~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Autumn’s abundance attracts adventurers to Munich.
Oompa bands boast boisterous beats.
Beneath the boundless, blue Bavarian skies,
Bountiful banquets beckon where breads and bratwurst blend,
Beer bottles beckon, from barrels and bars.
Steins are sloshed with swaggering splendor.
Generations gather; Bavarians bask in bucolic bliss.
Hearts harmonize in humble hymns of heritage held dear.
Hand in hand, they huddle, harvesting hope
*Oktoberfest in Germany will take place from September 20 to October 5, 2025. This annual festival is held at the Theresienwiese in Munich. (source: oktoberfest.de). You still have time to book a flight and travel to Munich; hotel rooms, though, will be hard to find. smiles
when elixir of moon drips wine
into the crystal goblet of magic
this late night beguiles my skin, reeling
on a Friday parade of lights;
my hips oh so beckon, swaggering to and fro...
impossible to deny this playgroud of fancy
of a soul flitting in. and out of supple thoughts
when my imagination dangles
on anklets of stars
as naked rhythm grows, my free will abides
to sip the juice of this wondrous ambrosia...
and goddess Isis wheels into the forest
with neon banners,
spinning dream--like fables in my heart
tingling flesh against trickles of time,
where seahorses ride on carousels
where ' a crimson sky breaks the distant shore'
and vivid thoughts spill like silver rain:
in a tower of daydreams or night walks,
visions are spun without question.
I hid in the pandemic,
although I got infected,
fearing they would laugh
at me.
For it prevented them
from performing
their swaggering
ceremonies,
functions,and parties,
and saved me
from the pain of
non-willingly following
societal norms I don't like.
I feel free and comforted
amidst the atmosphere
of simplicity,
but their egos tried
to surface
during the pandemic
as well .
Insatiable shadows
senselessly seeking
spiritual sainthood.
Stealing……….
shiny symbols
staged senses
swaggering sanities.
Insurmountable sorrow.
FLIRTATION
a pretext
for
the glamorous
renaissance
across
the core
of romantic love
swathed in
the symbolic
changing
&swaggering
in a suggestive
state
emblematic
of the
vanity
so so
essential
&
appropriate
to the occasion
beauty-obsessed
assessed
& filtered
adolescence
so
superficially
beautiful
looking fo
a glimpse
of the
reassurance
&
the spectacular
in profile
to be paraded
in an
appearance
so soft
gentle
&soothing
aspiring towards
desire
& promise
covered with
ornamental
displays
of perfection
a
focus on
& aimed at
the observer
at will
I Could Feel His Ghost Just Tagging Along
Why were there white stones arranged on the grave
no symmetry, just haphazard and crying out
as if to say, hey here your good friend lays
and my heart thought, O' yes he always gave.
But that chilly dawn rose up to speak bold
about life, love and freezing icy death
just that downcast thought caught me by surprise
next I felt several thousand years old.
Walking away back to my lonely abode
I could feel his ghost just tagging along
Even heard a few of its swaggering words
Tale tales just like old Jim once proudly told.
That night I fell asleep talking to him.
He was there and laughing, my friend old Jim.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Feb. 5th 1979
\
Note= Old Jim was an old friend of mine back then.
Sure, he drank whiskey every day and made to the age of 87!
I did so miss him and our games of dominoes.
We had our joyful talk that night and the ghost vanished.
School's started up. sigh
I moved up a notch, of course
but virtual school sucks.
We should be walking
- no, swaggering - ivied halls
with new dominance.
Seniors rule, true,
but with one foot out the door
- Juniors set the tone.
One more viral theft,
that renders long traditions
unapproachable.
This virus changes lives
- bodied within its limits
- what future will rise?
My eyes lay upon the way
In sceptical and anticipation
I know I needed someone
Till death do us part.
I saw her come to me
In her coruscating lissom figure,
was touched by the softness of her eyes,
the peaceful temperament
That I shall see,
Till death do us part.
I walked in my swaggering gait
majestically in braggadocio style
her presence responded to my need.
my first looked at her
something special I saw
the right way
to eternal bliss.
Through her eyes, bright like candles aglow,
shine like daffodils in bloom,
Her lips sweet like nectar
I shall drink my water from there
Till death do us part.
Her simulacrum the reverberation of my ideal
invading my memories
Till death do us part.
I met her virgin
of the Holy Mary offspring,
Modestly and inartificial true,
All through natural beauty.
Have sauntered cities and countries
High hills and valleys
have seen many ways
not as beautiful as hers.
