reality is stark
A slender thread suspends all worlds
At fragile risk from every knife
There is no rhyme, sometimes it fails
The slender thread of life.
The wyrm of time flies silently
We think we hear it ticking by
And yet what we fear constantly
Is but another lie
For we observe, that is our role
We are the eyes, we are the mind
Perhaps we even are the soul
Reality is blind.
Fondly I list of unrecantable dreams,
Casualty to my nature, subdued as a tenderfoot.
As though only few suns had passed by me.
Unrevealed, I gaze apon my beloveds image,
Craving those neptune eyes to consign my soul to sanity.
Citrine silken you're crowned, with spirits keen and roused.
My willow gold finch, cast your attention to this wounded fledgling, unproved by
love.
Contested with waxing emotion and mocking mind.
Gentle leman, catalyst to my fury; prize me.
Unpent your fond caressess and mete out salve to my distress.
Vest years in this clownish but faithful lover.
Halcyon days with be my oath to you.
Prove me to your own desire, as uncanny mystery has possession already
to this weaker vessel.
My dearest one, inflamed and unabounded, I love thee.
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