An illustrator was one John Sloan
as cartoonist would never moan
Opposed to art used for proporganda
preferring social scenes comme ci comme ca*
*McSoneys Bar
Summer Love
The summer’s heat invades
Stains of soft petals
As love gather’s certain poppy breeds
As slow unheeded love sense’s
Paralysis endings
Sherry Sloan
Windows Of The Soul
The desire shall dance upon the black soul
Beneath the stare of leaping eyes
Opportunity dances to memerized feelings
From depth of eternal lifes whirlpool
Sherry Sloan
Samantha Sloan is sophisticated and somewhat successful
Surprisingly, she struggles when situations seem stressful
So, she saw a syndrome specialist, Dr. Sabrina Shortcakes.
She simply suggested sipping succulent strawberry shakes.
Samantha found serenity while slurping such syrupy sweets
Surrendering to slumber, she slept on scented silk sheets
Spent all her savings, but she's safe and spiritually secured
sailing the Sea of Serendipity, stress free and self-assured
Soothed by spectacular sunsets, Samantha secretly smiles
Searching for a special someone on sultry South Sea isles.
December 16, 2020
Alliteration contest, sponsored by Eve Roper
On Halloween, beneath a crescent moon,
a dark-haired man, pale-faced, I chanced to see.
He danced with grace and beauty to each tune
the band was playing. Would he dance with me?
At last he asked me, “May I dance with you?”
On Halloween, beneath a crescent moon,
his breath was on my cheek. My passion grew.
Within his arms, I thought that I would swoon.
How beautiful he was! But all too soon
he left me, saying he would wait for me
on Halloween beneath a crescent moon,
beyond some trees in shadows he pointed to.
His first name, all I knew of him, was Sloan.
But past the trees I heard his sweet voice croon.
It led me where his name shone on a gravestone
on Halloween, beneath a crescent moon.
Written Oct. 18, 2016 for the May I Dance With You contest of Galeo DS
Where Would I Go?
Where Would I Go?
Where would I go
If I left Japan?
She is my Mother.
I am a cherry blossom.
I am one of thousands strong.
I am her rocky soil.
My feet are planted when
The ground shakes.
When Mother is angry.
Where is my anchor
In foreign lands?
Who understands the voices
That inhabit me?
Who will find me lost among strangers?
Who will know?
I will stand solid through the tumult.
Honor the lost by continuing them.
Mix the blood from my hands with theirs.
Suffer the fury to keep what is mine.
My tears.
My pain.
My country.
Mari Sloan
copyright 3/11
Requiem
The wrath of God descended on our land.
The fires raged and water scoured clean
Leaving shrouds of once loved homes
Where happy people lived.
Death reigned in our proud land.
Even the ground vibrated beneath
Our trembling feet.
Graves opened up to entomb the living.
Mud covered frightened mothers
Who clutched children to their hearts.
Drawing tortured last gasps of life.
Entwined together.
Never to part.
Next spring as pristine snow
Rolls down Mt. Fujiyama in crystal drops
Of silver water.
As leopards drink deep draughts of life;
And cherry trees shimmer blossoms on laughing lovers;
And the household gods are given new belongings;
I will still hear the screams of the dying.
I will drink salty tears.
I will still mourn.
by Mari Sloan
Requiem
The wrath of God descended on our land.
The fires raged and water scoured clean
Leaving shrouds of once loved homes
Where happy people lived.
Death reigned in our proud land.
Even the ground vibrated beneath
Our trembling feet.
Graves opened up to entomb the living.
Mud covered frightened mothers
Who clutched children to their hearts.
Drawing tortured last gasps of life.
Entwined together.
Never to part.
Next spring as pristine snow
Rolls down Mt. Fujiyama in crystal drops
Of silver water.
As leopards drink deep draughts of life;
And cherry trees shimmer blossoms on laughing lovers;
And the household gods are given new belongings;
I will still hear the screams of the dying.
I will drink salty tears.
I will still mourn.
by Mari Sloan
Jagged Edges
We expect too much of people.
After all, mere marionettes forged of clay,
Thrown into the arena unarmed,
Buffeted by the winds of discord,
One of a hundred thousand screaming
Needy beggars,
Craving love.
We have no owner's manual.
No user's guide.
No assembly instructions.
No self-help book,
No drug or pill,
Just friends
To see us through.
