His fingers crashed on the Piano notes,
Like a defiant wave in the Heart of the Ocean…
An Ocean of Music, Rebellion and Symphony.
For where there is Symphony,
There is Harmony…
And where there is Harmony,
There is Beauty and Love.
The intricate melody,
Cried like a Woman Obsessed,
Like her Husband had died,
And now she shrieks for his return…
Music maybe the plaintiff,
But Never the Judge,
Never the Judge…
It sings to us the Story of Tragedies,
Blooming in the Pregnant Bellies
Of Divine Dahlias…
It adds notes and keys,
It adds emotions and memories,
It is the Plaintiff Divine,
But Never the Judge…
True Art cannot Judge,
And the Art that does,
Is Law…Not creativity.
If a boy called Kartik got lost,
The music will say,
Oh, Kartik!
Alas, Kartik!
You are dragging me away from
My happiness and True love.
The music will cry and the music will
Plaint.
But the Music will never find Kartik,
Kartik has moved from the Realm
Of the Heart,
To the realm of the Divine…
The cat had caught the mouse some while ago
a stealthy stalk, a pounce, a single blow
not fatal, for now, the cat would need take joy;
and ease the tiresome day with this new toy.
Feigned indifference, a chance escape, a catch;
oh, silly mouse, for cat you are no match.
Cat cleans a paw, other on the mouse's tail
which will wiggle, struggle, all to no avail.
The feline foe lays on back; without a care
begins to throw the mouse into the air
until even this fun bores our mouser so
and now decides, the mouse he has to go.
The little mouse is shaking, waiting there
the cat humps up her ginger derriere:
a sudden mighty swoosh, a flash of grey;
the mouse looks up and quickly runs away.
The raptor's silent wings to distance flies
accompanied by our moggy's plaintiff cries.
(A female lawyer whispers)
Some of my narcissistic plaintiffs write for greatness
But the most divine I serve
Write simply for self-expression
To embrace their sacrifices
Personal experiences and inner freedoms
So my question is
Are you
A.
A freedom plaintiff
Or
B.
A narcissistic native?
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
in shadows birds sing
along a side street
for when something ends
something begins
something begins
a song or verse
in a moment of solitude
a verse
a verse
claims a voice
its own
laughter or plaintiff cry
laughter or plaintiff cry
the morning rises
from last night’s dreams
clouds veil skies
clouds veil skies
a question of rain
answers we seek
time will tell
time will tell
with a whisper
a soft breeze
in shadows birds sing
Courts oblivious, on blissful high,
Poor plaintiffs on a long wait die,
The system still stays put
On same age-old input,
Mothballed, the pending cases lie.
Perfection, a vague search,
Totter in wobbly lurch,
Load of cases on deathbed lie,
The price paid for delays sky-high.
_______________________________
Happenings |11.05.2023| justice
Poet’s note: Research reveals that some of the oldest cases are pending for over 60 years, almost a lifetime of an average plaintiff. One might feel, a less than perfect justice is better than the perfect one that takes such a long time. A limerick here tends to lament the pathetic realities. One may note: to bring home its point a limerick tends to exaggerate and so need not be taken on the face value. This is the fourth in the series: Your slip is showing, Milord.
Think deep and mull over your every sin,
Look unto mind's mirror, critical, keen
To wash your every single evil clean,
Confess, your true self’s confidence to win.
You are the plaintiff, you are the witness,
The defence lawyer are you, and the judge,
Harm there's none to come clean and to confess,
Need there be none to feign, nor ever fudge.
O beware still of that old impostor
That pretends to be what he never is,
To mislead you, he being an actor
Will pose: child at times or parent to please.
Have you ever noticed his hidden guilt?
Not once has he donned robes of an adult.
Yet, if nothing works, just come back to me,
Forget the world; come to me just to be.
_______________________________________
A man is torn apart by the machinations of his ego. His conscience is nigh but crushed. And then he hears a voice from his lady love: Forget all this pursuit of becoming; come to me and just be. The sonnet allows itself an extra couplet.
Sonnets | 02.03.06, revised Feb 2023 |
a red leaf
an apparition
in the city
it falls
it bleeds
into shadows
and holds
stories of summer
in its veins
a cold wind blows
and somewhere
a songbird
it sings
a plaintiff cry
it sings
for those
who live and die
Have you ever woke in the morning,
and let the sunrise warm your skin.
Have you ever thought why you're there,
and what you're going to do.
Have you ever given your life a thought,
If the why's and wherefores come to nought.
Have you ever really opened your eyes,
and seen others as they really are.
Have you ever caused someone to cry,
simply because you just passed by.
Have you ever thought of their distress,
maybe asked why they are in such a mess.
Have you ever heard the plaintiff cry,
of a babe in arms or it's mothers sigh.
