Did you all hear about Elmer Fudd
That Wascally Wabbit drew first blood
Bugs swordplay was as thus
Advance, parry, and thrust
Now Elmer dwells six feet in the mud
You cherish so much!
You need to have your head
Removed!
(11/23/24)
A mountain of some measure aligned slopes,
Silversword's statuesque uncommonness,
bikers and skiers, youth urban slang, 'dopes,'
pics of height's flowering tower upness.
Centuries of swordplay, The Word, acclaimed,
plowshares and the sorts treats its new version.
Purplish flowers are structurally framed,
like a cross handle, silver hairs orphan.
Majestic still today, handle to point,
Jehovah's watchtower, grand edifice
leans to age and weather. Volcano joint
Maui's 'House of the Sun' sole home exists.
Another species bides the intellects,
nature goes on living with the ... neglects.
I write of two-edged swords (that tired clichè)
as though this modern boy knew hilt from blade;
as if I had been taught of true swordplay,
not learned from movies Errol Flynn had made.
But plainly put, things work more than one way:
the lake that offers joy can also drown,
the sun that melts the wax can harden clay,
the fire that heats the meal burns houses down.
A hammer is adept at building things,
though hammer's claw might tear the same apart.
The kiss that first gave freedom to love's wings,
when given to another, broke my heart.
Two-edged clichès may give the reader pause -
I know firsthand the damage they can cause.
written 30 Apr 2022
Prison of binding, within lies a story.
An ephemeral tale, both handsome and hoary.
Swordplay like lightning clashes.
Ballet steps, graceful with thunderous lashes.
A monstrous castle with many a hidden room.
Fire breathing dragons with golden scales of doom.
The princess in the tower, with one window and one door,
desires to be rescued so she can even the score.
An evil witch grinds her unkempt nails upon the wall,
wanting all wishes and dreams to tumble and fall.
Sages surround the courageous prince.
Some traitors, some wise attempt to convince,
which way the bars might bend within the pages.
The author’s story always ends after the wicked pays their wages.
1/3/2017
Love is Actually - NOT
Love is actually hate’s evil sister
masquerading as the touch of passion’s tryst
harsh flame to make the lover’s psyche blister
lying lips to slyly soothe the forming cyst.
Sipping slowly from nearly empty snifter
savoring the truth on which Love’s lies subsist
fatal swordplay of dueling Cinderella’s
battling the darkness of lust’s empty cellars.
8/5/2017
submitted to – Love is Actually……- Poetry Contest
Drogue, Rogue.
Arab beauty.
Special Heir.
Jump up-down.
Slice like an Arab Ninja.
What is the blade?
Sharp point with Arab Brittle.
Separate from the end.
Muller Tick-Tock.
Poison the Tyrant.
Bomb the Oppressors
And, swordplay.
Reading by the lines, one by one
Evidenced on those skid marks left
A bitter aftertaste, beyond
goes the winding path right ahead
What led this outrage, travesty?
Swept sanity with tragedy
O’er the hedge up to no man’s land
Places that gets one out of hand
A four letter word defined despair
Others called it an outbreak, plague
yet some being spared by a hair
but most were left alone and vague
It’s been a struggle upon death
like life being bullied in the edge
Such fairytale told in great length
With no other cue when it’ll end
Here goes below downward spiral
Love just dragged you deep underground
When all is lost, the outcome’s final,
a broken heart you had just found
There goes, “Damn you do, damn you don’t,”
a double-bladed tongue swordplay
waiting for a preemptive strike
then suddenly, gave up the fight
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