Another hallowed arrow from his quivers
One of cricket’s greatest shiver givers
Coursing down your spine like rivers
Fine line..never dithers as slivers
Of adversaries hopes on the ropes..withers
Tipples tickle our livers
The latest tropes of how
Somehow…anyhow won’t kowtow
Postman Pat delivers
Matinee idol looks tease
Record books hooks please
Finds batters crannies &
Nooks with such ease
Impeccable length…metronomic
Chin music chagrin
Such strength..astronomic
Gift of getting the ball to lift
Chronic bounce…hedonic
With his swag bag of quicks tricks
Name on the adored hall of fame
Lords boards with six..another Cummins elite fix
Beat Bob Willis’s record tome of the best
Test figures for a captain at cricket’s home..
Yep..yet another done like a kipper
By this chipper ripper skipper
Who’s not found wanting
His chiselled jaw..up there for sure
With the mean hardcore
Ponting or Waugh
As the best Test baggie green
Top draw Captain (not woke...just a better bloke) seen on screen
Or that’s maybe ever been
As Autumn idles
A laziness caresses the moon
Resting on a soft cloud bed
Her shadow taunting the night
In a nocturnal game of hide and seek
A soft aroma rises
From freshly trodden leaf beds
A chatter of empty branches
Counts a metronomic rhythm
A feathered dance troupe performs
Taking a final bow
Beckoned by a distant sun
Urged on by a chill wind
Take flight my children
Heed well the scents of nature
Follow the wisdom of your soul
As Autumn idles
A laziness caresses the moon
Resting on a soft cloud bed
Her shadow taunting the night
In a nocturnal game of hide and seek
A soft aroma rises
From freshly trodden leaf beds
A chatter of empty branches
Counts a metronomic rhythm
A feathered dance troupe performs
Taking a final bow
Beckoned by a distant sun
Urged on by a chill wind
Take flight my children
Heed well the scents of nature
Follow the wisdom of your soul
Beware of Time
She won't love what came before
Time loves but Itself
A true Narcissist
She won't turn her head for you
Although outstretched
Her arms won't point out the next bend
Arrow hands never to embrace
Methodically she schemes
In metronomic steps
Only up towards Babel
To reach the Gods who Thunder
To become One Herself
Time won't wait for you
Time cares not for you
To the end of Itself
Time wants to be revered
Don't make time for Time
She won't reminisce
Somehow it seems the poems do not pass muster
The words a swirling dance that will not cluster
They deem themselves alone to be the fulcrum
That lets the lever lift them from the hum-drum
And midst the overflowing verse – coerce
The pen to change its ever-destined course
And drop a not so nearly rhyming line
Though Shakespeare dropped one in from time to time
Thus, do I sit like Howdy’s Mister Bluster
Grumbling in metronomic fluster
Tapping out the pentagrams iambic
Trembling beneath my use-less panic
Thus do I shout: “Damn Shakespeare’s sonnet”
Were I a dog I think I’d pee upon it
Written: April 08, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morphing into an appealing landscape,
gathered around a table embrace.
In the connection of family mindscape.
We find sanctuary in this precious place.
It engulfs you and completes its task,
a ghostly husk that is waxy and pale.
Dreams that last, a disturbing mask.
A table decorated with a phantom tale
Heirloom, the pink hearts flap,
In rhythm, they dance a poetic trap.
A heart, still beating, with metronomic grace,
twitching forks, dancing in the space.
Melodies in the air, a symphony's prism.
Their metallic bodies, alive with grace,
In utopian harmony, they find their place.
Never shall your children hear such schism
In whispers gentle and voices clear,
a secret kept, forever near,
Hidden in the depths, so dear.
Trusting even amid fear.
Upon the wall
It hangs
counting
metronomic moments
lost
to time
John G. Lawless
©9/24/2022
above the metronomic constant dripping of a tap
and the deep and heavy ticking of an old grandfather clock
sounds seeped through a window where the night air found a gap:
a cough!
- then silence.
..then a key inside a lock.
Riding the rhythms of rolling wheels
Driving rusty rock desert miles
Purring pistons pumping power
To my mottled muddy jade jeep
A symphony sprung in my head
Dawning with dainty din of drums
Paving a path for piccolos
And rich rumblings of black bassoons.
