How have you been, tell me the news,
first, where did you buy those kinky shoes?
Victim of fashion, prisoner of fad,
for better or worse, mad about it, good or bad.
Heard you're doing fine, have it made,
but, when did you get those slinky shades?
Modern mode, sartorial style, captured by trends,
it goes on for ever and never ends.
What have you done, relate all the facts,
now, where did you find that fancy hat?
New York, London, what's in what's not,
Paris or Rome, who calls the shots?
Moving up in the world, you have a chance,
tho', when did you purchase those swanky pants?
Who knows what goes on behind the scenes,
in all those glossy magazines?
True highbrows can't hear commoner's pleas
Stuck sitting on their swanky settees
Status fades as affluence recedes
I'd prefer pink orchids if you please
Elitists applaud wealthy reprise
Fake posers deceive masses with ease
Think that they deserve all that they seize
So send purple orchids if you please
Fools imagine themselves on marquees
Those who would toss it all to the breeze
Who can't see the forest for the trees
Bring me more red red orchids if you please
Cultures erode when no one agrees
Innocence shrinks slowly by degrees
Fairness appears a tawdry tease
I sigh for white orchids if you please
Feel for the needy brought to their knees
My selfish world of ten thousand mes
Flowers fail as empty pleasantries
Making these moments mere niceties
What sold was for millions as art so grand,
Was bought for a few cents at a fruit stand--
A fancy mall nor mart,
Nor place of art apart,
Nor was banana taped with swanky band.
But a joke so cruel
In art’s name was this all,
Or call it a crime of a dollar land.
______________________
Happenings |02.12.2024| art, irony, humour
Poet’s note: The banana that was sold for millions as an art piece was purchased at a fruit stand outside Sotheby’s auction house for 35 cents apiece, or 4 for one dollar (purchased for $ 5.2 million by a crypto currency entrepreneur-- who else?). How absurd can things go in this so-called world of art gone crazy for money? The banana seller, one called Shah Alam from Bangladesh, literally cried after knowing this. Yes, a joke it was this all, a cruel one for the poor banana vendor. Artist Cattelan pontificates, ‘Art, by its nature, does not solve problems-- if it did, it would be politics’. Indeed, the banana vendor was stunned and left still poor. See ‘Art going bananas’.
the roaring sound rejuvenates my heart
wind whips,
bells tinkle,
flag flaps
thought i
needed to change
into shorts
but my
just bare feet,
thin sweater blue jeans
perfect
for this early Spring blustering
lilliputian tweets and vroom beats
such temperate tempest jubilation
lifts my spirits
if
the sea were involved
with
its swanky salt I’m seconds away
from
the pearly gates
Subtle, a swanky sweet swan-themed restaurant in Cincinnati
Accidentally took evening reservations for a hundred and three
Unfortunately, their capacity limit is twenty-five and a half
The booking agent got fired, which reduced the staff
And why not?
The Lucky country
Bodyline
Human skittles
Murder Incorporated
Swing lube
I sit with friends and
We put
Together our greatest XI
To face Mars
My father shouts, "That's out!"
And the umpire gives it
My son reads The Beano and is
Not interested
In the sixes
The announcer shouts, "Make some noise Edgbaston!"
He is shoved over and the Harlequin Waitrose capped swanky pants
In a spiffing gaggle announces, "Bowling from the City End, some bloke."
A friend told me he strangled
A goat
"That makes you feel really alive."
Christ, the King of kings
Of whom my soul sings
Born in a manger
His life in danger
No palace, no bed
No place to lay head
Walking everywhere
No carriage to spare
Riding a donkey
No horse ride swanky
A crown of sharp thorns
The King's head adorns
A reed placed in hand
Not a sceptre grand
Scarlet robe mocking
Such treatment shocking
He endured all pain
And then rose again
One day, He'll return
World to overturn
The King glorious
Christ victorious
She cut the ties
The good
The bad
The menopause
Finally, the long pause
Followed by the loneliness
Days became weeks, became months
It was time
Life begins at forty
Did it, end at forty-six
Swanky bar
Lights, music, fear
She felt that drowning sensation
Maybe to early
She felt eyes upon her
Smiling, teasing, no words
Her guard was up
It’s impolite to stare
Sorry, I was undressing you
Never in her life
Reality hit home, indignant
And tell me, how far did you get
All the way down to your inhibitions
Twenty-three years worth, she thought
The ice was broken
Tom was the first
John wouldn't be the last.
Club nocturnal
In Bilbao, on a warm evening, he walked past a nightclub
walked in and had a beer; he could have gone to
a Guggenheim Museum and be culturally minded, absorb
and mention it later in a passing conversation, “the other
day at the Guggenheim.”
At the club, a group of people sat drinking affluent bubbly
wine, thinking it was champagne, the group laughed a lot
and apparently had a fine time, although, he thought they
were a bit frenzied about the fun
The people around the table didn’t look prosperous and
the women looked like office tarts, with too much lipstick and
mascara, flashing eyes and giggles.
