The Pious Wolf of the Parish
The candles in the parish hall sputtered, casting long, monstrous shadows against the stone walls. There sat Abid, cloaked in the sudden, sickening reverence of the townsfolk. He wore his piety like a freshly laundered shroud, his voice a low, honeyed venom as he pointed his finger at her.
"Wickedness," he whispered, and the word hung in the damp air like rot.
It was an old trap, a familiar nightmare. He had spun this web before, burying his own black deeds beneath a mountain of fabricated sins, all laid at her feet. Now, he sat enshrined among the elders, a wolf sheltered by the sheep, his past safely buried in the dark soil of their collective ignorance. He was the architect of her ruin, yet he sat immaculate in the glow of their unearned grace.
She opened her mouth to scream the truth, but the sound died in her throat. She looked at the blank, hollow eyes of the community. They were blind. They were deaf. The heavy silence of the room told her everything: her voice was dead to them, a ghost story they had already chosen to forget.
There once was a boy called Ronald Riddle
Now there was a kid who could really piddle
He weed here and he weed there
That kid Riddle piddled everywhere.
People once thought that there’d been rain
Truth was Ronald was at it again
Eventually the townsfolk just got madder
At the kid with the enormous bladder.
With pitchforks and clubs they chased him away
And the story is told to this very day
Now you may laugh and you may scoff
But this is how we got the term “piss off.”
Cruising along horizons unseen
where prurient rush of greenery lingers,
I will inhabit both the raw wildness
of Amazon Forest, and its mysteriously
spiritual essence...how sunlight would glint
on a montage of nature's exotic tableau , then
Dovetailing this wonder with the majestic
presence of Christ the Redeemer statue, could
this leave me enthralled as I glide out
from a sublmie out- of- body experience ?
Oh I shall but stop to allow such rare Portuguese
culture to assault my senses , that,
Down Rio's kinetic streets, plazas curve
into a labyrinth of carnival footprints...this is
Brazil's mad riot of a dance fest where I will throb
to the rhythm of samba's intoxication, on and on...
Then past old churches and warm townsfolk,
my soul will taste this locale's primal delicacy
while this roaming would fire the gypsy in me...
Brazil, Brazil...take me there !
1st Place
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, look! The Wump wears polka-dot socks.
It tap-dances swirls on peppermint rocks!
Its belly jiggles like jelly on spoons,
While whistling loony, balloon-tune croons.
One foot hops east, the other foot west,
It juggles twelve pies (but drops all the rest).
The townsfolk giggle, the lampposts sway,
As the Wump cartwheels over the Milky Way.
With a flibbertigibbet and zoodle-zoo,
It winks—then gets stuck on sparkly glittery superglue!
Adorned by days in rich décor,
nature refills her fresh bounty,
as Mother Earth sprinkles air with pure mist
caressing seeds of life ,
to tend roots which nourishes homes,
while generous arms gather fields
and herds of cattle, rows of birds glide free
regaling seasons' toil...
Gold the corn carried by townsfolk,
fruits riper than sun bursting sweet
a rare moment at ease like a dance alive,
a harvest in motion!
Yet this maiden longs for rest- time
her frame aging from burnt decay
while she awaits the shedding of soiled trees
to rest from cycles' dirge,
Where renewal of lush parade
changes grains,grass from dry to gold,
her pause, the charm of sweetened hollowness
heralds earth's blithe rebirth!
Celebration
The day the Carnival came our way
With drum and trumpet and brass trombone
And all the townsfolk danced that day,
At that Carnival where I stopped to play.
Carried along on that arousing beat
And by that revelry swept away
To a Magic land upon that day,
Where joyful spirits of celebration dance
And all the people in rhythm sway.
In that magical land far, far away,
The day the Carnival came our way
Barry Stebbings
Oct 2025
The cat didn't give a diddly squat,
she played her fiddle non-stop,
accompanied by her kitten's song
they yowled from dusk till dawn
and the townsfolk never slept!
The fat old cow could not jump
even if she tried (which, of course, she didn't),
she gave no milk, nor cream for butter
so down the road she was sent
to Old Moon's Butchery and Deli.
The little dog is not the laughing sort~
with no sleep and no warm milk
it's no wonder his mood is foul,
he bit the hand that tried to feed him
dried up bits of moldy bread.
The spoon then decided it was all to much,
what with the noise and loss of proper table-setting~
with rules of etiquette in a shambles,
she took her matching dish
and ran away to Once Upon A Time.
The moral of the story is never give a cat a fiddle!
My haunting birth place,
picture book of green scene bliss,
brimming with winsome townsfolk,
who ooze unfeigned charm,
streets vibrate at crack of dawn,
night life otherworld intrigue
I look at my work. I look down on the valley.
