the shock
72% of the inhabitants of Israel
Approve of Netanyahu's treatment of
the people of Gaza
One supposes their TV shoves the same
horror as we see
It is as the people of Israel are beset by
an inner truth that destroys their soul
and lead them into self-destruction
For, we need a long spoon when
dealing with Israel
I am the wife; the loving, faithful wife.
His children’s mother and, he says, his life.
He tells me he loves me, brings me roses
And I believe him, he supposes.
And yes, I do believe he loves me in his way.
Love that we’ve had can’t simply fade away.
But he’s not mine alone, I know full well.
He forgets I never wear Chanel.
I am the husband, wracked with guilt,
Trapped in the web of lies I’ve built.
I know in my heart the right thing to do.
I stood in church and vowed to be true.
But I was weak and fell for temptation
And find myself in this situation.
I have to end it, I know for sure.
But, before I do, just one week more.
I’m the scarlet woman, mistress if you will.
My part in the story, a once a week thrill.
A cameo role in a tale of deceit.
A tale that for me must end in defeat.
He says he’ll leave her; I know that’s not true.
But things might change if only she knew.
So I’ve thought of a plan to make him mine.
I’ve sprayed his shirt with Chanel Number nine.
Played
Every other's antennas oftentimes are up, An emotional
state that everything is mental being free from deceit.
Unguarded emotions impulsiveness and vulnerability
routinely get taken for granted in games of strength,
distractions are often hypocritical and shady. Rules
are broken, and trust is deceptive powerless to be played.
Survival of the mentally fit supposes everything has cause
and consequences who you thought you played
well, you played yourself.
Just suppose,
you juxtapose
date and time…
early riser,
back home
before
you’re supposed
to go. A riot,
that it seems
my brain
pauses, supposes
it knows
everything,
but the calendar gleans
the truth,
the text reveals
I’m all
mixed up.
Most of the time,
I get it right,
but,
once in a while,
my brain
misfires,
however,
I’ll not fire
the old gal -
I’ve depended
on her
all
these years!
i do supposes...
raindrops on roses
are too wet for noses
when walking i goes-es
Summer
did arrive today
A beautiful sunrise
an azure blue sky
A gentle breeze
as the Sun beams down
Banishing
Vanishing
Winter’s frown
Taking a walk
On the promenade
Smiling faces
Such happy souls
Look forward to dipping
their winter white toes
Though cold it will be
in the sparkling blue sea
At the end of the day
With their bright red noses
How sore they will be
no sun cream one supposes
But happy are they
on this first summer’s day
For tomorrow it may rain
in the UK ~ by sea
Written 14th May 2022 after the warmest day this year...
Contest A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE
Sponsor Brian Strand
N/A
A dozen ducks were bobbing
On the river - what a sight!
The fact that there were 12 of them
Just filled me with delight.
If there had just been 2 or 3
I’d not have been impressed
And, at first glance, a dozen
Wasn’t what I would have guessed.
Of course I counted! Now, when thinking
Dozens, one supposes,
I should add ducks to Christmas days
And bagels, eggs and roses.
Bundled for the weather
Was an old man on the street.
He pushed along a shopping cart,
His purchases complete.
I’ve no idea what things he bought
Except for, one supposes,
A treat meant for his Valentine –
A dozen bright red roses.
For love and its expressions,
Sometimes difficult to gauge,
On this date make folks affectionate,
Regardless of their age.
If anyone supposes
That life should be a bed of roses
How boring this would be
With no diversity
Roses have prickles the blossom exposes
Sometimes a person supposes,
When asked to describe how things are,
That talking of rainbows and roses
Will hide what might startle or jar.
By painting a picture so sunny,
Believing you’ll fool those who asked,
What happens, I’d bet even money,
Is that some will know truth has been masked.
For lies rarely stay nicely hidden,
Since facts often end up revealed,
Exposing the one who, unbidden,
Learns guile’s a bad weapon to wield.
Was the Woman made for me or
Was I made for the Woman
Am I to rule over her or
She supposes to rule over me
Is her desire for me or
My desire for her
Please tell me, Lord,
Love the Woman I gave you
A lady of a certain age
my days are fast declining
for when did all those years go past
each day now faster than the last
Although my life is not through yet
my memories wafting back and forth
our life was full of love and wonder
with no spare time to sit and ponder
A busy pace when we were young
no time to smell the roses
and not until our autumn years
we sniffed a few before our tears
As you my love left prematurely
leaving me bereft and lonely
though I'm not ready to leave quite yet
some dreams in life are still unmet
Time runs out to smell those roses
enjoying Mother Nature’s gifts
I make each day a celebration
afore Grim Reaper’s visitation
So in the meantime one supposes
keep on smelling those fragrant roses
living my life before it disappears
I am grasping on tightly whilst
holding back the years
Written 7th May 2019
SECOND PLACE
Contest: Musical Inspiration – song Holding Back the Years by Simply Red
Sponsor: Joseph May
Contest Strand Choice J
Sponsor Brian Strand
2nd Place
Here’s a start: a candy heart
Or long-stemmed bright-red roses;
Lingerie, to make her day
Romantic, one supposes.
Not too hard to find a card
With sentimental saying.
For a treat, go out to eat
(And naturally, you’re paying).
Better yet, go into debt
And buy a sparkly trinket.
Dim the lights, so appetites
Include champagne – then drink it.
Or, don’t fuss and be like us –
With years of love behind us,
We’ve agreed, we do not need
A token to remind us.
Poor Rudolph his nose has turned brown
His antics have made Santa frown
For no one supposes
That folks with brown noses
Are trouble and let others down
12-06-17
You rightly, quite politely, criticise
my efforts at composing “pleiades”.
What’s rare about revilings such as these
is, blaming me for leaving out my “I”’s.
The reason isn’t tricky to surmise.
My arrogance supposes I, with ease,
can conjure (with unthinking expertise)
whatever I may please. Please don’t despise
my failure to peruse the contest rules,
for carelessness (the calling-card of fools)
is what possessed me. That, I can’t disguise.
Each time a fresh and feisty pair of eyes
lands on my folly, one more pride-cell dies.
Its silver magenta
is shimmering warm-white
in damson-dark center,
ink-black like summer night;
if clay turned inventor,
it might spawn this dawn-light.
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