Spire insight of silence
Swotch and bind, conspiracy of mind
Conspire and self-protrude
Mindless matter of maddened hatter
Borne gall of uncongruent bladder
Reign wettened confections'n faux pas
Pram embedded bedding of public propaganda
And poised for prose 'dulted diaper thrown an' broiled'n a gutter
Homely homelessness in wake of deft arms
Freshened refreshener and wetted choke
Chugged and driven doomed deliverance
Cut of word 'cross and lost'n devious drivings of work
Ticking tenor left fear to render
These haps to fall through ungloved metal and measly meak meal, and
Coarse feel along rift ridged riverbays
Swept upon eons of words spurred affray
Sully gusts, and worry t'encrust
And collect the lost worker from astray.
I’m upset with smug Peter Pig
Who’d promised we could dance a jig
But spies my bent trotter
Gets nasty - the rotter
I call him an ignorant prig!
I’ve got a disability
But nothing will ever stop me
I’m a feisty young sow
So I'll never kowtow
Swing dancing makes me so happy
How quickly I'd learned how to dance -
Six lessons from my cousin Lance
When I dance Lindy Hop
I just don’t want to stop
My dancing may lead to romance
Young Percy took me by the hand
Well trotter; but you’ll understand
When we danced the pig jive
He made me feel alive
We’re dating now, life is just grand!
8,8,6,6,8 checked with how any syllables
Tall Tales 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Jeff Kyser
03/13/22
Blemished
She lives with dishonour;
Besmirched
With hate, she’s surrounded
Broken-down
Her fate was thrown into darkness.
She is the mother of evil
A scum-bag of a woman
A lowlife
A rotter
She deserves death;
An eye for an eye.
In response to the mother who abused and starved her one-year-old son until he suffered a ‘horrific’ death, then sobbed about it on Facebook.
Tonika Willoughby, 28, is said to have inflicted appalling and ultimately fatal cruelty on her toddler over an extended period of time, which culminated in his death at her home in Labadieville, Louisiana, on November 9. 2020
A Facebook page that appears to belong to Willoughby
She posted: ‘November 09, 2020, is.
Da worst day of mah life,’ on the day of the toddler’s death.
I would write you words that would make you smile
Of meadows and may flies and a love that lasted
I would sing songs of beauty that would you, beguile
If I weren’t such a miserable bastard.
And I’d paint with my words such wonderous things:
Summer ponds where the butterflies flit
And mountain streams fed by snow melting springs
If I weren’t such a grumpy old git.
In autumn I’d set down in ink of bright gold
The delights of a gambolling otter
Whose play would be there for you to behold
If I weren’t an irascible rotter.
Then in winter, I’d write about flurries of snow
Whipping round the wolf on the hunt
While we wrap ourselves warm by the embers’ bright glow
If I weren’t a cantankerous old so and so.
I’ve been called an inequity spotter
(although some will just call me a “rotter”).
Names are biased for sons:
yours and mine — everyone’s.
I propose to make JohnSON — JohnDAUGHTER.
Will the human race actually feel triumphant
with the extinction of our African elephant,
why don’t humans believe it’s preposterous
that Earth only homes two hundred Rhinoceros,
I being a human feel that I’m a total rotter
contributing to the demise of our giant otter,
do humans think land only belongs to man
creating inevitable extinction of Bornean orangutan,
shouldn’t wildlife be like sheep is to a shepherd
not to oversee the inevitable loss of Amur Leopard,
why do we rejoice, eager to explain our merits
hurrah saved from extinction the black footed ferrets,
we can always tell our children a fascinating tale
about the time we saw on Earth an amazing Whale,
explain what’s that human like creature when they see
a film or video of what was once a chimpanzee,
perhaps if we could stop killing ourselves and animals
then our planet will not seem such a desperate shambles.
Your walk brings a crisis
reaching a river awfully wide
can't jump this you say
wish I'd taken that ride
Too late for that now
must find faith to lift
myself to the other side
glad it's not a cliff
Well let's go for it
first before jump must pray
Jesus did walk on water
but I'm made of clay
Up you go over water
film froze oh you rotter!
Hot Air
The name of that wind is Satana
It’s hot and it’s dusty and dry,
Don’t call the wind Santa Ana
In error, for that is a lie.
Saint Ann the mother of Mary
Is remembered in so many ways
But not for a wind that blows from the desert
And makes your skin and eyes craze.
In Nineteen O’ One a reporter
In error rushed his dispatch in
He wrote Santa Ana the rotter,
It is he that committed the sin.
The name is Vientos de Sataná
The wind of the devil that’s hot,
A weather man called it Santana
But that is a name it is not.
So we are left here in confusion,
Raymond Chandler back in ’thirty eight
In “Red Wind” to Santa Anas made allusion
As conditions the local folk hate.
The wind blowing in from the passes,
Curls your hair, makes nerves up tight,
Drying the air and scorching the grasses
And everyone’s edgy all night.