Written: November 02, 2025, for contest by: Robert James Liguor
**********
The frozen core of human activeness
where the temperament recklessly smiles,
sludge cascades from the blade's edge
A joyous opsimath emerges,
reminiscent of rebellion and aged books,
sturdy and infused with a grin.
His unique calling sign is the "lard of law."
He wears robes adorned with nimbus designs
and stands before a wall of questions.
He gathers information from insightful individuals
Every conundrum is a breach in the law,
And every victim wants to be obvious,
He repeats sharp retorts to the sentient
To the obstreperous, the zymotic throbbing of history.
He says that justice is not banausic.
She is a lissome Nereid,
dancing with eurythmic elegance through garbage.
Though weariness grasps the morning,
and moribund minds look for troughs, not summits.
He persists on—
a sherpa of the spirit,
bestow the noisome into view
where enlightenment flowers akin to vernal fire.
Justice is not a flaw,
It's beginning
It is Nemesis
the tiny thread that links,
the strained heart to the flimsy earth.
NOW THAT WE ARE AWAKE
Now that we are awake –
We had all the long while
Been in deep dreamless slumber
And while we were still
Still slumbering in our
Unreal bed of red roses
They planned, practised and projected
What “tomorrow” would likely bring
Now that we have realized with pain
That the “tomorrow” we failed to plan for
Has changed herself to “today”
We watch with mouth agape
As their deep buried conduit pipes
In our land of milk and honey
Drain the natural resources
That had sustained our life hitherto
Shall we fold our arms, do nothing or
Jump on the mass exodus bandwagon
While they milk our land dry?
Can we by this endless wailing
And tearful row and retorts
Within and outside our shores
Free our land, our people
From their firm and hurting grip?
Can we by mere declaration of innocence
Wish away the doom that looms?
Now that we are awake
Let’s answer these questions sincerely
As we continue to search for freedom.
"It's RUBY TUESDAY night" declared Charlie.
Why do yer call it that when it's ruby murray for curry?" retorts Steve.
"It's coz we 'ave it on Tuesdays that's why mate" replies Charlie.
Steve shakes his head "But Charlie, we do 'ave it on Saturday nights too."
Charlie laughs."Last one your ANGIE cooked, my guts felt like WILD HORSES were stampeding inside and lets say it wasn't quiet the TUMBLIN' DICE coming out the other end either."
"Too much info there Charlie boy and if she hears yer say that you'll get more than a clip round the ear, bunch of fives more like. You still helping me decorate Jades bedroom this weekend? She wants us to PAINT IT BLACK" asks Steve.
"Black? ain't that gonna be dark and make it feel smaller?" Charlie asks.
Steve sighs "Yeah, probably, it's her space so she can have it. Not my choice but YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT even in yer own house when yer surrounded by HONKY TONK WOMEN. Anyway, gotta get this splinter out that's UNDER MY THUMB from sanding down the skirting. Sort that, grab a beer and play THE ROLLING STONES cd the Mrs got for me birthday. See ya later mate".
They say age is just a number,
but its much more than that.
Now everything I eat or drink
just somehow turns to fat.
I used to kick a soccer ball
all over sunny fields of green
but now I throw my knee out
just pulling on my jeans .
My auburn hair that hung in waves,
long and full of sheen,
is now short and white, stands on end,
and makes me look quite mean .
Old age isn't for the faint of heart.
You need to be tough as a boot
and forget about those days gone by
when you were young and cute.
You need to develop a thick skin.
(Though in truth its thinner than ever)
Words no longer phase you
and your retorts have become quite clever.
Yes, growing old is really the pits.
Like living under a curse.
But on the flipside of getting older,
the alternative is worse.
Rabid, renegade ravens, rise.
Relishing rancid refuse; repugnant.
'Round rural relics, resounding ruthless retorts.
Retrieving realm revelations.
Rival reckonings; regimes ruptured.
Repent! Release. Repeat..
Reconcile. Rejoice. Retreat.
Sebastian
couldn’t live
without saving
the walls
His paint
covering over
dire messages
scrawled
All passersby
witnessed
each canvas
restored
Reframing
dark alleys
with hope
evermore
Sebastian
a warrior
of brush
and stroke fame
Graffiti
a pockmark
his quest
to disclaim
Alone
in his wander
where shadows
hold court
Each wall of new
slander
his palette
— retorts
(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)
Start journey quest now where love shows,
Stride with calm poise shrewd path of fate;
Feel touch fling zest in sublime flow,
By your own choice greet lavish state.
