A step too far, brings right of passage to a ledge
Fluttering at cliff walls, pushing life’s brittle edge
A sheer instinctive thrust, with no trust to pledge
Now or never moment, undermines fear’s wedge
A chick leaps off, flailing frail wings fail to fledge
Featherweight of hope meets a ten-pound sledge
Crashing straight down, no safety net to dredge
Next guy flaps like mad, landing softly in a hedge
The sledge fall of midnight,
The soul encounters the strange.
Christmas Celibration : Dear Santa
Tp play Carol in sweet Sonata.
ringing jingle bell :
Reindeer to wag tail.
Music Band coming from Atlanta.
We can remember, just on last year,
your favorite sledge puller reindeer
asked for new collar.
It took one dollar
That will fit on his neck : Am I clear ?
Arranging lunch with sweet - spicy dish,
spaghetti, also fried tuna fish.
Dessert sumptuous.
Nice fruits, delicious.
Dear Santa , with deer you will relish.
our unfettered dream run
when realized, lets life fly onto golden wings
so much fun!
a freedom's wedge
seeks sacrifices in its rings
else sledge!!
fulfilled
inner soul sings
thrilled!!!
our unfettered dream run
seeks sacrifices in its rings
thrilled!!
Gallagher, likewise in the front row. Green
melon astringent holds bodily form. Flesh
seems harmless lying on the butcher’s table.
Rank and file juiced up for the battle. “Wizard-
of-Odd” holds high, like Thor, his “Sledge-O-Matic.”
Sovereign or martyr thus gravitas none dolorous,
dirge has keyed the grave motif to your succubus,
organs glistening as the innards burst vile viscera,
to bite on carbon release hammers sledge Invictus.
Not impressive but knot is a slip on your own noose,
gathering to watch a struggle as the buckets kicked,
amusing when the rope snaps and the monster runs,
turns executioner hacks away your scurvy populace.
Digress thus invitation to a horrid melancholy siege,
maelstrom of pianist crescendo a litany reverie,
masquerade these fair maidens as whomever,
still a mask and the rest of your face is plain to see.
Dreams are made not to be accompanied by meanderings of creatures of the lesser deities for the reaper is the end to everything this your prayers will not save you from the scythe’s guillotine.
Enjoy your expendability,
know that I do,
with that I take my leave,
soaking to bathe and wash off your crimson grief.
He fell, yet held to denial
She'd gone several seasons to send him to hell
Cold iron rod was insufficient to smash him
She saw and stretched for the sledge
His face of caramel caved, dwindled he like a drunk
Rage of storm flung him fast amidst junk.
Astronomical lift cushioned her
Keen students returned respect, while she waged war
For the culprit, that aged false balm intent to win -
One would glean, Neil deGrasse Tyson discerned her dreams
He knew folk art, martial art, art of other sort
His gift lingered long like caution to one
For he stood as master of space she graced
She who observed in awe his wit, felt aroused.
Then and there, she feared no more the devil's lure
Weapons herculean lay wait
She pounced and pound, his faint voice drowned.
She lunged, sledgehammered away his head
Specialists would haul and burn remains,
joy and pain, touch of rain, prelude to spring renewal.
*
Santa stood in the warehouse
Full of nearly empty shelves
Last night they’d been ram raided
By a bunch of discontented elves
Recently infiltrated and recruited
Into an association of packing staff
Whose ideas and demands and wants
Caused Santa to cynically laugh.
He could have held out for longer
That much was very clear
But the clever blighters
Had subverted his reindeer
To make matters even worse
Pushing poor Santa to the edge
The blighters had gone and clamped
His only working sledge
Only thirty days to Christmas
He knew of no other way
Than to meet their demands
For increased shift working pay
He’d do what it took
To bring things back on track
And ensure he had enough
To fill his mammoth sack
He reached for the Gordon’s
For one last large stiff gin
Then went to arbitration
With a forced and fixed grin
Through the frosty forest we roam
With our keen-edged tools in hand
We seek the fairest Christmas tree
That shall adorn our land
We spy a pine with verdant boughs
And spires of tender green
We fell it with a gentle stroke
And bear it to our scene
We mount it on our sledge and speed
Back to our cottage warm
We plant it in the parlour bright
And gaze upon its form
We deck it with a glittering store
Of baubles, lights, and rings
We crown it with a radiant star
And bind it with gay strings
We cluster round the cheerful hearth
And chant our festive songs
We bless the Lord for His grace divine
And wish each other merry Yule-tide
HOLIDAY SEASON
Grand goes Christmas celebration:
Creation cum recreation.