I'm proud of its richness, of its green fertile fields,
And each time I do, I can count up the tally.
My sacrificial top's loss produces great yield.
There's beauty in the valley, in its farms and trees.
Morning fog gives it a mythical seduction.
Yet though I remember how the people did flee.
I take no fault for my fiery eruption.
I, a Volcano. What can one really expect?
My purpose is to scatter Earth's food from my cone.
Terror of fiery flow calls for quick respect.
Some townsfolk of Pompeii have been turned into stone.
Crime never pays, sooner or later the long arm of the law will reach you.
Quote by poet.
Sergeant Tim Wheeler’s shift was nearing the end, it had been a long day.
He put his coat on, and then the phone rang, it's all I need, Tim thought.
He answered and a concerned voice said," Sam Jones has been shot”.
Sam ran the jewellers store in Whitehorse and Tim hurried over to his store.
A crowd had now gathered, and the townsfolk were stood around in shock.
Sam was conscious but had a gunshot wound to his side, Doc Jones was treating him, he gave Tim a description of the thief, then an ambulance arrived and took him away to hospital, from Sam's description Tim knew it was an American who'd been hanging around town and chances were he'd head for Alaska and once over the border he'd get away with his crime, Tim headed West and drove for about ten miles then spotted a parked car, smoke was belching out from under the hood; Tim drew his gun; a voice said "Drop it",but Tim was too quick and shot the thief in the arm, saying “You can rest in jail, right now you’re under arrest”.
Once upon a Halloween night,
Billy Butcherson came to life,
A zombie with a tongue of tar,
Brought back by three witches, so bizarre.
Hocus Pocus, the witches chanted,
In the night, their schemes were implemented,
But Billy, once a lover scorned,
Now sought redemption, reborn.
Through the streets of Salem he roamed,
Among the living, his heart still roamed,
For Sarah, the witch who'd put a curse,
On his life, cutting it short in verse.
The townsfolk screamed, they ran away,
But brave Billy had something to say,
He'd found his voice, his heart was pure,
He'd fight the witches, it was sure.
With courage in his heart, he went to war,
Against the witches, three times three,
He battled through the darkest night,
And saved the day and set things right.
Billy Butcherson, the hero true,
Proved that love can conquer all anew,
With a heart so brave, a soul so strong,
He found his way to belong.
And so, each Halloween night,
We honor Billy, and his might,
For he reminds us, through fear and fright,
To be brave and hold on to what's right.
Two Nazis the partisans killed
For revenge a town's blood was spilled
Resistors forgot
Townsfolk would be shot
Where hell seems forever instilled
You may have heard the tale of brave Tom Thumb,
The tiny boy who brought his parents joy.
But what of his younger sister, Sweet Plum?
A sister just as grand as any boy.
Just one inch taller than her brother's height;
Her heart was yet as big as hearts can get.
She loved to gather flowers in the light,
And rush to bring them home before sunset.
Arrayed in her favorite pretty dress,
She left a fresh bouquet on every door.
She did it out of love, not to impress,
Which made the townsfolk love her all the more.
Though small in stature, she was mighty kind,
The truest friend that you could ever find.
It awes me so to stand, pen and paper quivering in my hands;
My solemn river of a mind’s been shaken by the quaking land.
It seems to me worthwhile to mention, the city’s filled with wild tension.
Bands of townsfolk speak with me in quiet, anxious pension.
Beside me sits a clan of in-laws, clad in dampened purple plaid
Who say the conflict rising now is worse than what they’ve ever had.
I feel great sorrow hearing tales of how such tragedy came to be,
A woman to my left so kindly illustrates for me;
“Our culture’s driven further day by day,” she says, “and now we pray
That we shall see it once again. Those thieves are taking joy away.
With us I hope cheese-rights shall stay, with us forever longer
Perhaps ,with luck, those brutes will meet a death by faithful monger.”
It aches my heart to see the passion passing through the south,
And knowing it’s caused bodies piling at the river’s mouth.
The soldiers lay now, mangled bodies in the ancient streets,
It's safe to say that past today, tradition shan’t repeat.
Though it's a shame to say the rights are gone, its sadly true
But through the blue they shall renew; Now Tom, it's back to you!
The townsfolk were jealous and calked her “ El Fuego.”
As she was the notorious flirt of sprawling, San Diego
Her shapely legs, put mens’ hearts in a total trance.
The scent of perfume, ah~with her, they wanted to dance.
Her eyes, like sensous lighthoueses ,forever were calling.
Like a wise
Them~ into her rapturous arms, they dreamt of falling.
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