Delectable daze
aligned aesthetic
shimmered swoon
of
bespoke ripples
svelte meander
induced isthmus
vapour vaulting
veracity stoic
conscious cognizant
bard assimilating
aureate archways
seismic
rendered relish
goading effervescent
literary lullaby
interwoven
opportune foramen
tinctured chasm
or otherworld
fractured frisson
bejewelled
template tempter
sonic madrigal
enticing
creative lunge
toward tiered
vanilla visuals
for
ethereal lyric
deft minstrel
of
fermented finesse.
lithe moulder
authorised pen
swimming
enigmatic estuaries
whilst
dance retinue
sunshine swathes
pivotal pirouette
spawning
erudite enjambment
satin weave
gossamer lens
whose
amaranthine fixed
focus eschews
bland doggerel
instead
chatoyant cynosure
replenished quill
lacquers
indigo imbued
bunting’s warble
inducing
hypnotic portrait
surreal verse
delirious
weave web
unravelled
dream denouement
of
epic entablatures
Pottery from Stone
who stop this retinue for me ?
Raised on hope
is all we have got
No use being exaggerated
from the shelter of the storm
The stones are clear from the rain
Something mysteric roams
My mind ruled by the weather
Games
A fun seeker’s unfolding thriller
Forced to describe it ‘Time killer’
But it might well be a healer
Of wounds to others no feeler…
Some games with the strictest timing,
Their players chiming clocks minding,
Others to last while no winner,
Continuing as day grows thinner …
Rules of games learnt like the Bible
Slighting them serious like libel.
It should a game discontinue
Against a king with retinue…
Games promote fun but also sense,
As partakers avoid nonsense:
A shout comes last with victory
Through skill luck, also mystery.
Quite on the hill. Faceless children run around by a cave who calls them in with a signal straight and gazed. Walking a concurrent line with a retinue firefly disperse into a dome with a small wooden house in the middle. The great white and yellow king nested in his throne of groveling worms. A human face he has popping his face it does with eyes and teeth spouting out in its secretion. Drenched upon the childrens missing faces seeping like a mask denude showing their missing faces. Memories brought back light now seen for now children have been free.
His clothes were tattered, in vivid shades of red blue & yellow
he wore leatherette shoes blackly polished and gleaming with shine
Red fiery hair that summoned like a fire hydrant and a big fat rubber nose that honked when it was squeezed.
He had a polka dotted hanky that protruded from his well padded suit,
and a kangaroo pocket in which he kept all his most precious belongings.
Aside from the fact that those big blue eyes of his were undeniably sad,
every part of his retinue screamed, "I am funny, I can make you laugh"
People came to the circus to watch his goofy antics and
to forget their worries for a little while. One day while he was blowing up balloons for the children, he died of a massive heart attack.
In heaven the angels took Tatters to the children's room. Sitting on a big shiny
red stool he was asked to make balloons for every child in God's creative nest.
His eyes were never sad again for he knew that here,
he could make a child smile and never grow old, or ever be sad again.
The End.
Call me a Poet,
but I’m just a writer
these words that I breathe
respoken much later
Call me a Poet,
my couplets in rhyme
each stanza to shorten
with meaning sublime
Call me a Poet,
my retinue sounder
to live by the moment
my squares getting rounder
Call me a Poet,
I’ll call you the same
if one phrase you’ll tender
—attached to your name
(The New Room: March, 2022)
the sounds of a world which once rang
with the magical rhythms of rhyme
from sheep being shorn of wool
to remedies given by the spoonful
magic lie in the ticking of clocks
nonsensical like hickory-dickory-dock
sugar coating the process of learning
lessons came with a cadenced adorning
sailors at work on their ships
sea shanties sprang from their lips
cowpokes alone on the range
clerks counting out the small change
uncrowned royalty without retinue
pouring forth all the things which they knew
beauty came with words which were said
as if laughter and precision had wed
abandon in the scramble for time
the long lost realm of rhyme
You’ve stopped talking to me and I don’t know why...
I hate this - this feeling - this anguish, with it’s retinue of mysteries.
Was it something I said? I’m sorry - I curse my rebel lips.
Was it something I didn’t say? I’m sorry - I was the unaware child.
I’m just a girl – not some faultless machine
There needs to be a manual – a manual for... everything - so I'd know.
Is there a more contemporary narrative than disappointment at the hands of this Internet plaything - this toy-like trap we hope will inform us and we think we command?
I know questioning destroys some things.. but I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
Do I seem alone? Well, I'm not.
*whispering* "I have my retinue".
They're here, to tarnish accomplishments
with pointless debate and circular arguments.
