War weary wayward wanderer walking westerly
Sadly slowly striding shadowy suburban streets
Barely behaving bravely but blindly bound
Coldly click-clacking cumbersome calloused cleats
Tormented tattered tired thus temper tampered
Following faltering footsteps from frigid feet
Deeply determined denying darkened deadly deeds
Recalls rankled ridiculous rituals readily repeat
Loosely lackadaisically lumbering like lost lamb
Ghastly giant gradually greets grieving ghost
Posturing politely promising placid provincial palace
Hell's haven happily hinders Heaven's host
In a violent contumacious act
the rankled child smashed the terrarium;
the green shards of glass making an abstract
scheme on the tiles of the solarium.
Amid the sphagnum and the fertile dirt
sixteen years of tender growth lay dying
a single swipe with full intent to hurt;
the child listened to the mother crying.
It continues to befuddle my inquisitive mind
why many of you have attacked and maligned
vaccines, and have decided to become aligned
with other naysayers. Are you physically blind?
It's not amusing when false dogma spreads terror
Your claims are outrageous and uttered in error
Open your eyes to the truth, and be a torchbearer
instead of creating hysteria as a rankled despairer.
I'm not suggesting you wear rose-colored shades,
but stop throwing darts at hearts and live grenades
at those fighting for the right cause in the crusades.
Life or death is not a game to play like charades.
I wonder how you'd feel if one you loved had died
for refusing to allow a needle to pierce their hide.
Would you admit your theories had been cockeyed
or pig-headedly insist, "Vaccinations are unjustified."
Remove the cloth binding your eyes. Set yourself free
of lies sweetened with rhetoric, so we all might be
safer in a world that's not destined for its apogee.
Listen, if you refuse to see. Please consider this plea.
October 5, 2021
This or That, Vol 7 Contest - Hysterical Blindness
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Reining in jet-black steed;
Rangle for her falcon.
Repugnant mudslinging,
Risible in content,
Rankled those in the know.
Recent loss of soulmate;
Ravens smudge the teal sky.
____________________________________________________
GLOSSARY
Queen Elizabeth II had a good seat, and her love of horses is well documented. [Edited]
Throughout the ages, falconry has been considered the sport of kings. In falconry, ‘rangle’ is a term used for small stones which are fed to hawks to aid in digestion.
The exposé led by her grandson, Prince Harry, had divided a nation—a number of assertions made, have been proven to be false.
Queen Elizabeth II lost her husband on 9 April 2021, whom she had viewed as her soulmate.
A group of at least six captive ravens are resident at the Tower of London. Their presence is traditionally believed to protect The Crown and the Tower; a superstition holds that "if the Tower of London ravens are lost or fly away, the Crown will fall and Britain with it."
“Pshaw!” My grandmother said
as she thumped and bumped about
her crowded kitchen
steam rising, having
heated conversation with herself
Rankled by my grandfather's
latest excuse for not helping
around the house
Thwack! She smacked
the meat down on the counter
pounding and whacking
dinner into submission
Beyond exasperation
stewing, livid
“Pshaw!” She said again
louder this time, making me jump
sounding like the air-brake
on my Grandfather's big truck
letting off pressure
Little and fiery
fierce and feisty
my Grandfather had no idea
what he was up against
the volatile, volcanic fury
of a woman thwarted
“Land's Sakes, Willard!”
was his final warning
but he let it go past that-
to the point of
“Pshaw!”
I wonder often
what do you do with them,
the many jewels mined
from my rankled mind.
Jagged edged gems scraping,
my brain further chafing
as you unearth each disturbing bauble.
I wonder often
if your excavation
reveals some personal fruit
or some prized, torture bred treasure.
What do you do
with your collection of stone and marl?
Do you display your torment born trinkets?
Do they sit in your studio, up high
on a laminated shelf and buffed
to painstaking perfection,
reflecting the light of your merciless labor
Herr lover’s pride and joy?
How then upon the wings of life interpreted
we should come to witness a fall so very far
and only be written in suffering
That such a tale should be told of us all
be in the ink of tears inescapable
humanities final tryst leaves the tongue
and to life entrusted but never to be heard
In the rankled questions find their armouries of frustration
in acrimony torn the accusation
with such nonchalant transgression
while walk away from Eden
So have we now risen upon the fluttering annals of our hope
to triumph so cold in delusion
a martyrs struggle who’s face we’ve never known
Such a sweet is the ambrosia of success
so savored is the taste of someone else’s bread
the pleading trivia as it is solemnly plucked
from every single atom of who we are
How then can such a formulation be so misguided
so abused and so disrespected
how upon the wings of love
was such a wretched tale told of us
blotted with the ink of tears
and to ourselves owe no allegiance
no scribe of elegance for humanities final word
to depart the tongue of life
never to be heard
Far back in the cool green shadows
of the woods in a foreign land,
there blows a rose of thornless stock;
it is thornless by Love's reprimand.
