Off the land and into the pit, September rolls around.
Simple days have long since gone upon the family ground.
Stolen pride-dignity.
Gossip hounds' voices sound like trumpets to the games.
I'm in the pit, grease to my neck, not hearing the marching band.
But thoughts intrude, they are so vain, adding layers to the pain.
My dream is muddled in murky grey as the selfish look for more.
Holding on till morning light, body spent, truth ignored.
I'm but a serf upon my land, the devil has the upper hand.
So as September rolls on through, my thoughts no longer good.
Purple bands upon our hands, the grease hides all the pain.
Dreams alive for those who stare, not a clue of something wrong.
For in this pit and man-made hell, I'm struggling to hold on.
Stress like devil's electric pain, the blood beats through my veins.
Beats of heart like coffin nails erase the final stand.
In the box the farmer goes, absent from the land.
Rob a farmer of his love, you steal his soul.
There's nothing left, they're asking why, but refuse to understand.
Gray thunder emerged from satin serf
bearing wares of a carnival hag
globes filled with terror and scumbled nerve
boring a path, bringing disorder to sand.
Silver wings bristle at the absurdities
ruddy mates pay respect and disdain
as Poseidon regains his sapphire fleece
prayer, like an orphan, will perish unclaimed.
Leaden flyers rage from jungle nests
straddling the tusks of demonic winds
the beach master sprays blood and his breath
will any be judged for patented sins.
The artisan signs "fruit splayed with silk
the young roll sweetened eyes, suckling the krill.
Arcane dearly loved institution really does make my blood boil
Clearly gravy train devotion yet still we don’t won't embroil
Confirm detest term “the firm” just makes me squirm and recoil
Handshakes from rakes on the take.. insane destitution we toil
Incest selection we suggest a contest like may be an election?
They josh oh golly gosh this tosh the Constitution didn't foil
Nation's fascination with wally Charles the Turd's coronation
Herd with this absurd have a word off their trolley veneration
No defection as the loyals' protection ensure all the spoils
Girth of their worth pilfered from serf & turf since birth oils
Even Randy Andy or scrappy snappy Harry can’t seem to soil
Kibosh posh arseholes nepotistic trolls on the Monarchy dole
End this whole sick rigmarole..Republic for each prole the goal
No parry views & news.. carry on as "Happy as Larry" crappy Royals
Katsushige Mizuno
Is too awesome for just one lord, you know
For 15 years lived as a wanderer
Moving on from one liege to another
His father's serf once tattled on his misconduct
So he drew his sword upon the man and struck
Dad got sick of his wild displays
He swiftly sent the youth away
But neither scorn nor exile can put a hamper on his pluck
Though he at last went home and made up with dad
Who shortly died; that made him his family's head
Some people say that a rolling stone gathers no moss
But settling down and setting roots is no great loss
Honey tells me: Where do great stanzas come from
just out of your head when you're in-bed hon
so, they will say your mind went to our library
in books of yesterday you remember legendary words
you serf paragraphs lookin' to catch a rhyming phrase
of yesterday to bring it on your next line today or ways
cleaver enough to fit that new poem piece by piece
till it is just right to your style a real breeze...
simple rhymes to choose from a vast reservoir
only in your head all while in bed, furthermore
your poem pieces fit just fine your style for sure...
indeed, one cool kick ass metaphor
Oh, Ezra, I feel your sorrow
Tearing your tunic and cloak
Pulling hair from head and beard
Sitting down with heart broke
A teacher versed in Law of Moses
Given by the LORD God of israel
Hearing the priests and Levites
Mixing with neighboring people
Everyone who trembled at the
Words of God of Israel
Gathered around Ezra because
Of unfaithfulness of exiles
We fnd ourselves in similar situations,
The "Persia" of then is now Iran,
Our America is divided on various fronts
It seems difficult for any plans
Is it not time we join Ezra's example
As he prayed from deep serf-abasement?
Is it not time we fall on our knees praying to God
For America's misplaced, sinful discontent?
The Israelites gathered around Ezra
They, too, wept bitterly in remorse
Could it happen in USA?
Dear LORD, our ways have strayed far off course
-Evelyn Pearl Anderson
FILLE JOLIE
I see the tall apartments as we pass
We all shudder, slowing to a halt
The bus conductor turns and stares
As he stops to collect more fares
This stop-start ride is not his fault
The Place d’Etoile packed with cars
I am off to start a new school term
And almost ready to face the world
It’s 1960 and the times are changing
Career choices soon need arranging
As a young woman, not just a girl
And my independence I do affirm
I will stay to work in this exciting city
Paris also can offer varied recreation
My parents still living up in Normandy
Little villages always full of bonhomie
But my future is more than anticipation
And Gilles said he thought me pretty
The bus has almost reached Pont Neuf
Now yet another day of boring lessons
See the grown up people sitting here
Not everyone has varied lives, I fear
I just hope I’ll make good impressions
Whether as an aristocrat or mere serf
On the edge of paradise,
woeful tears fall, cold as ice.
On that edge where I stand still,
ashen whips jut onto my will.