We have so much to give to the world,
so much to give to ourselves,
To our offspring,
Through the gift of ourselves,
Till death do us part.
the beast detests the prince of pomposity.
the chin upturned. each blackened strand of hair
in place with grease. his too white smile released
to aproned maids — the town with hordes of them.
his shoulders straight, his swagger thrills his mates.
they clink the loving cup — the weight of gold.
the prince delivers speech, to kill the beast.
the mirror grins and chases him outside.
she holds the hand of Belle - who breaks the spell,
preferring horn-y beasts to boastful toads.
as castle servants change into their skin,
they dance in conga line and imitate
the swaggering and pompous prince who splits.
now he’s the village idiot you see.
8/28/2019
SWAGGER Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Blank verse with 10 syllables except
for first line with 11 and feminine ending
A flame of scarlet crept in a swift diagonal across my cheeks,
Then a gentle sarcasm ruffled my anger,
They felt a melancholy monotone beat of my heart;
The world!
This time, not a mere figment of a poet's fancy.
This is not a swaggering air of braggadocio,
Nor an atmosphere thick with flattery, ballyhoo and toadyism,
Because I’m beaming with pleasurable anticipation,
And can’t dally in maudlin regret over the past.
Having evanescent shades of feeling,
And flushed with a suffusion that crimsoned my being,
I paused, stunned and comprehending,
Because I’ve perceived the iron hand within the velvet glove,
And felt the ironic rebound of my words in poetry.
Having sacrificed the vulgar prizes of life,
I’m done sitting on thorns,
My hurrying thoughts are clamoring for utterances,
Because I’m immured in a travail round of duty,
The duty of living and dying with the ink and pen.
the lifestyle
avant-garde
unconventional
in every way
artist at heart
eccentric
original
his look unique
unlike another
a trendsetter
with
swaggering
flair
AP: 3rd place 2020
Posted on June 14, 2019
Paddle down, it’s before noon,
on the winding river Schroon,
still see a sliver of the moon,
hear the maddened cry on loons…
Meandering through forest,
no wind here, the sky’s at rest,
mallard upstream, quite well-dressed,
onwards the canoe I press.
Ahead is a sandy spit,
stop and eat lunch for a bit,
through the branches, sparrows flit,
calm sounds soothe my tired wits.
Back to the canoe I go,
above aged mountains grow,
pass a camp-site, say,”Hello,’
following Schroon River’s flow.
Couach potatoes! Scrambling for trivialities
The eyes delight, detrimental to their intellect
Immersed in gape at the melanin free race
Laying eggs of colloquialism to metamorphose into
Formality cherishing fool's errand with hilarious gestures
Blindly swaggering when near a shelf of
Bibliographies,deaf to the wail of books left desolate
Heading for the sitting room to clinch the cosiness
Of the couch which Springs up felicity like an oasis and academics viewed ad draught calling acidity
Recording "etiquette", becoming a lady or a gent,
Being flirty trendy and touched
Like an umpire as points scored
"civilised" if this be be, count count not l among thy subjects
Cast me away from thy chariot ,
Exclude me from your parade
Aloof stand l, outcast l proclaim
The world would be such a different place
Without the delights and joys
Of the zest for life,grubby-kneed
Fighting,tumbling little boys.
I watch outside my window
The little kick-boxers at play,
Brandishing sticks like mighty swords
As the wicked villain they slay.
In their special world of make-believe
Their super heroes they emulate,
Tiny muscles flexed,aggressive stance
And their swaggering cocky gait.
Screaming and shouting at the top of their voice
Giving each other playful hell,
The world would certainly be different without them....
But oh so quiet as well!
I could write you a blank cheque
To fatten the purse you adore
In the morning in a cash prayer you partake
A major part of your adopted folklore
Which despite tons of reticence, silence and patience I dislike
To the extent moribund manners like leprosy turn me off
Spewing and spawning a revulsion spree I can’t strike
In search of the lost love loaf
Your new lifestyle displaces
Shunting aside considerations of etiquette
Donning with unabashed glee your famous mini dresses
Clutching tight to a neon light the ticket
That flies you away, far away
To a destination I wish I didn’t know
Swaggering left and right to sway
Opinions I deem so low they throw
Icy water into my heart
Where empty spaces you distill
With gusto and undiminished zest as you depart
My heart burning ; its peace of mind you steal
To kill vestiges of the love
I once held so high
Far above
Wealth and health considerations as for you I now cry.
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