He’s seen all the hopefuls reach for the sky
walks down aisles and anniversaries, how they pass by, as he fills every crowd with a presence so empty, minces his words and questions each syllable.
He’ll attempt a joke like his life’s on the line
(he gets it wrong, most every time)
The air is so thick, unmoved by the silence that falls when speaks, like he’s crafting a science but with everything that he’s seen, and every person he’s been, how has he not perfected the act?
That mask never sticks, it slips and they see it, and that’s when they start to step back. A life on the sidelines, that’s the life that he owns. A life not so giving, a life of stunted growth. He’s tried to escape it, more than once or twice, but he ends up just watching the world pass by.
As the children grow up and leave birthright towns, or when teenage lovers adorn wedding gowns, his place will not change- to all that is clear. He’s a seat filler through time for all the years that he’s here.
A spectator does not take centre stage.
A spectator, he’ll be, in every age.
Hercule Poirot
Unravels psychology behind the crimes of tomorrow.
He minces. He sits. He analytically thinks
With his waxed mustache hovering over green drinks.
Literary Character: Hercule Poirot
Author and Work: Agatha Christie Novels
Those that shove past you, glare and scatter,
That drive the scares, in your wits and slither,
That smile and stare, at things you did master,
And then them that you will, lose and move,
Or through thicks, care for and pursue.
The bearers of the whips of black scythes,
Folded in turbulent evils of shaded blythes,
That wait in desires of you, to swift in myths,
And then bear of nothingness, the power of slices,
Unnerved by the struggles to free, from the swings and minces.
There are those that, in swears vow and plead,
Please with, in steps synching walk on paths,
That they laid in thorns, that they enroute,
And awaits them, in rounds, on routes.
Maintain the binds to them, in pomposity,
That you may, in silence, find prosperity,
In pretence, that with them, you are,
Swinged and minces from bites,
Of their evil, the scythe.
28/5/2022
Here is a truth as hard as honed steel,
It cuts like a knife but rolls like a wheel
Approaching with promise of nearness and love,
But slicing as deeply as hate from above.
It severs not the connection in between,
Yet it minces a Mother in ways unseen.
After years in her mold, your self you exert
By cutting her under and enjoying her hurt.
You joke with your friends how controlling she is
Ya’ll drink and you laugh, creating foul aliases,
Childishly exaggerating, thoughtlessly you rally,
Bolstering your girlie group but keeping no tally
Of the dishonor you pile on both Mothers AND spawn.
Will this cruelty not live on once Moms are gone?
Liberace: Was he Prince or Princess
The very question delivers winces
Watch him on You Tube
His joints sure look lubed
The key is when he walks that he minces
My uncle his name’s Billy Ray
Flamboyant and openly gay
He minces along
In heels and a thong
His outfits are often risque!
FICTION POEM
7/24/19
Cath is totally besotted with her five pussycats,
their cute ears stick out from under blue hats.
She dresses them in brightly colored plastic suits,
and on their paws they wear red wellington boots.
Cath’s kittens, all have colorful jackets to wear,
She takes the cats ’walkies’, oh how people stare.
When Cath gets them home she brushes their fur,
with their tails held high they all gently purr.
She minces best fillet steak for their dinner,
whilst the pussies get fat, old Cath gets thinner.
Spinster Cath’s never been a mother or a wife,
so her adorable cats have taken over her life.
One day little Archie ran out of the door -
he’d never been out on his own before,
Sadly poor Archie didn’t get very far
as the cute little cat was killed by a car.
Cath arranged for him to be mounted and stuffed
when she saw the result she was really chuffed!
Dear Archie now lies in such sweet repose
and Cath just can’t resist tickling his pink nose.
Crazy cat Lady Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
01/06/18
The one of my heart
this girl is so cheap
speaking so simply
behaving with humility
but when she means it
many times she devours me
the heart I hold she eats all
the life blood she drinks all
my being she minces into beef
an empty shell I stagger
without honor to the world
with no sensibility to others
I live a life so sheep-like
because everything is hers
Darling D,
I know you love poetry
Of Oak tree
Spree..
El Dorado, D
There you sit with Kings
you are a bee of bees
You travel the seven seas
For your prince Rabbit
Minces down the street
Your color is ripe wheat...
Petite
Sweeter than sugar beet of Rhineland
There you sing and rhyme with a dance band
Play in golden sand, sky envies your pair of blue eyes
Hey see the girl is a surprise
No surmise, a real guy's prize
Highs.
I know your dream
You are sweet sixteen and prim
You love poems so I gleam
Exactly a boy gets girl' theme
whipped cream
"""P""""
My Wish For You - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Isaiah Zerbst
Poet: Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
18 December 2014
The fact minces my mind; I can barely bear it:
Right now, legions of children are being abused.
I yearn to write of villages and vistas and never quit.
But the plight of the children cannot be diffused.
The words curdle the blood, but must be heard:
Raped, beaten, mutilated, starved—left for dead.
What crimes upon them have been conferred?
Why must innocence crush young lives with dread?
There is a hellish hole reserved for their thugs.
Surely God has prepared the appropriate place.
Meanwhile, this very moment, grant them hugs:
Love, food, service—and the Savior’s grace.
(Inspired by dance steps from a belly dancing class I once took!)
She rolls her pretty head from side to side
while, raised above her face, are slim curved arms.
Brief pose. . . . She’s readied to expose her charms.
Wrists twist, and serpentine, arms downward glide.
Her undulating silk-draped hips move round.
She churns them slowly, flashing bright green eyes;
then minces “Camel Walk” to tantalize
as ankle bracelets make a tinkling sound.
With bills in hand, men beckon with a glance.
She shimmies, jingling toward them in dim light;
then spins and thrusts her pelvis right, left, right.
Seduction of delight - her belly dance.
For Barbara Gorelick's "May I Have This Dance?" Contest
In the summer twilight
A gargoyle silhouette yawns
A rat scuffles with something in
The lavish undergrowth
Gravel crunches under foot and
Grasshoppers click their brittle wings
Watered thoughts slosh in my Head
As I walk amongst the darker trees
Magic mystery minces me and musters
Moving fantasy!
Shards of light flash in my mind
Shining up some homid kind
I see the Garou running free, howling!
Gravel crunches under foot
I continue walking.
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