An astute and interesting citizen
Observed his legislators in their
Seats of congress.
He took a mental photograph of their
Actions and later developed the picture.
That picture unveiled for him a great
Practical picture of life.
As legislation presented in congress,
Our lives can be debated.
We can be berated.
We can be frustrated.
We can be hated.
If through much endurance,
We manage to make progress,
We are still subject to be vetoed.
But keep to the path of endurance.
Give it all you've got to give,
Because that which opposes you,
May well be overridden.
HIDE AND SEEK
Love can be discreet
Sometimes even neat
Feeling the heart beat
Often disguising
The passion rising
But there is more yet
By being adept
With a secret kept
The face is glowing
And all are knowing
When love is showing
Not always hidden
Nor overridden
When it is bidden
And recognising
It’s not surprising
When someone lies and does it well,
It makes it very hard to tell
That in his head, the truth must dwell,
Though very deeply hidden.
The stories that he tries to sell,
Repeated like a broken bell,
Affect some people like a spell,
Disturbing and forbidden.
If numbers of his fans do swell
And his supporters start to kvell*,
Then we’re all going straight to hell,
Our virtue overridden.
*burst with pride and joy
Maverick waves turn the tide
crashing like an out of tune refrain;
Things so wrong I could have cried;
Momentum stronger than a train,
all the wind knocked out of you;
Balance becomes hard to maintain;
Warped has overridden what’s true,
I’m out of step with the new humanity;
Red cannot ever paint things blue;
A surge of logic washes over me,
surviving on a little bit of crazy.
A bell-jar, crystalline, as transparent as an aquarium
Vibrant colors burnt umbers tints glass atop the kitchen table.
No elaborate gardening, just gentle misting in the terrarium
Muted pinks, earthy tones, texture soft as Siberian sable
My supercilious ways are overridden by fecund elegance.
Gather around my friends and behold cherished succulents.
These flowery cacti, such profuse perennial poetic ebullience,
with an award worthy, floral southwestern desert essence.
The Unforetold Truth
The Truce unclaimed is yearning
The Halo surrounded is hatful
The treasure unfound is slothful
The ink unused is fading
The forces unchallenged are daring
The stakes untaken are dilapidating
The cross unbeard is rightful
The characteristics unfeatured are deriding
The Chances non-formed are regretful
What do all these culminate to produce?
The Unforetold Truth
The knowledge present in everyday felicitations and adventures reborn
The Unforetold truce present in the lie conquered and disseminated
Where there is strength in bold and overridden fear
With success in the wind.
Ephemeral enchantments like ribbons
adorning a softly sparkling smile,
beautiful bow ‘Happily ever after’ written;
Perfect fleeting and often hidden
dressed up whispers begin to beguile,
ephemeral enchantments like ribbons;
Every ounce of you begins to quicken
exploring me your hunger tastes hostile,
beautiful bow ‘Happily ever after’ written;
Lost in the moment logic overridden
drawn to such a magnetic profile;
Ephemeral enchantments like ribbons;
Velvety sweet the lips of the smitten
disruptive ticking clock comes off vile;
Beautiful bow ‘Happily ever after’ written;
Wound so tight and bound to the forbidden
the glass slipper and gown fit for awhile;
Ephemeral enchantments like ribbons
beautiful bow ‘Happily ever after’ written.
Ode to Fanny
Her start in life was rather poor
with wastrel parents, ones to abhor
She avoided living in the gutter
Earning enough for her bread and butter
Her break in life came rather later
Before, bigamy and babies to underrate her
Her kids grew up in the care of another
She never took to being a mother
Her culinary skills proved rather good
She could write and critique on all kinds of food
Destined to star in sixties telly
She graced her shows in glitzy finery
Her zany persona was rather dippy
Her dress was ball gown and misplaced lippy
Shunning apron and hat that looked so drab
‘Cos cooking and baking should always look fab
The man she had met was rather fine
Ex army major, life was divine
They fronted shows as man and wife
Fanny and Johny, well matched and no strife
Her fame continued for rather a while
Overridden by others in different style
And gaffes too many, they booted her out
No telly shows, no gowns to flout
Her recipes of the past still rather great
She put pizza and prawn cocktail on our plate
She and Johny, always a couple
Poor but content to remain conjugal
Ooh rather!
