Sorties Poems | Examples

The Fries

Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
It gives me full of pep,
Yellows, walleye, salty,
I will eat hot fries.

Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
Belgians, sweet flamingos,
Walloon girls, redheaded girls,
Out of the oven, all hot.

Eating fries is not stupid
English, golden, or Norwegian,
The fries it gives a hell of a peach
Tomorrow, Marion, give me the fries.




Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Ça me donne voyons, une sacrée frite,
Des jaunes, des dorées, des salées,
Je mangerai des frites chaudes,  moi.

Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Des belges, des flamandes douces,
Des wallonnes, des filles rousses,
Sorties du four, toutes chaudes.

Manger des frites, ce n’est pas bête
Anglaises, dorées, ou norvégiennes,
Les frites ça donne une sacrée pêche
Demain, Marion, tu me donnes la frite.

Bonjour

Avec grande amour
Joyeux Noël et bonne année
Faut toujours bien se rappeler
Notre sourire est précieux
Au bon Dieu
Réjouir
Des beaux souvenirs
Les liaisons 
Parmi nos chansons
Chaque note
Nous emporte
J'admire
Vous faire rire
Bonne humour 
À tous les jours
Passion d'amour
Chacun son tour
C'est bien Moi
J'ai confiance en soi
Venez mes nouveaux amis
J'ai les chaises sorties

We Went To Different Schools Together

We went to different schools… together
walked on opposite sides of a street
that constituted an invisible border.
There were differences…..but not really.
We walked slowly, as if to spend time together,
assessing the others clothing, shoes, gait.
Eye contact was forbidden
as we had been warned…..about them
as they….about us.
Smiles were fleeting sorties into danger.
We found, as children do,
ways to challenge the guardians
a quickened pace….leading to
a foot race….a breaking from the norm,
a joyously shared connection
of shouts and flashing glances.
I am not sure who won the “race”,
I think we all did…us kids….truants
in the school of ancestral fears,
breaking the barrier of a paved border
streaking toward the finish line
stretched between two churches.


John G. Lawless
©9/12/2019

My Grandma

My grandma's sandy skin
like chopped pecans delight me
stands for comfort and bitter sorties
the dysfunction and re-joining
the colossal, quasi-expressionistic soul
hidden behind despair
a husband who tried to bury you alive

 
we crossed disquieting silences
and productive scowls, you would get my temper
teetering on the blink of a slap
you would assure me with a pair of eyes
and I, gasping with delight
would ask you for a hug
yet passion is so much stauncher
when doesn't stride out from the chest
when it keeps quiet and invest
the beauty of a kiss
embroidered in your throat
so I keep on kissing you
and you never get enough
and I shall never pass
on feeling your son, through your daughter's act
a replica of a miracle

On a Walk To the Bottom of a Page

It starts off with a familiar route 
and follows a course of well lit streets
where the incline is not too steep,
takes you pass the local shops,
the bus stop and the entrance 
to a park. Then it all goes downhill 
from here, inducing a kind of hypnotic 
state where everything
begins to unravel and float away
on sorties in search of meaning
and the more damaged 
seek out a refuge and try to mend
what is broken. Words wander 
the dark like lost ghosts to find what
is missing and a vacant space
each can fill and call its own.
Yet so much falls in between.

Animals are running loose
and the menagerie you keep caged
inside your head has been breached.
That flashing light up there ahead
is becoming ominous. Something
is closing in. Voices are everywhere 
having escaped the throats of those
to whom they once belonged,
roaming the world to seduce an ear.
Time now to roll yourself up into a ball
and get smaller until you are
no more than a tiny dot
at the bottom of a page -
then get out of here

.

Icarus Falling

Escape - the demon of the damned,
taunting the earth bound prisoners
plotting their sorties to freedom -
flailing in an ever distant dream. 

Condemned by a wingless curse
I flew on pilfered feathers
challenged the suns supremacy
fell to my ego’s delusions

And falling – cursed my failing wings.
So small the distant orb of terra
so frail this moment to remember
escape - the demon of the damned.



©10/6/2019

Icarus Falling
Edward Ibeh

I'Ll Never Forget What's His Name

I’LL NEVER FORGET WHAT’S HIS NAME

We went to different schools… together
walked on opposite sides of a street
that constituted an invisible border.
There were differences…..but not really.
We walked slowly, as if to spend time together,
assessing the others clothing, shoes, gait.
Eye contact was forbidden
as we had been warned…..about them
as they….about us.
Smiles were fleeting sorties into danger.
We found, as children do,
ways to challenge the guardians
a quickened pace….leading to
a foot race….a breaking from the norm,
a joyously shared connection
of shouts and flashing glances.
I am not sure who won the “race”,
I think we all did…us kids….truants
in the school of ancestral fears,
breaking the barrier of a paved border
streaking toward the finish line
stretched between two churches.


