These weak attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(but not as catchy). Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)
But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Shakespeares is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.) Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract. Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us. The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking. Don’t be late!
The mocking must stop.' By those who raid public revenues ' non stop ' billions
Funding wars and trafficking also worse.'
Abominations and life quality to reverse.'
They spit in your face and tell you its rain'
Advise suffering is your pre-ordained.' They showboat whilst homelessness climbs.' There is talk on security, as they
Bring on crime..The prate of peace yet plan much war.' They talk much of folk
Value yet ignore its lore, that could usuage current; world loss and pain.' Pay
The real value of human labour, let positivity negate iniquitys morbid reign
Eke out, O my living?
On what grounds do ye speak?
Based on our thanksgiving?
O turkey, through creek creak!
Wind atop the atoll low?
Steady, then first blow.
Ogre, ochre. Fast or slow?
Gold, give off thy glow...
Tyrant of the ocean deep;
Through dark chasm leap?
Horror, do ye find life cheap?
Challengers to creep...
Thought-light, gloss over the spark?
Fire, light up the dark?
Covenant? Communion, ark?
Hone, upon the bark...
Fill in, O ravine? Unseen.
Trail lead through the green.
Emptiness, fill each machine?
Will it work, I deen...?
Dismay, spring from dynamite?
Nuclear, gone white?
Pinholes, curtains, nine knives, night!
Rampage on the right!
Queen of civilized world, wait?
Hie across the strait!
O for those who prattle, prate!
Rage at higher rate!
Barbarians, gather?
Oppose such as this?
Well, we wouldn't rather.
Sail on, black abyss...
Prate is to
poetry
as death is to
life
Dilletante
graveyards
lie marking
the site
Where words
never weighted
whose wings
couldn’t fly
Unmarked
without headstones
condemned here
— to die
(Dreamsleep: April, 2025)
Find me, Lord inside Your grace*
Bind my soul upon Your brace
Bird am I against frenzy craze
Gird me toward blessings’ crate
Girl am I, warned not to prate
Girt for faith's strength, never irate.
*Ephesians 2:8 For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.
December 16, 2024
10th place, "WORDPLAY" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 12/23/2024
Clang, clang, clang, toots a trolley: X-s-teams,
though it's not the same San Fran by the Bay,
remembrance connects, perspective redeems,
sound stirs, 'Mathis', "It's Not For Me To Say".
Maintained posture as my observance probes,
heedless complacency, schemed convenience,
the prate news reader provokes our earlobes,
heroines chat as a girl grasps missed-chance.
Tram's next stop, the conductor ring updates,
abides fixed whiles, a life away smokes forth,
traffic noise flowing, like manmade primates,
shrieks giving birth...streetcar desired...part.
Ding, ding, ding, went the bell; attuned Judy,
"Voices of Spring", scratched slippers of ruby.
I am Irish,
I do not patter a brogue, not lilt, or prate the Celtic.
I’m annexed English, cockney, a dead queens piglish,
chameleon tongued.
Something took me, shook me like a spade
until an un-rooted soil fell, a ground crumbled
grew tropical jungles of alien expression.
Years press, some bulldozed, some were the wrecking ball.
Found my clay feet stomping, squishing mud,
fostering images, a mire between a to zee
but never enough letters to fit a parlance;
my placeless patios, my me.
America, a melting polyglot,
I’m still slanging, hanging words out to dry, new words
told contrary-wise estranged in an outlandish manner
of palaver,
a poetry of sorts,
sounds unbound and breathing
but never replete, yet a bellyful
to live in the eyes and ears.
Speak slowly and I will hear you with my lips.
The human will, that force unseen,
The offspring of a deathless soul
Can hew a way to any goal,
Though walls of granite intervene.”
“You will be what you will be,
Let failure find its false content
In that poor world environment,
But spirit scorns it and is free.