The hunters have fled the battle;
the woodland lies placid and still
with naught to break the blest quiet
save for the nightingale's trill.
Kneeling beside the fair blossom
is a maiden of purest heart
whose virgin soul no man has known;
it was reserved for her true love's art.
Nestled against her maiden breast
lies the beast of the ivory horn;
he who discerns the virgin heart,
the magnificent unicorn.
The trees gather round enchanted;
their lacy tops whisper the song,
"home is the warrior from battle
for right is triumphant o'er wrong."
He rests, wings folded, victorious;
enraptured, she cradles his head.
Love is the balm his soul needed
for the wound that rankled blood red.
Far back in the cool green shadows
of the woods in a foreign land,
there blows a rose of thornless stock;
it is thornless by Love's reprimand.
The rose which blossoms eternal
knows the lovers will never part;
it is white for a love without blemish;
it is red for their passionate heart.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
INIQUITY
The absence of moral or spiritual values afflict
we detest them when at the short end of the stick
life is unfair—we are reminded—the reply quick
Afraid we might not get our piece of pie
even when offenders repent—apologize
never really payback—just a free ride
Further rankled when God’s time is not ours
trapped--Sylvia Plath in her troubled ‘Bell Jar’
choosing anger over trust—restitution bizarre?
How to make right when we have been wronged
biblical options rebuffed whilst hate is prolonged
perfect fairness not ours to harbor all lifelong
God makes things right in His way and time
‘vengeance is mine’ He reminds – never sublime
verdict of iniquity chastened—victimless crime
Your black hair shimmered
I knew not the reason
I watched it every little season
My heart and head simmered
Your shapely body twinkled
As if never would it be wrinkled
Yet it had a little lesion
Which never ever rankled
You were my heart`s queen
Those organs of sight
Just witty and bright
They caught me off guard
An angel is all l had seen
I zoomed heavenward!
PRETTY KITTY
They named her Princess
Coal black with long silken fur
She had this proud air
They had to laugh thought it cute
Not Caesar their bulldog brute
Caesar was not cute
had a face like a washboard
Always kept his place
But Princess had a free reign
And this caused Caesar great pain!
She ate at table
Was let out to freely roam
Welcomed on a lap
Not so Caesar not so cool
He was too big and he drooled
He was patronized
Princess her nose in the air
Scratched the furniture
Had a perfumed litter box
Once peed on the master’s sox
All this Caesar saw
Oh it rankled in his craw
That snip of a cat!
Bring her down to Earth he vowed
Dump her from her fleecy cloud
And then one fine day
As the Princess sleeping lay
Head on velvet paws
Caesar as was his habit
Lifted leg let her have it!
Dave Austin
In the pipe of thoughts,
Something was left blocked,
It could not occur,
Long till the time clocked,
They shook and shoved,
What was stuck was thus,
Not budging it refused to behove,
It was as if motors had jammed,
And gears rankled,
It was a bundle of stray thoughts,
That were clamouring for link,
It was indeed a battle well fought,
Some sound came after a lot of exertion,
One of them had moved,
And in some shape it got proved,
Now another moved and laughed,
As if mocking the effort,
Belittling the poor bloke,
That was attempting the sort,
Let me help out by a fraction of an inch,
Perhaps that would suffice,
And get foundation edifice,
It beckoned its mates,
Though they were pretty late,
The thoughts moved by chemicals,
That they ate and consumed,
And moved with grudging concurrence,
To their preslated place,
As soon as the link clicked,
A blinding light too blinked,
The 'idea'was formed,
And flowed like water,
As if freed from dam,
It was the first real play in water,
Very painful though it was,
It did not at all matter.
Moribund cerebrum was graying yet,
It had set and lost several bets,
It knew not what to do and think,
Yet it was not ready to sink,
It was breathing easy and down,
Finding short energy for a rebound,
All this while the being felt dead,
As if a vegetable which had been had,
Think master rankled its pockets for change,
But nothing came along,
It was dead broke for ideas,
Suddenly it had seen the thing on road,
With eyes that were half shut,
It got the energy it was looking for,
And made the eyes broad,
They focused on the road,
And found that this was what,
It had to goad,
Flashes went wild like laser beams,
Sparklers went berserk on their sulphur seams,
It was a treasure and not just pennies,
The ideas had come in a long time,
It would correct all losses and mistakes,
Of the past hurting now so much,
Make things and set past amends,
These were not simply ideas,
But invaluable diamonds.
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