On that edge you sear my helm!
Kibble it like a spider; overwhelm!
Steering through many an eve.
Conceive, weave, cleave then grieve!
Render and espouse; knight and serf.
Guardian of your tear, gate, and turf.
Enact then re-enact my astral dream.
Put me to sleep, hinder my scream.
Dreary lips given a wide berth,
to unheard hiss that typifies rebirth.
Author my flesh unto caged envy,
yielding my soul: break the levee.
Sail amongst my translucent runes,
your siren of electric moons.
I sing for the breaker to inveigle,
tepid winds I once played regal.
Make me forget and make me pay,
for losing my way and drifting astray.
For getting so close then letting go,
missing the blow, ruining your flow.
You are pandora's quantum prison,
a bounty begging to be riven.
Your pride diverts your nemesis,
resurgent carcinogenesis.
Beshrew the darklight spring,
sustained by your phantom wing.
Slake it inept and enthrall its nectar,
woven and entwined in void-like vector.
Apparently Soup finds the Latin word for ‘Human’ offensive;
about as ‘P.C. gone wrong’ as it’s possible to get. I have had to
include completely superfluous hyphens in order to get the word
accepted.
__________________________________
Our home in the stars so often ransacked
Homo-destructus had forced us to act
So quick to breed
Killed - not to feed
Our ancient ancestors counter-attacked
All rounded up for a new rebirth
Transported far to a fertile Earth
A gauntlet they ran -
- Neanderthal man
Homo-destructus; victor or serf?
That was a million Earth years ago
Call us inquisitive, we need to know
A long stellar trek
In order to check
What occurs when you let primitives go
Five light years travelled to view their progress
Earth is an angry and war tangled mess
Our crew now lay savaged
Our ship also ravaged
Homo-destructus sees no welcome guest
That primeval race that we once left to swarm
With clubs and flint axes their weaponry norm
Strangely ironic
They’re now atomic
And Homo-destructus remains true to form
In sundry ways deaf to your zeal
Which foxy whims fruitless sway,
My wandering self did finally feel
Pearliest sparks of your legit ray.
Inured by bestial blinding decoys
Which easiest-faring limb obeys,
I did heed a deluding artful voice
That upon artless hearers preys.
For want of fine wholesome sense
Which your ancient anthems teach,
My guessing soul staggered tense;
Serf to a brutish debauching leech.
Yet now have my penitent eyes
At last gleaned your folios wise,
And found therein priceless wit
Sublimer than sage magi's writ.
~ To the tune of
Home on the Range ~
O, take me way back
Where no one attacked
The King, for fear
his head he would lack
Where seldom was heard
a sound or a word
that wasn't worshiping
The King, That Monster, The King
Home, home for a serf
A straw hut on a hard piece of turf
He'd better behave
And work like a slave
and never make one tiny wave
True love will always make one cry
For like all else, it soon must fly
From serf to King
True love takes wing
When Caesar sees her seizure sigh
Contest: Warrior Sonnet
Sponsor: John Lawless
September 15, 2020
Petrarchan sonnet: abbaabba cdcdcd
Song of the Humble Scythe
My fellow men at arms, today we fight!
Courageous men of fields, that left the plough,
our foes have come; you hear their drums, but now
our storm will wet the soil with crimson might!
Your kin are scared to die, but hope is bright!
We are this wall of stone; you will not bow,
to foreign hands, nor foreign lands, and now
we raise the battle cry for what is right!
Take up the plough — that tills the Fields of Fate!
Take up the hoe — that weeds your earthly foe!
Take up the fork — that throws their bales of hate!
Protect your seed — that needs your love to grow!
The field is yours! The Field is yours! Now great,
we war with tools our fathers made to sow.
From whence springs
eighteenth century wellsprings
of democratizing
healthy cooperative identity?
In that urgent time's revolutionary uniting States
too soon to celebrate
Independence Day
again
and patriarchally
again
and military-industrially
again
and corporately sponsored LeftBrain academically
again
Caught,
and soon virally aflame
in France
and other
older
conserving royalist
loyal feminized serf serves master estates,
Becoming now a marriage
of independent Fraternity
and interdependent Lady Liberty
repatriotic rematriation
of strong and flowing governance
of self and other,
ego and eco,
yang craves yin
for liberally, lavish health
and conserving disciplined safety
becoming more interdependent democracy
of sensory spiritual
and sensual natural
EarthTribes,
Strong of communal therapeutic re-identifying,
not defying,
Flow of sensory free associations
For Loyal patriots
reincarnating
CoPassionate eco-matriarchs.
The sun is rising in the Eastern sky,
its rays cutting the early morning mist.
To shine on the inky black waters cried,
by fallen maidens to an unjust fist
Why have they been beaten so hard they break.
Causing such pain and sorrow as to cry,
for an eternity to spawn a lake.
Not seen by night or serf as they pass by.
Its not their fault time has taken their looks
they become knurly and twisted with age.
To wander the forest to hide their shame.
Until time takes their life and their rage.
But their masters, the Ogres, life is long
Beauty is their lust and young their desire.
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