“It masters time, it conquers space,
It cows that boastful trickster, Chance,
and bids the chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent, hinder, or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing, will alone is great;
All things give way before it soon or late.
What obstacle can stay the mighty force?
Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves,
Let the fools prate of luck. The fortunate
Is he, whose earnest purpose never swerves?
Whose slightest action or inaction serves?
The one great aim. Why even death itself
stands still and waits an hour sometimes
for such a will.”
All hearts are young and gay in Spring
When youth's charade is in full swing.
Toward love's sweet well you shyly slink,
Once there you do not hesitate to drink
Or stop to think what will tomorrow bring.
Youth, flagrantly ablaze with Summer's fires,
Engulfed in new and strange desires,
In words naïve, but honey-sweet,
You prate of love without deceit,
But passion's heat, unbridled, soon expires,
And all the torrid promises you made
By Summer's end begin to fade.
Those fervent words hang dry and bare
When Autumn's chill is in the air,
And rare the fruit that ripens in the shade.
But 'neath the glaze of Winter's snows
Love's ember dims, yet still it glows.
It hides and bides its time 'til Spring
When hearts revive and come alive again,
And love's sweet well reswells and overflows.
My dear boy, never waste food
said the Dad; no way it's good;
Do you know there are thousands
of people in surroundings
who can't afford to have lunch
or some crispy food to munch.
Take only that much in plate
that you can eat; why to prate?
And when you help a needy
with food, must do it freely,
with no expectation, cause
you haven’t done great job; just pause
thank him to allow to take
part to serve; must stay awake
who knows HE is taking food
in disguise, never be rude.
Saint Teresa said, one who
assists someone with smile to
support is the best giver,
cause God loves cheerful giver.
The blessing you get from HIM
fills you with love above brim;
That's the reward for lifetime,
you've helped as per HIS design.
~X~X~X~
Clanks,
blanks,
cranks,
clash!
Slams in tank,
detours irate!
Ingenious infiltrates,
sojourns knocking,
indignation on the plank,
plutocracy dank!
Dotards are prate,
iridescence is just as late-
prime meridian,
songs obsidian,
and the incandescence great!
Black of night
Light of day
I used to go
But now I stay
Summer heat
Winter cold
I once was young
But now am old.
Desert dry
Ocean wet
I used to freeze
But now I sweat.
Full glass
Empty cup
I once was down
But now am up.
Vinegar sour
Honey sweet
I once was strong
But now am weak.
Fancy hat
Ball cap
I once was lean
But now am fat.
Cool blue
Hot pink
I used to leap
But now I think.
String bikini
Formal gown
I used to smile
But now I frown.
In time
Out late
Time now to end
This foolish prate.
These vain attempts at verse could not be droller.
Your stuff is less inviting than ebola
(and not as catchy). Wordier than Emil Zola,
you haven’t got the steam to be a roller.
I’ve seen more cutting-edge in Pepsi-Cola.
You clearly honed your style in Fuengirola.
About as challenging as last year’s “¡Hola!”
(I’m sure you’re highly thought of in Angola.)
But that aside, I need a favour, mate.
The flood of would-be Spensers is in spate.
I’d like you to review – that is, donate
your time and talent (at the going-rate,
which happens to be zero.) Desecrate
the pricks who prattle, and the prigs who prate.
Denounce, detract. Indulge that gelding hate
that wells in all of us. The cut-off date
is looming, so get hacking. Don’t be late!
can you open the floodgates
one coffee date
nothing ornate
why can't you relate
why do you skate
the subject of debate
I'm not cheapskate
I'll let you dictate
and narrate
stories of fate
I just want your plate
of poem's ruminate
and mysteries of predate
and of course of late
nothing more to agitate
or allocate
nothing to repudiate
i'll be cool and straight
i won't be late
I'll throw my weight
skip the prate
and the clown gait
i'll be calm and sedate
do not freight
or deflate
can you open ...
... the flood gates
connie pachecho
2/11/17
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