Pen I lay thee down
you're in a cluttered pile
beside my crystal crown
you're ink I won't defile
I promise to restore your pride
with valor strength and flair
I'll put my paper by your side
you'll be warm in there
Though later you'll be hidden
hitherto beneath my gain
my dear friend overridden
drenched by a coffee stain
I'll pick you up and brush you off
and press down once again
if absence comes to boff
the chaos has set in
I suffer to create
what I cannot seem to find
if you don't relate
thank God to content your mind
For you are not forgotten
overlook my trusty plot
you have been blessed by the Begotten
forgive me pen to nought
a colon
is cool
and a
semi
colon is
half better
but god
forbid
since
so many
things
are
forbidden
that though
god created
poetry
soup has
overridden
the all
almighty
that though
a woman poet
who gets it
monthly
can't in
a title
use
what is
to be
con
sidered
to be a
special
character
introducing not
the asterisk but
the maybe
hated
period
.
.
.
The Cry of The Virgin
I am weak, I am naive and innocent,
Yet you marshal your deceitful might,
And mount yourself upon me,
To rob me of my innocence.
My cry for help calls for your humane attention,
But my plea for mercy is overridden
By your malicious act.
Why thrust your manhood upon me?
Why spew your filth and pollute my purity?
An eve of darkness hoists fear,
As I visualize your act.
The whispers of wind amplify my cry,
And God’s breath burns hot to curse your advance—
Yet you do not heed my voice.
Are you a father figure or my spouse?
Are you my guardian or my tormentor?
Are you my brother or my villain?
Are you my savior or an opportunist?
Stop the malicious touch.
Do not force a laugh upon me,
For this is my virgin cry.
Nothing quells the fury where anger dwells;
her skin pales, and incantations begin.
She sells secret potions and magic spells;
and in her heart, she'll not forgive his sin.
At night, amidst ghostly shadows of light,
she calls forth demons as the evening falls.
Her fright overridden by magic's might;
she scrawls a pentagram on bloodstained walls.
Anxieties rise as she wails and cries,
conjuring hate at an alarming rate.
His lies cannot save him, and yet he tries,
for fate has left him in a frightened state.
Once more, she cast spells to open Hell's door;
and swore that he would suffer evermore.
Pixies riding butterflies
corral an Easter rabbit.
And over the centuries,
they have gotten good at it.
The fairies weave straw baskets
and fill them with colored eggs.
Yet fail to get the bunny
to stand on its two hind legs.
For that requires the finesse
of a young elvish Queen's touch.
Only after sprouting wings
will her powers grow that much.
She blends ground unicorn horn
with the nectar of flowers.
To give the Easter Bunny
special magical powers.
And with a kiss of her lips,
Mister Cottontail's transformed.
And stands up on his hind legs
as the ritual's performed.
Each Easter, colored eggs are
conspicuously hidden.
And reality's paused: then,
discreetly overridden.
I awoke to the sound
Of the rooster crow
Red handed with green thumbs
Covered in dirt and soap in my eyes
I walk down the hall
Of this house that is now mine
Wander into the kitchen
Turn on the stove, I prepare the roast
There is a note stuck to the refrigerator
"John and Mary will be over later,
I'll be home around two."
I check on the garden
I visited last night
Only now, I harvest
I grab the shovel
That I forgot in the rain
And place it in the shed
I'll come back for it later
Next time the plants need to be fed
Now that the aroma
Of the freshly cooked meat
Has overridden the stench
I go into the dining area
And place my greasy knife
On the bench
"Honey! I'm home!"
Somebody cried
"Honey's not here"
I replied
Now blood is everywhere
I go fetch the shovel
I didn't think would be needed
So soon, it's only noon
I sit and I wait
On the love seat in the den
For the night to live
And the day to be dead
I was right in the middle of commenting to peers at Poetry Soup when the power went off and I found myself in utter darkness and feeling disappointed since it was still only 10:45, a time much too early for night owls like myself. After groping my way upstairs in the dark, I have managed to locate my pen and paper (can’t even find a flashlight!) and here I sit out on my porch step using the little light of a nearly moonless night and of my trusty cell phone. The sound of crickets around me is large! Their chirping fills up the silence, and there's the faint sound of dogs barking in the distance. Even at this late hour, I can hear cars zooming down streets several blocks away, but all of that is overridden by the crickets and the wind rustling leaves on nearby trees. Cooled by the night breeze and feeling undaunted, I begin to work on my little poem.
This Mellow August Night
Out here as I sit on my porch,
cooled by a summer breeze,
I’m soothed by the rustling sound of
leaves on the nearby trees.
The chorus of crickets I hear
chiming in as I write
is a lullaby without end
this mellow August night.
Aug. 17, 2012
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