From the rising sun in the east
To casted shadows after dark in the west,
Our tribal marked faces show,
A timeless story, aglow.
Seasons come and go,
Hiding shades and dimmed sparks.
Beneath the sprawling swamps,
Cornering meandered mangroves,
Our roots run deep,
Anchored in attires of legacy.
Our heads see without light,
Guided by old wisdom unspoken.
Truth and strength wrap us,
Like leaves hiding the stem,
This binding keeps us to mother earth,
Fatherland, and to each other.
The river Nun whispers
Future tales of our past,
Her ebb and flow carry songs of joy,
Of resilience, of hope.
Wells oiled to bustle with life,
Echoing voices of a southern people united,
Crafting stories with each fishing net,
With each catch and harvest,
With each chant that shakes the air.
We stand with one another,
As trees in a forest,
Strong and steadfast,
Each branch reaching,
Each leaf singing,
Together in harmony,
Brothers and sisters fit to guide,
The new call of the river Nun.
"Holey all over,
seen better days,
worn out and threadbare,
can't mend its ways,
with drink spills, food stains,
rips, rents and tears,
not worth keeping,
a sad state of affairs,
its time has come,
over and done,
that's one bad habit,”
so said the nun.
Fun,
Your nun,
Loving meant,
Rules can be bent!
A nun drove over a rabbit.
She said to herself, "Yikes! This is becoming a habit.
Like, last week it was four.
And this week, already one more.
But, hey! Makes for plenty of stew for the abbot.”
At Easter dinner, she said, "You know what, honey?
Your verses ain't all that funny.”
I said, "If you ask me,
I tend to agree.
So, what do want? The leg or the thigh of this bunny?"
there was a young woman from Tashkent
whose desire was to live in a convent
she met the man of her dreams
in bed went to extremes
and decided she’s not ready to repent
We the people, still own the power.
but
have lost the belief that we still own it.
Disagree if you must but remain civil and united.
When the human excrement runs amok,
I pray to see Jesus, wielding a pair of nun-chucks.
Written: May 13, 2024 For: Palindrome Limerick Poetry Contest Sponsor: Joseph May
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At noon, the civic-level racecar,
was deified by the crowd from afar
but a kayak deed,
made the crowd did heed,
as they monitor a rotator star!
the nun with bird rib in her hand,
At noon she worries of grim land
But the tenet she knew
Was always to bib true,
And refer to the drab as grand!
The lady was quite civic minded,
as a nun she always presided
midnight to noon on the harp
until her old dog did bark
Mum I fear your tune is one-sided!
The dog said must I refer you to this,
the deed you long ago signed with a kiss
and a pip on the head,
a tenet until dead,
my howls deified along with your riffs.
Nun One to thee,
Hilarious, you see,
Faith and literacy,
Plus fantasies,
Hex One, pink lace,
Inertia and grace,
Is it Vatican hour,
With our chick power?
Turning right against the light’s
Illegal in New Yawk.
That rule’s observed by drivers,
Not by those who run or walk.
In other places, no such law
Exists, so often plates
Of cars which turn when they should not
Reflect their different states.
And that is why I was surprised
When, right in front of me,
A New York car ignored the red
And turned illegally.
What made it even weirder
Was the driver was a nun!
If ticketed, I wonder ‘bout
The story she’d have spun.
~ Mary Fields…
Was born into slavery somewhere back east
she thought it was Hickman County, Tennessee
Growing up, she had learned how to read and write
though she'd spent her childhood in captivity
Came to Montana to live life as a nun
but learned she was better suited for fight'n
She stood six foot tall and weighed two hundred pounds
wore a six shooter she could draw fast as light'n
She had arms and hands looked like battering rams
she towered o'er most cowboys here in the west
She smoked cigars and chawed a tobacco plug
a flask of whisky hidden under her dress
She came to fame one day when a green cowpoke
said that no black woman could be his better
She'd laid him out flat when he went for his gun
Mary shot him before he could clear leather
In her left hand she could hold the reigns of six
of the orneriest horses you'd ever knew
while shooting a shotgun with the other hand
and could still keep them horses a runnin' smooth
She'd out shoot, out fight and out drink any man
Was mean, stubborn, cantankerous and scary
Specially if you was a meaning to steal
from a wagon driven by Stagecoach Mary
Once there was a floating nun
Aloft in the shimmering sun
She was observed by 2 fine priests
Who were more interested in feasts
Than see a nun who could ascend
There’s not much here I can commend
The child who was frolicking in the sun
And on sighting me broke into a run
Was Ted Colonel’s Fleeing Ferrari of a Son
Also, a lad who could himself kill for a denied bun
Judging it Needless Injustice done…
Now he’s eighteen and keeping a gun,
Of all colors A Sickening Dun
And sure visiting its trigger for fun,
Though with it could drop dead a nun.
Now, I sight him and break into a run,
Broadly smile as he stands in The Sun
And by accident closer pay for his bun…
Sometimes tables later turn
And it’s the turn of The Bossy to burn.
The psychedelic décor and Sergeant Pepper
wore the same uniformly gaudy tones.
Burgundy striped stockings hung on a lava lamp,
puff the magic dragon dwelt in our rented rainbow.
A poster of Leonard Cohen as a young man.
Shag carpet for cozy shagging.
A Paddington apartment above a smoky railway.
A girl drinking Liebfraumilch
waiting for me to come home
with a used album of Rubber Sole
We had vinyl prayer-wheels.
Beetles played in every hallway –
literally.
Figuratively,
we had red and yellow music, bottles of Blue Nun,
oodles of fun
for the horny young.
A ******** under the table
Is just fun and games for Mabel
Her luscious lips
Increase the tips
According to a sop's fable
*Friday=Frigedaeg=
"Day of the goddess Frigg"
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