Always remember Meraki
In a time that is fleeting
And will soon be gone
In the moment I am alive
And my soul at peace
Oh how often we forget about sonder
A raconteur can only say so much of the old days
Of the Lassitude that came by the hour
Some cope under the gaze of a life epiphany
And others fill their nights with mellifluous sounds of the classics
Or a tryst under the tenderness of the night sky where for once all is Pristine
With his leonine face,
Young for his age,
A little unsteadily he
Climbs onto the stage,
Adjusts the microphone
From his special chair
Benevolently regarding us
All eagerly waiting there.
A raconteur, a story teller,
He explains his song choice
Then holds us all captive
With the power of his voice.
Songs of the sea
Songs of a different age
Songs of life and politics
As he sits and owns his stage.
The minutes fly like seconds
As the night flows smoothly on
Until all too soon it’s over
And Mick is up and gone.
But, every Sunday afternoonI
I know where he’s to be found,
With his talented gang at
The Minerva Sing Around,
And that’s real class.
Sadly, first The Kardomah and then Mick gone, but we have our memories
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
Nearly fifty years ago
His life came to its end
And I lost a much loved
And respected old friend.
Born cruelly disabled,
Paralysed by surgical knife,
A calculated risk in the hope
Of a more normal life.
Enjoy your life
The surgeon had said,
It won’t be for long,
And you’re a long time dead.
A bon viveur and raconteur
He spun many a fine tale
Enthroned in his wheel chair
Clasping his pint of real ale.
At first on foot, taxi or train
Latterly in the car of the day
We wandered and forged
Our merrily desperate way.
A sudden blink of fate
And Old Hawkins was gone
Still only in his thirties
As time, uncaring, moved on.
I cried at his funeral.
His loss twisting like a knife,
Celebrating the memory of
His short but well lived life.
The morning task, since I’m inclined:
to hike out in the glorious wood,
and clear a path, with all that does entail.
But Missy does not seem to mind,
in fact, to her, it even seems good,
as patiently, she sits and wags her tail.
And so we hack small trees and vines,
drag rotted logs and flip small boulders,
and bit by bit, a hiking trail is formed.
I look back on this path of mine,
so much improved as I’ve grown older,
and like this trail, I too have been reformed.
This path through God’s world truly is divine.
----------
This is an odd one - a Raconteur of 13 lines:
8a:9b:10C:8a:9b:10C:8D:9e:10F:8d:9e:10F:{8|10}D
The capital rhymes denote the same end rhyme,
but, for instance, 'door' and 'adore' would fit...
Found this over at Poet's Collective in their index.
Suddenly he is gone
His words unspoken
And, more sadly,
Unwritten
Some said he’d been a preacher
He could certainly hold a crowd
Teasing them and pleasing them
As he spoke his words aloud
A painter of word pictures
Spoken with verve and style
With asides and interjections
Every random once in a while
A spoken word performer
One of that select band
Who could hold an audience
In the palm of his hand
A raconteur and humorist
A veritable bright spark
Love his work or loathe it
But he certainly left his mark
Now suddenly he is gone
His words unspoken
And, more sadly,
Unwritten
Rest In Peace
Whence the first rays of sunlight fall,
And nary a bird awake,
The purple shades of sky,
Signal for the war-drums to be played.
Sleep blown away,
The gruelling struggle stirs,
And the blueing sky calls,
For the armies to lay waste.
A thousand graves are dug,
Lifted aside are fallen men,
Letters put into being,
To be perused by brood and and bruv.
War stems from hope and anger,
In an inebriated state of righteousness,
Unfounded assumptions seeded by desire,
To be brought to rest in a book or melancholy tune of lyre.
So beware, raconteur,
the golden crusade, a facade of wreath of laurel,
For triumph is founded on the back of coercion.
Alas, nations will fight with power,
But men will be flayed away,
Not unlike the fabled golden crusade.
Gentle soul, I vividly remember
Rare gem of a man
A mensch, he sure was
North Star of the family
Down to earth and so kind
Proud father of six
A gifted raconteur who...
Showered me with stories of old
Wise man whose words
I absorbed and imbibed as a youth
Seeds of insight he embedded in me
Droplets of life lessons he sprinkled
One-of-a-kind sage; this great man was...
My beloved, late grandfather.
