Fight is for a never ending cycle
The hurt hurts and gets hurt
And the victim turn persecutors
I will never let you win
I will only leave you alone
Cycles hurt the victim and win you alone
- inspired by Susanna Lawrence’s (me) “FIGHT”
In Kispest
I arrived at Kobánya-Kispest metro station—the end station.
I felt good in the air of this loved place. Part of my life. Part
Hmm. Unforgettable desire. Waiting for love. I had her one.
She is a secret. She loved me. She has passed away. Part
One. Why? Part of my life. Susanna. Lovefull woman. Heart
Not just a lover. Friend, lifemate, soulmate, more than a wife
Time I left you
Sorry
Time I mistake
I am sorry
About
My life
That's why
You've gone far
Sorry
Please
a woman lived in a tippy toppy world.
went by the plain name of old Gerald.
her husband's name was Hannah,
and had a son called Susanna.
she would butter her jam,
and eat her toast with grainy sand.
she put her knickers on her toes,
and wore her shoes on her nose.
everyone walked on their hands,
upon the tippy toppy lands,
a place where the sky was colour of red,
and the trees were made from cornbread.
Hearts of men and women around cities and villages bloomed.
Jesus lived among them and moved like a life-giving sun.
Was society as clean as it looked as a groom groomed?
This was the cause of the incarnation of God's own son.
Women disciples: Joanna, Susanna, and Magdalene
Served Jesus, for whom men and women were like his two eyes.
All (both rich and poor) loved the teachings of this Nazarene.
Through parables, he revealed their secrets above the skies.
God, the farmer, went to sow his words into this wide world.
Some humans heard, but Satan picked them up soon, like birds.
Some thought they loved hearing them, but every word soon got furled.
Some worries about the world, like thorns, grew and choked the words.
Hear, if you have ears, said Jesus, and went ahead with love.
Each of his deeds, like each creature, revealed his knit above.
(Based on Luke 8:1-15)
Liza B of Yorkshire stock
a tinsmith'a wife
her face bears
travails of life
Lily B orphaned
in a sad manner
commissioned
'neath the army's banner
Violet O born in the great war
father Ernest
she never saw
Anne S unanswered
questions still accrue
the granma
some never knew
Frances L her tragedy
was to unfold
the exact details
remain untold
Annie O granny Mayo,
mother came to know
by the canal
at Brookside row
Susanna O a mid-victorian maid
her determination
does not fade
Ethel G's fish&chips held sway
in her wakefield take-a-way
Harriet H high cheeked,pretty&petite
of twinklig eyes&
dressed so neat
Edith G of Jewish stock
a housewife so usung
to me,her face
is ever young
It's a joy to let go.
To stop being perfect, such agony.
More glory, in just being me.
To let it be OK, to not be top banana.
There's no Oscar win~ and then...
Simply end up looking old and worse..
Than Quasimodo's sister, Susanna!
Serenity has magic cosmetics of its own.
Peace in your heart, no need to be bold.
Loving others, more than yourself.
Give up trying to impress,comment more!
Quit looking for praise.
These contents of my lazy day.
June 28, 2020
8p.m. PST
She's the look of a hothouse flower;
She seems to be losing power-
Like a rose in need of summer shower!
Like a bird retreating to summer bower!
Hair plastered, her dress a mess,
She's been under a current stress.
Susanna didn't mean to transgress,
But, she's a tendency to obsess.
Her eyes wild, and full of remorse,
Desperation left Susanna no recourse.
When comes the time for the discourse,
She shall wilt, of course!
She's a certain look of fright,
In her slow and hopeless flight.
Though none yet know of her plight,
Her future's suddenly not so bright!
She's the look of a desert bloom,
Sweltering in some unhappy room.
Susanna seems about to swoon;
She's danced to the wrong tune!
If you look at Stephen Foster,
who wrote songs for the minstrel shows,
you wouldn’t expect a genius
that all of the world would know.
He was another bookkeeper
for a steamship company,
until he started writing tunes
that to this day sound masterly.
Today those same minstrel shows
seem quite insulting to good minds,
they weren’t exactly ‘High Culture’
way back in Foster’s time,
but the man wrote Old Susanna,
and My Old Kentucky Home,
the Swanee River, Camptown Races,
and Hard Times Come Again No More.