Strings sent soaring counterpoint smoke
Playing with a glory sublime
In flawless metronomic time
Mozart tears of joy would have shed.
Music was a top choice grand cru
But when I had to stop for gas
And gulp soothing bubbly soda
My sweet symphony flew away.
Fermented fine without any skills
My heady brew I can't renew.
She watched him pluck the strings.
His fingers up and down the frets
of her spine,
pulling out notes and moans
from deep within the cavity
of her hollowed-out chest.
Apollo’s golden lyre lulling the muses
beyond their sensibilities.
Grooves of passion causing a riff
and changing his tune.
Needing space like air.
The Pied Piper’s pitch filling
the acoustics in the room.
The arpeggio scaffolding and bending,
burning the bridge and lacing
the capo around her neck,
causing her to fall flat.
Vibrato measured
in octaves and picked over.
Metronomic dissonance clashing
through their progression
Until the blue notes scaled her back
into a solo improvisation.
A Waking Dream
She wasn’t perfect
none of us are
her face was lined with
experience and comfort
crows feet at her eyes
laugh lines in her smile
dark hair flecked with grey
pulled into a loose ponytail
walking with back straight
metronomic hips in motion
calves flexing with each step
there was an aura about her
that caught my fancy
slowing at a bistro doorway
smiling at the images
I had just experienced and
glad there were women on
the planet to make it a reality
I couldn’t help but stare
at her as she read a menu
posted in the window
shifting her stance as she read
she put one hand on her hip
the way some women do
four fingers pointing back
thumb out so incredibly sensual
then a tall guy put his arms
around her waist and she
turned into his kiss immediately
I walked away slowly
smiling at my waking dream...
Studying the studying
staring back - heavy shiney black
on the coffin road - I stood in the gods
an imposing carrion crow perched
Johnny Cash of fauna
Studying the studying
piercing dark inquisitive eyes
scanning for a body - to beak hack
Leaving - his panoramic but dead
observation tree, higher than me
the white thickly splattered
heavy branch reverberates -
a silent metronomic
Catching thermals or up draughts
vulturing round and rising
his energy conservation guarantee
Pin point eyesight for miles
cleaning catchment of two valleys
funeral bell caw caw caw fades
into feathered undertaker silence
Smelly mutton, frogs, afterbirth
and cold lamb, traditional tallies
contemporary road fill habit
rat hedgehog squirrel - rabbit
There Is A Darkness
there is a darkness
stalks us all
denials damsel
in distress
seeking refuge
in feigned faith
blanketed
in folds
of fate.
There is a darkness
seeking light
within the crease
of creeping night
devoid
of metronomic pace
subsisting on
discarded grace.
There is a darkness
humankind
looming over
peace
nothing
learned
nothing
to teach
John G. Lawless
©2/4/2018
May I Dance With You
They slide along the streets
waltzing, lost wanderers
safeguarded in the cloak
of anonymity’s invisibility.
Their eyes convey the darkness
of a night that lingers, holds
dawn’s edge of light at bay.
Cold moon of bloodied trees
traces their metronomic steps
gliding in hallucinations hall
cavorting with vague apparitions
seeking solace in the offering
of a tarnished evening,
camaraderie in a crowd
of vagrant voices.
Partners – unfamiliar with the steps -
feet - lost in joy’s rustling leaves -
gliding along lonely streets.
10/16/2016
I cannot stand poetic forms
I like them less than winter storms
they force me into ancient norms
of rhyming words in angry swarms
for I was frightened by Haiku
in darkened rooms -- I cried --- boo hoo.
Then came the metronomic tick
sez I: “what is this evil trick?”
now I must measure every rhyme
with tapping stick of metered time
I cannot…. will not, …..won’t ….I say
be forced inside the lines…..to stay.
For I shall dance….the poet’s dance
of shaggy hair….. of tattered pants
dance with those….. in tie and tails
rap with those….. released from jails
free demon words from fear’s cold cell
sing hymns resounding angels bell.
My crayons stray outside the lines
my words creation redefines
I am free to choose my words
soothing balm or cutting swords
to calm the hearts of troubled souls
as shovels digging dying’s holes.
And yet the verse is never Free
for it remains a part of me
wandering a poets hell
secrets it has yet to tell.
5/12/2016
submitted to – Get Your Dr. Seuss On – Poetry Contest
sponsor – The Seeker
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