hunting the Rue Saint-Honoré
leaves me no breath
when women brawl for fashion
with warrants of gold
we become lions
every eye looks
taking hunter's aim
in piteous chase
the hares we hunt
are the new, the hot, the exclusive
not the lower marked
cry havoc
for animals heave fewer groans
only wars, revolt and poisons
attend more frightful chaos
one could come to hurt
but fault no villains
that is not our hunting language
we are confederates in chase
seeking the swaggers of success
.
.
A song for this:
Baby You're a Superstar by Mark Roberts, Paul Fletcher, Patrick Sturrock, Emily Taylor & Dan Whitfield
The trees crowd in along the broken trail,
sunlight tries to push through, but mostly fails,
straight trunks spread out and obscure distant gaze,
there’s eyes out there, watching, afraid they’re prey.
Ahead a break grows larger with each step,
cerulean against the forest depth,
the summit rock cresting half of the peak,
this vantage sought by many weary feet.
Red squirrels chitter and dash as I emerge,
I want to shout, but I restrain the urge,
swellings of peaks spread out like tapestries,
their secrets hid beneath the endless trees,
a slash of gray where earth cuts through in stone,
Mother Nature is lost without her bones,
then rips of blue, a ribbon swaggers slow
to wild ponds saved by being remote,
marsh meadows near sometimes reveal a moose,
but today only mallards are in view.
Beyond this lies a scar, a bigger lake,
fringed by cabins and docks, stretching out straight,
above it all vultures fly on the breeze,
their slow circles effortless and lazy,
to think such birds get this view every day…
Who knows if again I will pass this way.
Here comes the jingle jangle man
Who struts and swaggers he is his biggest fan
He doesn’t want anyone to be
Better than he himself you do see
He schemes at things behind your back
Don’t tell him your secrets or he will hack
Them making you look bad
In the end you’ll feel sad
As he walks with hands in pockets
Jingle jangle hear the racket
Take heed of his noise then
Don’t converse thinking he is a friend.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Romance in Nature is filled with dancing and singing, and a little color.
~ Poet
A sprightly creature shares my home.
Little beige gecko, oft times green,
regards my porch as if his own.
Many hours he may be seen
from railing to roof, and in between.
My porch, his favored retreat,
filled with ferns and jasmine yellow,
provides his shelter, idyllic and neat.
He loses his temperament mellow
when time to challenge another fellow.
At mating time, he struts proudly.
Neck swollen, throbbing ruby from red,
he swaggers and performs loudly.
Prancing around without dread,
he becomes the male he sees in his head.
The Last Lap
Ignorance and fire
now common partners
lying on a restive bed
The night now owns the day
as the day now basks
in opaque blackness
The burnt-out embers
scattered to the wind
now reassembles with kindling flame
Great hopes and dreams
flashing through the phase
now swaggers in as lost sleep and mirages
Reflection
Staggering out of the maze
his mind still swaggers
Mustering up his wit
he shored up his faith
Sulking his present state
he craves this cringing hope
Bemoaning the looming darkness
he detest this fate
Yearning for a reprieve
he is caught
napping on the trail
For Miranda Hawley's Dance Of...Contest
Cleared from mistakes past ,he greets love reclaimed
His ardor fierce as dreams untethered swing.
Moments of anger, jealousy now tamed:
Again, night's rhapsodies begin to
sing.
His woman alights, dressed in bridal
lace...
Her lover honoring a misty glance
Petal- kissed within their own world's
embrace
Where flamed waltz glides...on dips of shadow- dance.
And male fingers cascade down through her
waist
Bronzed hands tracing her every hourglass curve,
Enamored by swaggers of season's wait;
No other movement , their footsteps could swerve.
It would take whirls of lifetime to explain
This unrehearsed dance beneath moonlit rain.
Oh, joy! at the night sky
And the wonder it declares.
How flirtatious! How they flare -
The many stars on high!
There's Castor and Pollux
And Rigel and Betelgeuse
And look! - Aldebaran bids adiós
As he swaggers west.