Even Beautiful Dreamer,
and Genie With The Light Brown Hair,
the amount of hits this man wrote
can drive musicians to despair.
From throw-away entertainment
that never got a second look,
this man alone wrote the core of
The Great American Songbook.
That he still remains relevant,
even known at this late date,
show that we never can predict
who exactly will be great.
Come back to me
for the old times’ sake,
Oh my Susanna, my love,
With rue my heart is laden,
Come, do come back to me.
Pay heed to the laments
of my pining heart,
Oh my Susanna, come
vanquish my loneliness,
Embrace me in your loving arms
Oh, save me from this distress.
Oh! Susanna, my cruel tormentor,
Awaken the passion of yore,
smother me with your burning desires
and entice my soul with the
magic of your love once more.
Oh Susanna, love of my life,
With rue is my spirit laden
Let me into your heart again.
~Contest by Julie Rodeheaver
Bill's Bill
Throughout the land old Billy did strut
on a search for a certain fine butt
Susanna strolled by
and captured Bill's eye
but he tripped when pulled in his gut
Sue laughed at the extent of his plight
before sensing that all was not right
blood smeared on his cheek
his outcome looked bleak
he'd be alone again on this night
He was surprised when Suzy stood still
flashing him her twin mountainous hills
he reached for her rear
a smirk did appear
until he saw the enormous bill
Can you not see?
All the ducks inside your arm?
Did you think hotel paradise,
Came with no illusions attached?
Violins and rats
Rats and violins
Conductor in a white suite
Playing musical roulette
Slow motion squirrels a symphony
Dancing death on my head
Hotel paradise is the rats meow
Old couches and peeling paint
The evil Mickey mouse is really quite quaint
Oh Susanna sings in this hotel
Ethiopian Nelly checked out long long ago
Dear friends and gentle hearts
I pass on with 38cents in civil war notes
With 3 cents to spare
Bury me amongst the minstrel songs
Among quiet flowers gleefully listening
I have composed stately song
As I decompose, My epitaph shall say
Beautiful dreamer down below
I lie in my suitcase
Ships are made for sinking
Whiskey made for drinking
I am Stephen but who am I?
Form: Disjointed Double Verse
Can you guess who is Stephen?
Mark
Creative, artistic, musical, analytical
Brother of Michael and Susanna; son of Fred and Marlyn
Lover of Nelly (Bourieau) H., science fiction novels and films, private serenity
Who feels respect for God and humanity, love for nature, worry for the Earth’s future
Who fears mediocrity, retirement, economic collapse leading to a popular insurrection
Who would like to see successful sons, grandchildren, his songs produced/recorded
Marina, California (for the moment)
Halliday
I'll call her a different name
This girl whom I thought was my dame
On holiday she went
With my money well spent
To Malta she went on a plane
Whilst there she met a waiter called Frank
In bed playing sexual pranks
This Susanna my girl
His heart she did twirl
We're engaged, and this is her thanks
I looked forward to the day she came home
With this waiter her hands on he roamed
Hey! Susanna your dumped
I hope you end up real plump
Your a dog, I should throw you a bone
Wow! a man with the final say
Our relationship ends today
I wish you the best
With your holiday zest
It's my turn to go out and play
He was born in Genoa,
and his mother was Susanna;
and he set sail at the age of fourteen,
to begin a new exploration age!
His father Domenico
gave him inspiration and courage...
while his three brothers: Giacomo,
Bartolomeo and Giovanni ventured with him
on his long and dangerous voyages,
and accused of many atrocities...
they were sent back to Spain in chains!
A visionary with an extraordinary man's ego,
followed in the footsteps of Marco Polo...
and in his final days, he died a disappointed man!
for astrid or helmsley, susanna or holden
virgin to the pain
skin not stained by blood that marches like ants
across
down.
closed pink folds
or
an unpolished tip
no tears of acid rain.
we havent heard your heart beat
undeveloped
not dead or alive
swimming through my mind
breaking circuits, cracking hearts
digging into the flesh, bleeding pink and frothy
smells like sadness.
lets see how you bleed.
not yet.
summer sun is fading.
soon it will be baking again
september.
9 months.
unborn.
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