Christmas tree on decoration.
Merriment ! Just not to mention.
Bethlehem star shines, that’s the cause.
Reindeer pulls sledge for Santa Claus.
Jingle bells ring rhythmic with pause.
Santa giving gifts ! Great applause.
All work to bake cake at random.
Charm of party to miss seldom.
Gorgeous days ! No place of boredom.
Chilled breeze and snow fall ! Maximum.
Enjoy skating ! Fantastic fun.
Silvery snow shines under Sun.b
Kids throw snow balls to play and run.
After jogging, Jack Frost ate bun.
Holiday season in festive mood.
Visit to Grandma through pinewood,
On red dress goes Red Riding Hood
to taste delicious sumptuous food.
Dare We Beat Evil With Truth And A Heavy Sledge
Fresh rain pounded out cleaning again our Mother earth
above squirrels chattering for all they are worth
what matters is in this life we simply obey
do our very best and sometimes we kneel to pray
for guidance and follow the dear heaven-sent light
develop fully our brains to see with true sight
see glittering stars above, know our God is love
face off squarely and with heart deal world's push and shove
such gives us dear Lord's blessings and truth to walk straight
walk proud as we live, remember it's not too late
share our happiness with family and our friends
with conviction know Heaven be ours in the end.
Dare we beat evil with truth and a heavy sledge.
With our faith know wisdom and truth gives us the edge.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Oct. 27th, 1979, age 25
Now When I Go Visit, Tears Fall, It Makes Me Sad
He rode the high plains to hell's dead weathered edge
Across the highest mountain on a horse he road
His grandpappy a wild man swung a heavy sledge
Many are the glowing legends on him were told
His heart was big and as pure as the finest gold
And he had a brilliant mind swift as blowing wind
The whole town, the entire county on him was sold
Even the meanest of animals was his best friend.
Yes, true to character they all on him were sold
Now from a baby he was a he-man full growed
And yes, a good country boy he was fairly grown
Old story, a good man, best I have ever known.
Now lies in small town cemetery, my loving dad.
Now when I go visit, tears fall, it makes me sad.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
March 24th, 1970, age 16
Note. I was quite young when I wrote this poem.
I was barely sixteen. Did not know much about the world but I knew my dad was a very honest, hard working, tough man.
it is dark in my soul and yet
obscurity is piercing like a laser beam
an eerie cacophony endures
the silent screams of a sledge hammer
pounding destruction and oblivion
display bizarre connections
lost in time space and emotion
gloom mingles with a wicked shadow
a corrupted vice proves second worst
for the latter would entail
complete
apathetic
sadness
and he will not accept such defeat
without a fight
of reason and senses
while some feeling at least
is better than complete numbness
for a while poetry might drag the writer
down the drains of a confused script
might inflate context over contingency
pen metaphors and distraction
in order to arrive
at some kind of understanding
if it proves true itself however
and once the surface is pierced
purulent festering will ooze
and form new foundations
built on reality and vital composure
after all abandonment can hold the key
to a lost heart and perished composure
08th June 2023
As the Hedgehog is known for its hedge
It seems he is known for his edge
As he drives in the tip of the wedge
Whether swinging a ball peen or sledge
He will maul you with words aptly lurid
Setting traps that are complexly florid
Hit the gas, double clutch, and then floor it
Leave you lusting for metaphors torrid
Then on a whim he will dip his pen
And commit the poetic original sin
Of writing so tight it almost sounds trite
Shakespearian screamers awake in the night
And yes, he will dare, to twice poke the bear
Baring his heart though no one will care
Are his words stealthy demons bred of his fear
That might let you in, but won’t let you near
Thus, does he stand on the edge of the edge
His view a blank page on which he must fledge
John G. Lawless
©5/19/2023
I’ve walked among its people, tasted foods:
paella, soups, *horchata, and so much more.
I’ve visited Retiro Park, seen art
in sculptures on its streets that I adore.
I’ve visited its shops and restaurants
where dancers of flamenco hypnotize,
its rings for fighting bulls, its theaters.
These things I got to see with my own eyes.
I’ve taken buses all around Madrid
and learned so much there. Oh, that I could be
a youth again, enjoying its romance
and all its sites so beautiful to me!
*horchata is a special drink in summertime. It tasted to me like a watermelon smoothie,nothing like Mexican horchata made of rice milk. Spain’s is made from the roots of a plant called sledge.
Jan. 1, 2023
For the Take Me There Poetry Contest of Margarita Lillico
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