To those who measure the depths of their power,
In the fathomless pools of tears of the oppressed;
To the human hyenas that gorge themselves full,
While the sons and the daughters of the incarcerated,
Battle with the sharp arrows of hunger and dearth;
To those who appropriate to themselves,
Mother Earth’s allotments to the destitute;
To the dragon-mouthed whose fiery flames of hatred,
Sear the reputation of the guiltless;
To the puckish tongues that uproot family trees,
Wresting the blossoming babes from Pa’s loving arms;
To you all, Satan’s scamps; I say and say again:
The wrathful wind doth gather the celestial armies;
And the saintly swords of the beleaguered,
Will chirpily chaperon your souls past the netherworld.
the puckish wink;
that come-hither smile!
inkling of seduction?
Writing Challenge - I Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Word choice: Inviting
Syllables checked at HMS
Date written: 03/03/2023
Sun shines
until a cloud bully
bustles his way
to the forefront.
Breeze takes note -
shadows matter,
first fall leaves
tumble scatter.
Leaving goosebumps on my skin,
Autumn shares her puckish grin.
gravitating together,
children - puffy fat in snowsuits - grasp
one another's mittened hands,
in-line unison,
their fall backwards into a soft ridge of snow
kid-laughter dances on the bending wind of cold
saturated tones of silliness
freefall play
repeated in fresh drifts with puckish twists
newfound layers of warmth
with ruddy, winter-worn complexions
an untroubled time
in the bruised abundance of snow
etched by imprints
winter's candy floss to children
life-loving voices that torch the chilling air
with joy
before heartbreak is definable
before bindings shape their toil
Poem composed February 20, 2022
his excited bright eyes, his laughter,
the puckish way he draws me in.
the moonspun prize he sought after —
roses, champagne, candlelight…he wins.
dawn in afterglow, birdsong on breeze,
silent shadows billowing…lovers drowning in
two cups of coffee…bright-zanthous trees
in morning sun, yawning leaves, bare skin.
salutations of solitude cleaving,
breath to breath, before unbridling the door.
perch of our souls, pulsating sigh, weaving
its ebb and flow climax to the shore.
7/10/2021
What Makes You Sigh
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Deer do frolic: How they run and laugh and play
Birds chirp sweetly, soaring on a gentle breeze
Rabbits scoot and scamper, in their puckish way
The sunlight shoots through branches of tall trees
As clouds drift off to Heaven's vast expanse
The coolness of the forest's sure to please...
Noonday heat puts woodland creatures in a trance
Lay down their weary heads to take a nap
Soon to slumber, hearts a-twitter to romance
Unaware of danger, of deception's traps
Sounds and scents of peril start to filter in
Startling to attention, they duly snap
Hunter-man has forest's bulwarks broken in
Rifles poised to target precious creature's skins
FRIENDS FUREVER
prodding and poking the puppy lot
vivacious squirm of fur so exciting
puckish pup nuzzles the neck of an only child
4/6/2019
APRIL 2019 PREMIER,ANY THEME,ANY FORM
UP TO A MAX OF 3 (T H R E E ) LINES Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Mr. Biggy Bumblesmart flirts with every girl he meets
Girls are angry bumpy chivvied with his daily dumb repeats
They think a very puckish plan
They buy a hefty Honolulu hen
And give it to Mr. Bumblesmart for his routine shticks
(c) Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty, 2014
Stretched my toes and curled
Twisting as I twirled
Coffee stirred and swirled
Good morning to the world
I am rich beyond belief
Was falling like a leaf
Heart stolen by a thief
Now lost of all my grief
It's what your eyes can see
That something's found in me
The same since I was wee
True love is that the key
From what I feel inside
I never run and hide
My eyes are open wide
And take all things in stride
To all who say they know me
I say really what do you see
If they tell me what I should be
Then I tell them just to blow me
If you tell me what to publish
I will tell you that is rubbish
If then you try to punish
I was only acting puckish
Running out of words
Stopped bursting in like herds
Like running out of herbs
It is strictly for the birds
While in my writing fun
I've wrote an endless pun
Now that I am done
Its time my pen to shun
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