The pre-dawn rang
as cat choirs sang
in waring gangs
sharp and rank
before they sprang
with claw and fang.
Isn’t it an overweening piety
to think that diverse cat societies
would address conflicts more politely
observe more cultural propriety
and politic more peacefully and quietly
than our own species, which behaves violently
Are we not, in part, their masters?
Don’t we war for goals we’re after?
Aren’t some of our leaders practically gangsters?
Does any species author more disasters?
Humans are - frankly - alpha-predator bastards.
If the language of cats, we could unscramble,
and into their feral dialogs we could wrangle,
perhaps we’d see that they’re just following our example.
Twist off the cap
Lay it in your lap
I'm your favourite beverage
Take a sip of your leverage
I give catering a double meaning
Leave the flavours of my heart overweening
Soft or alcoholic
Was your love for me hyperbolic
Do I leave you dreary in the streets
Every step your awareness depletes
Or do you look forward to tasting me again
No longer a recipient of your disdain
DO NOT MISS THE MOON, WHILE COUNTING THE STARS
Do not be carried away by the deceit,
Of an oozing chant of a back palm’s stew;
For the meat that source and house it,
Will slip and off it will drift like dew;
So, do not miss the sun,
While counting the smiles of the stars,
Kafkaesque!
Most magic moments oblique,
The conscientiousness to tame,
And the illusionary shadow’s of blame.
Sometimes, I don’t want,
You to know what I think,
That’s why I hide it in a plant,
A tarred bowdlerize wink;
So, do not stay too long....
Looking at the sun, especially her eclipse.
Alas! The jaded aglet corpse!
I have wringed wet maelstroms,
What you have in your palm,
Is bigger than the shadow storms,
So, do not waste hours counting,
Those deceitful stars__
When all you need is the moon!
For this is an overweening;
Err that mar many: a raconteur.
~ Tile
Door slightly ajar
Pushed far
It's the second storey
Hosting a romantic story
Furniture spartan and simple,
Not stately like her, but dull
The whirring fan, overweening
Haughtily saying, 'I can'
The heat, still unrelenting
Source, the sizzling thing
Negligibly clad
She crazy & he going mad
Raising the mercury further
Between him & her
Her statue-like pose
There his heart goes
Slightly raised knee
The yoga posture of a tree?
He hugs the trunks
With her love, punch drunk
And the image stays
All nights, all days.
Hip, Hip, Hurray!
January 1 is New Year's Day!
Is it special in any form or way?
Is there anything special in the Heavens to see?
--Not there that I know of, or under the sea.
The day is not marked by significant event;
Not by Christmas, or Easter, or the Six Weeks of Lent.
Yet perhaps we've a 'clean slate' at the start of the year?
Tell me: Does yesterday's baggage poof! disappear?
And is everything really so new and so fresh?
Did we empty and burn all of last year's trash?
Now, the Chinese and Jewish New Years have real meaning;
But January 1, alas, seems a tad overweening.
--Oh, hang all this negativity! Enough of this rot!
I'm goin' out New Year's Eve; January 1's all I've got!
A leaf in the wind
Floating to and fro
Knowing neither love nor hate
Until those who knew me
Looked upon my face
I had not chosen them
But they peered into my eyes
Until I fell in the bosom of their arms
Landing on a Rock
Where I was broken
A tempest could not move me
Nothing I am
yet I have been chosen
By the never ending
A sphere with no beginning
All who loved me did not leave the choice to me
Hence night and day the world tried
To consume or push me away
To no avail I will stay
This is a overweening place
And words within me are not mine
For I plagiarize the all Knowing
So when I landed I was graceful
My enemies thought they had won
But my love would not allow me to fail
For they knew this leaf before birth
Now I have changed
I shake no more
unafraid waiting for his verb
The crazed obsession
to rule the lives of others
rends the ruler's humanity
into tatters,
feeds, fills and bloats
his overweening vanity,
deludes the ego
with invincibility.
But stripped of his mask,
the tyrant shall fall apart
for pomp and vainglory hide
a sham, hollow heart
of a cursed, cowering canine
that creeps to crawl
through labyrinthine caves
of what's left of his soul!
A Minute In The Mind Of A Poet
this work was done,a death view of paradise
& probably not the end, of it last night
(what a magnificent day, i said to myself
"fine" everyone i know your draught, savant
i regard all of you, their are no lives that
rebuff, their own uninterested day or night
of self-love, a movement to wail, into space,
moments to argus pine there time
as far as i can see a trimmer of seconds
i don't live to isobront my speech, nor
egest my words, while sleeping on a bed of
fasten coexistence, with a whitesmith
to mold my disparage, not me, not i, not
overweening, nor self-indulgance with
idiolatry---
aspermation, grasping, meekness
introspection of my soul.....
Thomas George Valle
Copyright ©2006 Thomas G. Valle
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