Learn how to glide as act funds proof,
Match your fine grip to charm lots more;
Peel off vain pride to see plain truth,
Glimpse that fond trip from mortal shores.
Watch the wind blow taut misty lease,
Be on the way of mystic feel;
Sense touch you know with heart at ease,
Cause crafts deep play of apt goodwill.
Exult true gains karma consorts,
Embrace hard pains that love retorts.
The phoenix rises from the ashes after it
was scorched by lower flames
It soared higher despite the smoke but all's
fair inside the game
Everyone is played within the game but we
must be a good sport
I ask why receiving no reply but who needs
the fake retorts?
We climb levels to new devils ready to face
what's bound to come
They try to bind us, so we struggle but those with
weak wills have never won
Too much news is too much transparency
A 24-hour cycle of news is more than I need
I want only a headline telling what took place
Do not give me all the gory details, indeed!
I do not need “talking heads” explaining to me
What I can understand with just the facts
I can make up my own mind about an event
Let me decide for myself how an action impacts.
Quite honestly, sometimes ignorance IS bliss
I am not disarmed by a lack of news reports,
I’ve discovered I am happier for not knowing,
Especially sassy politicians' constant retorts.
What’s essential for me to know, I can find out
After all, I can always inquire of my wife
For she has never lacked for good information
And I never disagree … who needs the strife?
Don’t do the rhyme if you ain’t got the time.
Nothing is worse than a half-finished verse.
If you want to complete her, you’ll need a good meter.
(‘Tis said that the bard brought the girls to the yard.)
Don’t use words in a poem if you don’t really know ‘em.
Great gasp! Bloody heck! Have you heard of spellcheck?
Your free verse is free… of all grammar, I see.
Watch those apostrophes to avoid apostasy.
Bad punctuation brings the downfall of nations.
Long lines are killable, so be watching the syllables.
If the subject is tumors, at least use some humor.
If it’s garbled and confused, don’t shoot the muse.
If poetry’s hard, well, don’t blame the bard.
If you’re not having fun, this career’s not the one.
You’re not making money? I’m not either, honey.
And listen here, Missy, that’s pithy, not pissy.
I’d have more retorts, but I’d best keep it short.
Temporal Dilettante Journalist
David J Walker
no-thing need not name the nameless
breaks the morning in disguise
shakes the shame and wakes the shameless
quench tormented turbid eyes
the bootless errand realized
who shakes the hand but shuns the banquet
a polymath of nullity
a picnic spread on follies blanket
the argot of a fervent plea
omnifarious frivolity
dante sings symphonic anthems
measured meters latin chants
pardons plied to paphian sanctions
the queen retorts in satin rants
a paupers portion the monarch grants
bemoans the message minimalized
Oh, the gullible women threw themselves
at his intellectual poetry and prose.
To him, ah, he was as delightful as the scent
of a fragrant spring rose.
To their delicate dismay, they found him to
be a fraud and a sneak!
Inside, his forest green cape, they gasped!
Beware: HRM Prince Control Freak!
He was spreading evil talk amongst the princesses,
Causing dissension, heartbreak and not so
subtle hisses!
But Prince was simply righteous,out of some, to make fun?
The elixir of lies spread, by him was anything was droll
and humdrum.
He has changed, I am happy to loudly report!.
He has learned that others have their own views, not
in need of unwanted retorts.
8/6/2022
To craft a poem short,
one that cavorts,
holds court,
exhorts,
perhaps retorts
of sort
and not resort
to ***ort:
a sport
that does comport
in support
of a certain forte.
----------
H/T to Maurice Rigoler's The Art of the Short Poem
Right at daybreak the sparrow starts
To quibble, heralding the day.
"Prick! Prick! He says in spurts
Like a vexed man having his say!
He deals out thoughts,
Slights and retorts!
He prefigures what's to come
In the nearing daylight hours.
Things will cause us to lose our calm
And there'll be times for no favors.
You'll free your chest
And speak with zest!
The sparrow shows a clear spirit:
Voicing feelings without restraint,
Talking straight, not for plaudit
Or fighting shy of all complaint.
He says his say!
He talks away!
In the coming several hours
There will be all manner of talk,
Some benign and some venomous;
Hence the sparrow starts out the walk
With this quibble
As a dribble!
Happiness cascades sorrow transpires
mind's oblivious to unfulfilled desires
The day I woke up and cleared the shambles
guilt was a stone tied to my ankles.
Ponder should I keep moving on,
cause I have come a long way
gone the whole hog.
Its a misery of sorts
when I try to complain,
it kind of retorts,
reap what you sowed, repent but
keep moving on.
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