Inviting trouble, self-distrust and cheerlessness.
The posse of negative voices that live in my mind.
Do I seem alarmed? Maybe not but I am though.
*whispering* "I'm conjuring the worst case scenario".
My teen brain is coursing - with cognitive distortion.
What's meant to keep me safe is magnifying the vague
into landslides of irrational outcomes, ill-defined.
This entourage of catastrophic thinking in my mind.
So if I seem flaky - i'm sorry - you see I'm really busy
fighting the urgent vandals in my mind.
If I seem overly emotional it isn't something personal
I'm fighting my way thru this noise the whole time.
He gave her a Rose what else could he do
her bands so tied a one way avenue
though not Red nor White or hard to find Blue
a token to hide from kin’s retinue.
He gives her a smile to bridge hyper space
he’s let her down his prowess a disgrace
longs for Lilac eyes that match her face
oozing memories of lasting the pace.
Everything was blue in the sky at dawn
pitting his mood being one with the thorn
a stone cold kiss for love he feels sawn
in reality this his life borne.
© Harry J Horsman 2016
Making Things Happen
Written: by Miracle Man
11-26-2019
When we’re not renowned we have no retinue,
So making things happen is what we must do.
“where there’s a will there’s a way” even if we’re late,
Being late generally happens when we hesitate.
Some days we can’t catch ample wind in our sails,
Perhaps we’ve miscalculated what the task entails.
We let pride hinder us from seeking assistance,
and we only prevail when we practice persistence.
Stephanus Marcus Book 1
Canto 6
Verses 2 and 3
Young Guenevere did speak to Katharine.
"Yes, my strong leopard knight doth tarry late
and keeps the dale thus free and verdant green
till James on Whitsuntide then claims his mate.
Tis thee, dear Katharine, Prince James doth wait
to lead down aisle in happy wedded white.
And he with jewels most resplendent sate
this thy perfect neck seen then sparkling bright.
Thinks I in beautifying thee prince doeth right."
Then Katharine didst make response to maid.
"This day at Castle Morley father waits.
King Richard pays him visit I'm afraid.
Yes, I'll walk aisle in jewels my prince sates.
Large retinue of priests with shaven pates
will keep their time in rhythmic chanting praise.
As we walk aisle the kingdom celebrates.
In joyous adulation voices raise.
Soon we'll bless England's charming country many ways."
If you now leave, sun dies removed from me.
Thus made dead by your callous play of mind.
Can light soon strike this sickened soul which ye
have placed in a dark grave, which nay is kind.
Once new love flamed within self, mine heart’s keep,
not so now, maid, ‘twas foolish wanting mate.
Past days for me brought great joy, I’d dance, leap.
all laid aside in my rejected state.
Tip ye cups oh gods, you’ve won mightily,
poor soldier wanting victory less grave
than breaching high walls e’er nay to flee.
Zeus, I give thee such heinous name as knave.
Yon retinue laughs, goddess twisting braids.
All while this candle flickers yea and fades.
Stephanus Marcus Book 1
Canto 5
Verses 2 and 3
King Richard spoke to Saint this day at Seat
of Donville Castle by the River Thames.
Their conversation broached on need to meet
with nobles, bishops, knights including James.
In earnest he wants Saint and other names
to be his entourage to Holy Place,
when shining retinue with pride reclaims
the Holy City with Sovereign's grace.
Lord Saint detested Richard’s dream but showed not trace.
" At winter's solstice I depart with sword
and sail to Ashkelon with thee as aide
to free the plains of infedelic horde
and Christianise the pagan souls with blade.
Tell me how many knights thou mightest bade
to take the oath of brave crusader zeal.
This faith of mine is real; it won't thus fade,
Judean slopes of Moslems we shall heal.
'Et Deus vult' is sacred cry, Jehovah's seal."
A stormy, cold scraped winter sight,
quiet song birds forsake flight,
down fluffed on pale limbs lucite,
a fantasy landscape, pearl blue.
In grey tone wrap, mist frozen dew,
her smooth complexion, silver hued,
Luna surveys earth's wild retinue
in closed dens of hibernate sleep.
Snow drifts creep the mountain steeps
and cuddle velvet valleys, deep,
where black streamlets forget to leap,
their summer memories iced still.
Winter plys her voluminous skill,
snow sculpting on each vale and hill;
queen portrait of a glass toned will
mirrored in each hardened lake.
She cherishes a world opaque,
makes the sun his warmth forsake;
the seasonal round's numb heartache,
a stormy, cold scraped winter sight.
December 5, 2017
Faye Lanham Gibson
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