John G. Lawless
©9/12/2019

Shores of Doom and Gloom In Your Faith

Shores of doom 
Needn’t engulf the space in your mind
Where without your will gloom
Can’t inhabit until faithless fleas and spiritual sleaze find

Room and space to waylay and slay without delay
The faith you profess to possess
In a spray without a ray stray
Strung and hung when you dispossess

Your faith of the strength and depth
Which faith has sunk into its roots
In each significant step and faith breath
You smuggle and gaggle in the boots

You wear with pride as you deride the loss
You claim not to suffer in the dwarf
You call disbelief and the abandon toss
Spotted in the wharf

Where faith ought to find succor
By virtue of the pride of place
You claim to allocate to the anchor
Faith can’t in your mind squeeze from a disbelief trace in a lace

Shores of doom and gloom striving to mount
On your faith a determined assault
Within a number of sorties you dismount
As conscience pangs claim it’s no longer our fault.

Braggart Batons and Sombre Sorties

In my mind somber sorties unfold
When morbid movements scar a hundredfold.
Normalcy dead, transparency scared
Empathy bearded, intransigence endeared. 

In my mind sordid scenes grow cold
When vulnerable voices no longer hold.
Brash brands undead, harsh hustles prepared
Phantom forces deployed, evil enamels ensnared.

In my mind torrents of tears no longer dry
Victory vessels victimize, vile victuals bereft of shame fly.
Flies on excrement multiply, sties of scorn sniggle
Spies of blame bloom, pies of putrefaction giggle.

In my mind orifices and offices of ordure spy
Voices of Hades hustle, choices of straitjackets sigh.
Worms of wilderness sparkle, whiffs of death dodge
Squids of insanity soar, weeds of vanity splurge.

Obsessive Constraints - Part Ii

the onset of emotional nadir, 
   where ballistic ordnance bombed away
fancy free, innocent, naïve boyhood 
   decrying, detonating, and describing me own Pigs Bay
Allied, linkedin, and synced Luftwaffe 
   and Panzer division invasion that clay
like materiel within southern cerebral hemi
   sphere inroads usurped no delay
riding roughshod via synapse straits sporting 
   scoring sorties using every
axe n newer on dread did Swiss hide dill naught 
   to decimate with Sherman determination tuff flay
leaving not one iota (oft times) referenced as gray
matter unaffected quite aware 
   of rebel voices yelling “HOORAY”

Play Holi - Rang Rangoli

Spring field
Fun filled

Green teen
Play clean

Forties
Sorties

Sink Pink
Drink, wink

Spread Red
Hot bed

Love Fete
Soul-mate

01.03.16




Holika, commonly called Holi is a spring festival celebrated in India and neighbouring countries, at the approach of the spring season, during the 3 or 4 days preceding the full moon day in the month of Phagan. Holi is celebrated by throwing colors and colored powder in the air. Colorful Rangoli pattems are painted at doorways to houses. Families assemble around a fire throwing prasad and coconut in the fire.The Holi festival marks the end of winter and the beginning of spring.
Essentially, Holi means the triumph of good over evil and conquest of sensual values by spiritual values.

Rang = Colour

Remembrance Sunday

My dad always choked when he tried to name, 
His friends and comrades who hadn’t returned, 
From sorties, dogfights and reconnaissance jobs, 
And would motion by his hands about church. 

The service on Remembrance Sunday morning, 
Would let his worn, torn-up, shredded insides out, 
Give him his heart of thoroughfare and ambition, 
Respected his silence on the matter of the mind.

Peerless

We would sleep oft as light as a flagging breeze, eyes dry and smarting; with minds ill at ease..'

Our lives then the currency to pay your dues, who would return from our sorties? we had not a clue.'

We fought off the nausea, as well as the foe, we'd tied wires to ailerons if it meant we could go..'

Our aim was sure, our desire's to win.' Our hearts burned for freedom; midst the dogfighting & spin,

We honoured this country, child maid and man, from the bankers, to the bakers; lords or labouring men.

Our thoughts oft assailed, by the task on our hands; our limbs felt fatigue, yet we held to the plan..'

We came back from our 'bailouts', to a pittance of pay; then returned to the sky by the night & the day.

Our flights held this country, kept its hope; earned its trust, we hold no regrets for blood spilled in the dust

We know that our sacrifice, will be not effaced; keep the faith we've delivered, here in our covenant place.'

©Joe Maverick 7/2/2015

Winners Risk All

Winners Risk All

Aware, after spending the day teaching
Reminiscing, remembering, reliving
And interpreting events reaching
The wizened children of my own age.

We of the 1930s and 40s
Seem to have spent our lives
On adventurous sorties
Of claiming, defending, inventing

The stuff of which men and women today
Put together new adventures made of
Claiming, defending, inventing in a way
That seems bloodless, aimless and wispy.

We who are now on the frontier of old age
Can still taste the salt of the bloodlust
From the memories of the wars we wage
Alive still in the annals of our mind.

Have not given up on the battles we led
We have not given up the ground we stood on.
Our causes are anything but dead
Standing aged and worn, lined with time.

Though the energy is gone and strength is bereft
Compared to the younger set
There is more victory, more joy in the life still left
Than in bloodless games with no winners or losers.

One day we will all go down to the grave
Leaving only memories behind among the living
But this century's old ones go down brave
As victors with the decision to the winners.

by E. Marshall Evans

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To everything turn, turn, turn ~

Standing upon the ledges edge; uncovered

As peering about her city lights below?!

Gathering in biopsies water colours

Moments splashed atop their vestige be neons

Dissecting organisms called life; time

Seeking purlieu sorties reasons incised!?

Lifted, from his palette of brushed; this rhyme....

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