Date written: 01/18/2022
We called our Bed and Breakfast the Presidents’ House
A sprawling antebellum Italianate with a rich historical past
Fed our guests tasty nourishing breakfasts of presidential repast
Served by an eighteenth century-adorned raconteur, my spouse.
Our guest house was known for its spectral residents merry
Many we met, got to know, and interacted with over the years
Some got acquainted with our guests if they showed no fears
Prominent to visit from the house of the dead was Ms Jerri.
She was sassy, could be mischievous; at times playful and sweet
Until they met Jerri or her friends some were reluctant to believe
Other guests agreed what the mind believes the eyes can achieve
Once a female guest became quite ill and chose to stay in her suite
When she got over her flu and came down to breakfast one day,
She wanted to know who had visited her and massaged her feet.
She insisted this was one fine woman she wanted, in person, to meet.
We told her then, in great detail, about Jerri our shadowy spirit’s stay.
Written on February 12, 2021
For "Ghost Contest"
Sponsored by Julia Ward
Farmer Fred the raconteur
I’ve often said is full of manure
When spinning yarns of yesteryear
His tales grow taller beer by beer
He orates on about three little pigs
Elucidating eloquently on their building of digs
In Fred’s varied version there is not a wolf
The malefactor being a malcontented oaf
The Guru chakra modulating
Flow of magnetic heat elating
It is the command centre
Of the sublime divine raconteur
Unfolding our journey within
In chorus with all nodes singing
The hypnotic love song
For which polarities long
Following melody of the pied piper
Magnetism rises higher & higher
Union within the heart
In renewal each moment restarts
As an ignition
In unending continuation
An explosion
Without cessation
Teleporting us in blissful rapture
An energy feeble mind cannot capture
And yet if we do not resist
We be to become the bliss mist
Instantly
Magically
In the bliss continuum we are home
One with the pulse of Ohm
30-July-2020
I'll write of things lamentable like poor shipwrecked loves,
Tempest-tossed by bestial winds behind unfeeling storms;
Ripped apart by the furious middles of swift-gusting winds,
Voyaging to dream-born shores away from boring homes.
I'll tell of the Fate-shattered dreams of earth's surest bet.
Painting how those naive shoots untimely waterloos met,
Leaving tender footprints new on antiquity's fierce sands;
Blossoming stars offed by hard luck's experienced hands.
My verse will endeavor to weave history's accurate tales.
Parodying villainy within quiet complacency's stronghold,
Shaming eccentricities in black nooks by raw truth untold;
Inking sagest anecdotes that any finessed raconteur hails.
Of first-hand swills or soured affectations I will not write.
For the self-loving bard’s quill falters from black to white,
As he relives a narcissist's replica of alleged first-felt lots,
And his best tropes mimic mere ego-embellished reports.
I leave it to unaffected pens immune to self-patting twists,
To write of this modest scribe's little turns and weird gists.
The heart is a liar, it makes you believe
Any number of stories, perchance to deceive
A teller of tales, a false raconteur
An emotional hijacker, down to the core
Unruly, ill-tempered, and like a small child
It’s hard to control, and often runs wild
You see what is not, and you trust what you feel
And after a while, you’re unsure what is real
The heart is a demon, a mischievous imp
It parcels you out, like some sort of pimp
A cheater, a thief, it will have its way
Misguiding, dividing, consuming its prey
Spoiled and selfish, unfettered, untamed
It causes much trouble, and others are blamed
So do not believe it, and give it no chance
To catch you off guard, and ask you to dance
The universal search for truth from above
Tells of our fascination, freed quest for love
One who thinks beyond our view
So we can question what we do
One who teaches space and time
Puts them both to metered rhyme
The wisdoms that are found and heard
Revealed in the space between each word
Discover what's in you worth to say
Think it, write it and then just pray
The poetry will often endure
My beloved cosmic raconteur
Lord Have Mercy (@ Mercer & Broome)
I feel richer already
Says my lungs to my brain
The tactile orgasms and inquisitive Asians
Both ample yet directionally challenged
Growing with each thrust and lunge
My pearl is at Purl
Descending into fiber heaven
As poignant observations
Play hide and seek
Across this fanatically tethered cobble street
The runways play under everyone's feet
Each movement and stride
Gaining reason, style and raconteur
As winds slightly tremble
Kissing all the naked faces
Beauty comes as beauty seeks and gets
Welcome home, haute ones.
(10/12/16)
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