Ronda’s a town,
but this rondelet rankles still:
Ronda’s a town
(a placename is a Proper Noun).
Between Malaga and Seville,
you’ll hear the very sparrows trill,
Ronda’s a town.
Ronda exists,
But does ‘rondelet’ rhyme with ‘hay’?
(Ronda exists:
I’ve wandered in its morning mists!)
Or does it, maybe, rhyme with ‘debt’?
It makes a poem hard to set!
Ronda exists.
Ronda’s my home.
Unlike phantom poetic forms,
Ronda’s my home.
Enough of frothy wordy foam!
I’ll stick to things that I can touch.
And I love Ronda very much.
Ronda’s my home.
From the smallest of handbells to bells that are heavy,
bells of all types make a large bevy.
Small bells are often the tinkling kind
like decorative ones in some stores we find.
There are ring-a-ling bells and bells that jingle
like jingle bells ringing when merry folks mingle.
Sleigh bells on horses evoke for me
lovely white wonderland imagery.
Other small bells women wear round their ankles.
An alarm bell that wakens me, oh, how it rankles.
There are waist bells the belly dancers often will wear
while big bells on churches call people to prayer.
Some bells sound randomly; others on queue.
There are bike bells, school bells, and cow bells too.
Of bells that chime melodies, there's more than a few.
That's what the bells called Carillon do.
Bell bottom jeans were used back in my day
and Hell's bells is an expletive some say.
The most famous bell, what might it be?
I think it's the one that's called Liberty!
She came into our lives unbidden,
A pleasant surprise,
Her open heart was never hidden
From her soulful eyes;
She won our hearts with her gentle love,
Always filled with grace,
Her time with us, a gift from above,
Still holds a dear place;
When small, we had fun, running around,
Playing all the time,
Perking up at the tiniest sound,
She raced through life's mime;
With unspoken words, she cared for us,
Active and naughty,
Strutting around queenlike, making fuss,
A little haughty;
Her unwritten absence rankles now,
Blackie in peace sleeps,
For ten years, she brightened our days, how!
Unshed sorrow creeps.
yes madness no
i cannot -
hear
for all the talk talk ...
see
for the smile displays a horror
the
odoriferous stench
of the inevitable inimical political scientifical
is a rough toughie
I refuse the obligation when the
taste
rankles to a treacle so
keep talking -
while I
touch
a leaf
to feel my life
Rain showers in the summer heat
Elevating the oppressive humidity rankles
The biggest reason it does not excite me,
It aggravates my painful arthritic ankles.
Old age would certainly not be complete
Without these struggles to contend with
So, those longing for the retirement age,
Keep in mind, “golden years” is a myth!
Written June 21, 2021
The larger the bird, the larger the turd
The bigger the tart, the louder the fart
The more beans he ate, the darker his fate
The more he drank, the more he stank
All the lines above rhyme perfectly internally
Yet to call them poetry rankles eternally
Filthy fraud's wrong ride rankles...
Funny feigning felon
‘Twas the night before Christmas in the little town of Oberflugelschweinsaxenmitcracklingewurst.
(There are some that are much longer; it isn’t the worst)
Now hier ist ze haus of ze happy family SCHMIDT
Und Herr Schmidt mit rosenconk giving ze gluwein a hit
Ze Schmidt kinder all excited - Santa Claus kommin to town
Und everyone so merry, mit big smiles, und never a frown
Und zere in ze garten ze liddle haus you know what for
Zose are ze shoes of Frau Schmidt sticken aus unter ze door
Und now here ist gekommin Santa Claus on der grosse toboggan
He is singin Oh! so merry cos he also had a noggin
See ze reindeer geklompin uberhead, leaving Lufthasa standingk
Zen down zey are kommin - all ready fur ze Landingk
Ach! Meine Gott! Zey are heading for ze liddle haus in ze garten!
Kablunden! Blitzen ! Alles Kaput! Ze liddle haus Ist geflattened
Und Frau Schmidt ist runningk aus mit ze knickers round ze ankles!
Zat’s enough to spoil your Christmas; in ze snow it really rankles
Fater Christmas zen ist sayingk: "Shtupid dumkopf reindeer - Heraus!
I gave you clear instruction to be landing on ze SCHMIDT Haus !!!!!"