Ah! The Golden Years of Hollywood
And those old black and white movies
Some were cinematic disasters
But some you could call quite groovy
Even now, my heart skips a beat
When one appears on the late night screen
I choke up a bit seeing John Wayne
As he swaggers in and out of the scene
Today with its technology and trickery
We don't know if people are real
Or made up computer animation dudes
To me, it seems way too surreal
Take me back to the Spaghetti Westerns
The gangster films of Cagney and Bogart
The Three Stooges, Abbott and Costello
Loved them all, that was cinematic art
The stunning sensuality of Ingrid Bergman
The glamour of a young Elizabeth Taylor
The bombshell beauty of Marilyn Monroe
Bardot, Betty Grable and more
The newsreels, the cartoons, the travelogues
And the giant blockbusters of the time
Sure was a lot for twenty-five cents
Plus popcorn and a drink for a dime
Ah! The Golden Years of Hollywood
Great musicals like “Singing In The Rain”
“An American In Paris” with Gene Kelly
Sure wish I could go back there again
Ah! The Golden Years of Hollywood
And those old black and white movies
Some were cinematic disasters
But some you could call quite groovy
Even now, my heart skips a beat
When one appears on the late night screen
I choke up a bit seeing John Wayne
As he swaggers in and out of the scene
Today with its technology and trickery
We don't know if people are real
Or made up computer animation dudes
To me, it seems way too surreal
Take me back to the Spaghetti Westerns
The gangster films of Cagney and Bogart
The newsreel of the day plus a cartoon
Loved them all, that was cinematic art
The stunning sensuality of Ingrid Bergman
The glamour of a young Liz Taylor
The bombshell beauty of Marilyn Monroe
Bardot, Betty Grable and more
The newsreels, the cartoons, the travelogues
The giant blockbusters of the time
Sure was a lot for twenty-five cents
Plus popcorn and a drink for a dime
Ah! The Golden Years of Hollywood
Great musicals like “Singing In The Rain”
“An American In Paris” with Gene Kelly
Sure wish I could go back there again
I love you when your quiet
I love you like this
Chilled and laid back
Peace at long last
I love you when your playing
I love you wrestling too
Pulling on a sock
A tug of war is cool
Archies giggling and the snorting
You'd think he was a horse
Snorting and sniffing at the cat
Upon the wall
Barking Mad
She swaggers her tail
walking tall
Archies just a young lad after all
Uncle rocco takes it all in his stride
His coat of black and white
A look of peace and pride
Bounding like a big puppy through the music hall ...
Here comes Rocco
For some Rock and Roll ....
After a breathtaking day, watching skaters perform on ice;
Returning to the bus station on a cold, dark, January night,
Paulette, happily reflects on a day she will not forget.
Awaiting her parents arrival, under the empirical clock,
A seedy man swaggers toward her,
His crooked nose tilted on his face,
His clenched fist opens, offering candy, feigning kindness,
"Take it, Take it, come with me"...
The hands of the clock stopped, with the pounding
Of Paulette's 10 year old heart.
For: "Paulette - 1" Poetry Contest
Date: 11/18/21
Sponsor: Julia Ward
He touches me in the early dawn
Hours before the chickens start to
Peck the rich, toasted earth around
Their pen, clucking with enthusiasm
For the tassels of rich emerald lawn
Coming away with them as they peck
Relentlessly with a fervor that dances
Merrily to the tune of cackling, fussing
Peppered with crows from the rooster’s
Fertility gloating, he swaggers, preening
Sensing the way his heart will mourn
On the days the hen sits on her almond
Shaped eggs, awaiting the time when
There will be new life tapping its way
Through the tough shells to be trained
By the hen to feed, bath and seek
Refuge, as I chase out the lines
Of his hands against my breast in the
Morning, while we embrace, caressing
Sighing, whispering, just before the light
Shines down from the sky to warm my
Thighs and trace a glimmer of hope
Along the edge of the silent night
August 20, 2020
THE UNICORN
Ever seen a more beautiful sight?
She is drowning into the wind
All sail set,
Triple tangled,
Purple pearl gears,
Glittering glassy artilleries,
Unrivalled weaponry.
Isn't she a beauty
She's got the wind behind.
Look at the velocity she's setting,
Barely noticing the Barbados.
With a grip of urn full of rum
And the finest of tobacco
The hearts of the sail's set
For the audacity of hope.
The red pennant,
The blood line's cold
And every sea captain
Looks upon that flag
For he knows he faces a fight to death
And then he saw her,
As an apparition mounting from the dead.
The sea rose in it watery execution.
But I was told sea lion don't flee
From the wavers watery wonders.
Instead, he staggers not but swaggers on
Until they sail past the North Pole
And trodden upon the sands of Sahara.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2014.
THE UNICORN
Ever seen a more beautiful sight?
She is drowning into the wind
All sail set,
Triple tangled,
Purple pearl gears,
Glittering glassy artilleries,
Unrivalled weaponry.
Isn't she a beauty
She's got the wind behind.
Look at the velocity she's setting,
Barely noticing the Barbados.
With a grip of urn full of rum
And the finest of tobacco
The hearts of the sail's set
For the audacity of hope.
The red pennant,
The blood line's cold
And every sea captain
Looks upon that flag
For he knows he faces a fight to death
And then he saw her,
As an apparition mounting from the dead.
The sea rose in it watery execution.
But I was told sea lion don't flee
From the wavers watery wonders.
Instead, he staggers not but swaggers on
Until they sail past the North Pole
And trodden upon the sands of Sahara.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2014.
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