There once lived a prankster; that was a skunk
Dressed like an elephant with a huge trunk
'Till one day there's a loud yell-
"What's that horrendous smell ?"
That poor fella could not play down da funk!
You get to have a life review when you die -
or so I am told.
The hope of a do-over has me living here still
on this tiny blue planet on the far edge of nowhere,
with the thought of endless second chances.
Supposedly, when the movie of my life
plays out its going to be critiqued,
It will be hard to look away,
to hum quietly to myself
during the embarrassing stuff
pretending it wasn’t me,
just some bad actor, in a B-movie.
Of course I will play down the good,
smugness can take you only so far.
Meanwhile my search for God continues.
Perhaps he is a ghost in my movie,
perhaps the Creator wrote the script,
meaning again – not my fault.
I hope I get a chance to self-edit,
to cut out the boring, the mediocre,
the addictive crap,
erasing forever the jerk and the fool.
I don’t know why
all those heart-busting tragedies,
had to be recorded,
I’m more suited to light comedy.
I want that ghostwriter of my story
to admit he exaggerated,
to confess that I was never really there
in that long-winded plot;
that I was the sole audience
in his empty theater
detached from the muddle of a life,
a play that he deliberately screwed up
just to make me look bad.
When I was three or four
I asked my mom whether snowflakes are true
Hearing they are not to us
My heart sank in deep sorrow dust
I see on TV snow falls on land
I also watched until I could stand
Waited for Christmas for Santa and snow
But only Santa came and a wind blow
Dreaming to ice skate on an ice
With all my friends hands together, so nice
I wish I could meet a winter bear
Asking are you OK without a fear
I wish Olaf also with me
Giving warm hugs and laugh with me
I'll be Elsa or Anna indeed
Let's play down the winter street
Your nose looks like it’s avoiding the smell coming up from your toes, you stick it in my business assume half the show and there you go ranting in an unctuous fashion slideshow of passion as you start thrashing a subtle superior bashing try and play down your snoot forgetting what suits as you honk your honour with contradictions full hollow concerning yourself with yourself and branding others supercilious as though super serious issues are confused away delirious as you don’t see the relevance with your narcissistic outlook and self absorbed intelligence assured you’re enlightened while others petty fighting up there on your balcony talk of level unity while you stare down assumably, remove yourself if you don’t know don’t tell me how I should go
When we were young my parents would take us
Every spring to run and play down the forest
Lined lane.
Now when they come our dad has his arm
Wrapped around our mom and he uses a cane.
Our father would say honey you have always
Been my cute dish.
Mom would laugh and ask can we sit on the
Bench to which he has always replied as you
Wish.
My heart swells to see how their love over the
Years has blossomed in to a beautiful flower.
I don't want to think about how it will be in their
Final hour.
Our father would say things to mom that were
Gibberish.
Mom would laugh and ask can we sit on the
Bench to which he has always replied as you
Wish.
The time has come to say goodbye my tears
Won't stop or slow.
Their love has kept its glow.
My dad said son can you fulfill the last thing on
My list it will have to be cleverish.
Mother would laugh and ask can we sit on the
Bench to which he has always replied as you
Wish.
How exciting, it’s getting closer,
The night is almost here,
For the play that’ll play the play that’s written,
By our favourite Will Shakespeare.
There’ll be rage then shock to fear to sad,
With everything in between,
Ending when the characters all meet their end,
By the end of the tragic scene,
Where we learn how the character, that seemed OK,
Is a total psych of mad,
And the villain turns out not to be a villain,
Turns out he’s not that bad.
You’ll see the Scott King die, Richard Three die,
And same with John the King,
And finally, when you leave the theatre,
You’ll realize, you didn’t grasp a thing.
How exciting, it’s getting closer,
You’ll soon see the fallen crown,
Tonight’s the night when the bard himself
Will play his play down town.
When rainfall spills on crystal night,
The damp brick halls and lamps' soft light
Make me slip-slide though I’m alone
Into the lanes of cobblestone,
Allowing free movement on flight.
How droplets tap while hours invite
A prance, a waltz as splash grips tight
This child-like play down to the bone
When rainfall spills.
How pewter cloudscape with its height
Gushes thrills of romp which excite
Hips’ wiggling sway ; an eve outshone
By pleasure rare I call my own...
Till moonglow blinks oh drenched in white
When rainfall spills.
Rondeau
Form R- Contest of Broken Wings
Theme: Rainy 6/29/2017
Elections yield
idiosyncratic bloodthirsty gods, demons, lemons, liars, and fleas
full of prayers
that most are just tricks in twists and turns
of emptiness
that only endeavor to veil the roughness of these roughnecks
full of vagueness and vanities;
The real vampires,
plunged, swimming and sinking in stinking Politics swarmed with fanatics, irks
and licks, and deceits, and idioms, and schisms, and dreams, and victims
and
Isms
said from wide wild mouths
of crooks of looks and books, but of deaf ears,
buoyed by
self-seeking self-seekers and bootlickers, and
the rest, as they trample down
on the colors of truth, and play down
–anxious and teasing times
the
sudden overnight gods
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