Defunctive smoke
From the brain
Rankles the soul:
An eternity of ignorance.
There are no marrams for skin.
Marquetry of bones
Intricacy assumes
Hoodwinking eyes
That see only nudes.
Whining gin.
Phthisic mind
Transhumanizes darkness
Swaddling rain
In a hollow pearl.
Aperient paraffin.
Happiness now:
Being straddled in the sun,
Juvescence:
Fustigating the sea.
It’s win win win.
Inside the gall bladder,
The unstilted oyster
Is condited:
Redundant sud.
Quite self-akin.
Concite the hymns of Satan
If you find yourself perjured,
Faith is more recondite
Than delirium.
Terribly consanguine.
Win win win!
There are no marrams for skin!
-Pin Dew (01/05/2017)
We try to forget those who harm
With words which cause us alarm..
For it rankles within,
May even cause sin.
Like a snake which may bite or may charm.
A festering wound must be cleaned
The poison is otherwise a fiend.
The cut may give pain,
But while pus remains
Septicaemia lurks unredeemed.
And as with the body,the soul.
Poison will spoil thus the whole.
We must loosen our hold;
Our resentments unfold.
To perceive all, we must now become bold
A tiny fish in vast ocean,
Desirous to swim at liberty,
Direction and depth beyond measure,
Delicate with shiny witty eyes is me,
My Upma to a fish stands real true.
I am a thunder in the sky that enlightens,
A fire in hearts that sets one ablaze,
A thought velocious that travels to infinity,
A strong emotion that never unwinds,
Upma is a simile to all and stands true.
A pent up anger that goes in tears,
An endurance of an intense torture,
A pang that rankles after the agony,
Entirely original though comparable,
My rights are absolutely infrangible,
A simile means Upma and that's me !!
Written on 21/12/13 for
Contest- who are you....
A tiny fish desirous to swim at liberty,
In vast ocean and depth beyond measure, is me.
Always elated, witty with communicable smile,
Unique still found simile as my name says.
Fire in my heart not possible to tranquilize,
Touch of a thunder would always enlighten,
Thoughts in my mind travel fast to infinite,
Much of my pent up anger goes in tears,
Emotions beyond control, at times unwind,
I am More of a soul rather than a body.
Alike marvelous and merciful, not knowing,
Intensity of what I endure by present torture,
But by chiefly the pang that rankles after it,
Completely original, I quaff my ale with gusto,
My rights I consider entirely infrangible ,
No matter what else you may take away from me!!
people fail to deliver a job with honesty and industrious nature.
when they died, they carried pain and raised worrying rankles,
children never face them, they find the practice has no true feature.
no doubt, they are educated and professional to hide taxes,
then built a house of cheat for a soul to live in peace,
and run a race to maintain cheat for excessive relaxes.
they run community, society and the world with optional benefit,
there is no truth, they produce problems and a solution of cheat,
and seeking reliability, honesty and punctuality to maintain a cheat set.
Progress is based on cheat to produce positive and approachable manner,
they deliver a trustworthy service with 100% warranty to build trust,
if you pay cash, very good, if you need a receipt you pay tax for scanner.
Religion, politics, education; justice based on professionalism,
criminality is growing in wildness mercy and forgiveness is Godism.
Signal in the sky
A pumpkin, fierce, glowing
Showing teeth
Tells of a certain graveyard
Where the dead moves again
Ghosts float
Chains rankles along the ground
Surely causing noise
The haunted house
Located right next to graveyard
Inviting the undead
There is a lone light on within
Is there really someone home?
Just a ruse
To get the living inside
To meet their doom
Russell Sivey
Watch for Falling Houses
By Elton Camp
Even though the visit to Oz was a dream
A weird way to kill a witch it does seem
When a house came falling from the sky
Such a sight would not be hard to spy
On her broomstick the witch would spring
And fly away so as not to fear a single thing
If the Witch of the East was that easy to kill
Why didn’t the ugly dwarfs long ago chill?
To them, her domination certainly rankles
With zebra stockings and no trace of ankles
Like her sister, was she to water so averse
Perhaps even that, to her, would be a curse
If so, it means that a shower she never had
It would follow she had to stink terribly bad
Is that what brought the dwarfs such delight
Finally to have the witch out of their sight
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