Jagged edges.
Ragged mass of warring neurons each one claiming
That it knows
What's wrong and right.
Confused we hurtle
Through the darkness
Hiding our fear.
Sharing our plight.
To be human is to be imperfect,
To make mistakes.
To learn and recover what we lost
While learning.
To go beyond the range of angels
In our love and pain. To forgive.
by Mari Sloan
copyright 2/2011
Broken Angel
Broken angel, beyond repair.
Your words empty echoes in a heart that you once ruled.
The mask removed, you stand revealed,
Your tawdry golden crown clutched,
Streaks of tarnish running into the dust
Beneath you.
Your court applauds you, but all I hear
Are your own words, which betrayed you.
Rambling indictment of your crumbling virtue,
Stripping you bare, revealed—sugar and vinegar
Mixed together.
Nobility? Never.
I mourn the you I thought I knew.
And sadness seeps into my very bones.
A disappointment never to be remedied.
Disillusioned by reality.
I wish I’d never known you better.
And felt this loss.
Mari Sloan
Copyright 2/2011
I awoke to the pressure
Pushing me inward this morning.
Sticky. Moist air immersing me
In sodden memories.
Blast from the past.
Humid awakenings from a life
No longer mine.
Rusty time.
Displaced. Confused. Spinning.
The shoe and not the foot.
Not striding forward in confidence
But trod upon.
Sole flapping in weary protest.
Every motion orchestrated for
Survival.
No revival.
I think I shall become "Bamboo Lady."
Roses lost with my past.
No hothouse plant but green,
Swaying with the changes.
Common woman thriving on
Nutrients and water.
Alive
And learning.
by Mari Sloan
copyright 2011
The Warrior, the Artist, the Healer and the Cop
The blood of my ancestors
Flows strongly through four
One is my child
But there are three more.
One is the warrior
Who leans far right.
One is the artist
With visionary sight.
One is the healer
Disease to stop.
And one is my daughter,
The cop.
Each one of these is better
Than we who raised them, deserve.
They’ve survived the fires
Fanned by our lost nerve.
They’ve taken our mistakes
Transcended them all.
And then, more, or less,
Forgave us.
Somewhere in the line
Of those from before
Were brilliant, strong humans
Who opened the door
To these fine children
Who grew up un-sutured
To make the adults
Who will save our sad future.
Mediocrity may rage
And an ocean of angst
But these fine young adults
Will rise from the ranks
Hold high their individual
Strength and resolve
And each, in their own way
Their life problems solve.
We did everything wrong
But somehow they are right.
With compassion and love
Justice and second sight.
I fear my tomorrow
But when things get rough
I thank those before me
Who gave them the right stuff.
Mari Sloan
Copyright November 2010
Peter
"Peter picked a peck of pickled peppers"
Peter popped a pepper on his tongue.
Peter found the answer to the seasons
And will never have to strive for warm.
Peter's teeth flew out to feed the fairy.
Peter's mouth drew in to stop the shout
Fiery havoc screeching down his larynx
Exhale blowing off his regal snout.
Peter's eyes grew big to show his horror
Fear of gastric groanings to ensue.
Pickled peppers begat horrid moanings,
Red face and those lovely cheeks of blue!
:-) by Mari Sloan
copyright September 2010
Saving the World
I wanted to write a poem
That would change the world.
Incite deep thought.
Spur others to action!
Save the world!
I could see my words
Crossing swords with evil perps!
Scathing missiles unleashed from the
Molten fires of my sharp mind.
Exploding fallacies, lies, brutal falsehoods.
The reservoir of my wisdom would remain
To guide the youth of Always,
Instruct citizens of Now
And correct mistakes of Yesteryear.
Forge a better place.
Until I realized that today
The fires are out.
The sword is sheathed.
The silo is blocked by a dump truck
Of ordinary.
My coffee is good.
My husband is laughing by my side
And the cat is purring niceties
As he rubs against my legs.
Maybe tomorrow.
by Mari Sloan
copyright November 2009
Masquerade Ball
Dress up ghouls
Death's Masquerade Ball.
Each ghastly dance
Creates the queue.
A death head prize
For willing waltz.
A looming grave
The victory taunts
A dying knave,
A pyrrhic flaunt.
by Mari Sloan
copyright May 2010
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