He knew (had been there) that the one footing the bill
would feel dreadful in the morning, sensing the futility
an ice cap on sagging shoulders of hopelessness.
No, it was not the drinking, real drinkers do not frequent
nightclubs, but drinking at modest places, was about feeling swanky
a man about town.
He paid for his beer and complained about the price
the waiter pointed to a pricelist hanging high on a wall, so there!
Along the boulevard, he bought newspapers went to a café,
had some wine and spent hours enjoying himself.
blooms
bouncy
baby’s breath
busy bee balm
ritzy rose, glitzy gloxinia
zany zinnia, dear ditzy daisy
swanky saffron
flouncy phlox
bonnie
buds
By many aliases they're known:
Crawfish, crawdads, mudbugs, yabbies.
They abound in brooks, and streams, and swamps,
As well as roadside ditches and rice paddies.
Their astacology has shown
They prey like scavengers and mobsters,
While some, more taxonomically aloof,
Try hard to pass as mountain lobsters.
Throughout the world as food they're meant,
Both from the wild and from the grocer,
But not as a substitute for meat at Lent
Because they're not considered kosher.
And so the cunning, craven crayfish,
The ones that didn't get away,
End up in boils, or bisques, or soups,
If not served up as étouffés
In swanky overpriced cafés.
Emerald envy nestled on velvet
several thousand away from paid
Puce tulip promise inducement
secluded juice, palliation delayed
Ivory aspire ripped wide envelope
plump with numbered requirement
Absinthe ardent delerium implode
paper stack compiling assignment
Cerulean satin adorns a champion
swanky speculators chase plethora
Fuchcia blooming futures chiming
swindle hopeful fast hoof investors
Magenta dash magic, risky fingers
probe probable, middle of pack peril
Bronze woebegone pilfers millions
prestigious month end ear emeralds
19th January
Naples Yellow, Ginger, Gold
Emerald Earrings
On the exquisite wings of fated infinity.
We move with subtle elegance and fluidity.
To sail into odd space on a vessel of silence.
It is clearly the domain of the swanky credence.
I desired you to be hither on a grisly day.
Hardship had exhausted my psychic spray.
I hailed you while gazing at your charm.
On the verge of a crux in winsome smarm.
Here you'll find the hustle and bustle.
We will rest and unwind as the term shuffle.
After you've aged through the up and down.
Our stature in a senders mod panel is known.
I'd been deprived of any expectation, developed.
The pre-winter light was precisely what I scorned.
What's beyond, yelled out, "Let the haziness in!"
The portly flare ought to be turned until the spleen.
We are enjoying areas that are beyond our side.
When we beget to maturity, all effort has died.
You can willingly view we've arrived at the wallow.
Waivers serve as the lessons we should follow.
Written: November 09, 2021
This or That, Vol 8 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Mother nature’s trees shudder in the breeze,
Clothed in ashened sky,bearing angry eye.
The winds conversation with birds to flock,
Branches of two trees interlock.
Angry eye is sporting black,
The fight for supremacy notoriously back.
Rabbits and squirrels retreat with their fear,
As an audience of trees lean as they peer.
Returning bird to referee,
The elderly tree resumes paying his fee.
His younger capture boasting minus concern,
As he thrashes with heavy twist and turn.
Wind is bullying close behind,
The elderly tree disadvantaged,he finds.
He creaks and groans,bleeding his sap,
Gentleman of the forest lye dead in rivers lap.
Succeeding opponent standing proud,
As a silent applause was never so loud.
Wisdom now is all that remains,
As the woodcutter starts to sharpen his blades.
Tightened by rope in the woodcutters truck,
It’s not the end,he’s back in luck!
Now he’s sitting front of house,
In a swanky restaurant in London Town.
All admire as they prop,
If only they knew the story from the top.
As they sip their drinks with chatter,
A distant sound of trees will clatter.
A homeless woman squatted on the pavement
Empty bottle of mineral water by her side.
It was a hot summer noon …the stench
Of poverty makes me ashamed as I ride,
The swanky metro. Brooding… get off at my station,
Impatiently, walk as the street urchins extend hands to beg,
For money, for food; wonder should I buy rations
With dismay, saw one was hopping, had only one leg.
Anger welled up against the mafia that maims these kids,
And trains them in art of begging, recognise the victims.
The so called slum dogs, with resignation and grit
Grow into petty thieves or whores, at the mercy of pimps.
The dance of Democracy reaches a crescendo.
Candidates come with promises and folded hands.
Smouldering eyes, one asked with bravado,
How come in the name of growth we see a helipad?
Young nation, been six decades, since independent,
Learnt, after Kosi floods, kids sold for pennies by parents.
Common man’s plight worse than that of pigs and insects.
Live on hope and prayers, a great leader will finally resurrect.
#FECUND_WRITER
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