Have you ever given someone a hug,
not caring if you catch a bug.
A smile,a chat,a hot drink may help them through,
that day or night, just think, what if it were you.
© Dave Timperley 29 September 2019
nuclear weapon, war for peace!
plaintiff and disputatious
country to country
open secret superpower
agree with disagree
the peace in asylum- meditate on death
orphanage homage vow all to it
-promiscuous and wanton love
just a body- chest and back
bakes on secret roaring sun-moon
-December 20, 2018 Chattogram
She is nurse
Yes, She is the polished nurse of poetic diction
She is fashion designer
Yes, She is crystalline splendid fashion designer of poetic panorama
Her world glorified her
as registered worker
in her daily activities
on colorful petals of Eden Garden
This is she, the beautiful azure-blue of poetic planet
No plaintiff she is,
No disputatious she is,
The simple goddess to take care of insight of poetic words
///
Note:- This slight writing is written on HAIDEE MAJOLA, member of POEMHUNTER.COM, who introduced herself as PETALS AZUREBLUE
I walked, I was a wanderer
I walked on the nipple thorns of world mildly
my walking couldn't make a stoppage
East, west, north, south had many more than my thinking
the Emptiness of stamina couldn't make a room for me
but when I reached to the sovereignty of poems then I found my stoppage
there were -
boundless magnanimity of sky,
crystallite of moonlit,
the blazing and dazzling shine of Sun-ray,
bottomless depth of the pacific ocean,
the vast mystery of solar system,
inexhaustible love of lover and beloved,
vivacious breath and rhythm of nature,
praiseworthy note for unseen almighty,
rational lines of plaintiff and disputatious
in the kingdom of poems.
O' dear, darling poem-
Please hug me, kiss me and love me
O' Hug of poems, please kiss my love
O' Kiss of poems, please love my hug
O' Love of poems, please hug my kiss
You are my ever best stoppage
-October 05, 2018 Chattogram
Who loves those days when the sun is hazed
and the seas unruffled with its mirrored glaze
showing every ripple and fish that moves
in the currents stream swept surface ooze.
And the tide on the beach treads soft and slow
leaving hardly a footprint as it goes
where the dark sand that each sea fall makes
is quickly absorbed to its flaxen state.
When the sand is warmly soft and gold
and the seagulls plaintiff call is bold
as no other sound competes for space
in air as soft as a mother’s embrace.
Then you lay by a bed of scented pinks
as rustling reeds their music links
with a skylarks distant worshipping praise
to sunlit, happy, palliate days.
So the amphitheatre of the cliffs
reduces all the world to this,
sea, sand and skies sensuous ideal
caressing body and soul to heal.
Nothing is quite so enlightening as a tray bake of fallen leaves. Left lean is not a ledge and a ledge is not to be trusted with a nine kilo pearl stick. Serrated combustible clam crab said chop chop chop whilst a breeze from a cliff top made safe a point of green dew. It is no angel that is an angle for an angler could be voting with a fifty thousand foot rid and pointing at such a distance should ensure thame entrapment of many a fine specimen of fish for the table. Yum said the spotted polar neck jumper travelling around a cable tie. But planting ones self in a set phrase is not wise nor clever. It is to be pondered. To be philosophically analysed by a beetroot plant walking a plank over a plain. But a plaintiff eating a large quantity of sipple draft stew is not a great sight. Entering a mild temperate zone then? Really? Wow. Fantastic news fir claws and paws. Wish not a wandering wave. Ha x unsynchronised zzzzzzz.
The Barking Dog
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
When I was in the army, I trained war dogs you know.
And when I had one out with me, pure happiness did show.
Yet when we both were working, we worked as a team.
My life was in my dog detecting what he was trained to gleam.
One growl from him was enough, to alert me something was not right.
I knew if I ignored him, I might soon die that’s right.
That’s why I don’t like your dog crying, its plaintiff bark you see.
As it means something is wrong, with it, if not with me.
I’d like to take the law into my hands, but that I cannot do!
So I must just listen to your dog crying a message I know, pity you don’t do!
NB. As I lay in my sick bed with my man cold, I can hear a plaintiff cry of a large dog nearby. I cannot see it, I know not of its welfare. I only hear its plaintiff cry. And as my voice is now fading with this man cold I’ve got. I hope the owner of that dog reads this and knows he is a clot.
There are red-wings on the cattails,
loons calling on the lake,
reeds swaying with the breeze.
I see the feathered wing
and the seeds.
I hear the haunting call,
the echo,
the plaintiff reminder.
I feel the breeze,
sometimes gently,
sometimes fierce.
There is a pain in my heart,
memories I feel:
those days,
those impressed moments,
the sinking stone,
me like driftwood
cast casually
upon the shore of the world.
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