Lightning has a shocking
reality – the effect of a near
strike, the trilling sizzle,
a high pitched resonate string
reminded by Nature we are
of her awesome power – not
to be underestimated and trifled
with; yet, we do: pissing in her
skies and seas, small wonder
the shark circles and gapes --
man was not his tactical prey,
but tastes can change
in the theory of evolution –
maybe even souls migrate,
back to basics, for
a far more respectful, less soggy host….
Maternal love is not to be trifled with ~
it's in all little touches and knows no bounds
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
First love proves itself but once
To leave a blessed scar.
How foolish must a mortal be
To fade such a shooting star.
But time shall not be trifled
And old age will play a part.
When death displays its icy grip...
First love will warm your heart.
The End
I remain, he surmised, the possibility of outcomes,
I am, he collected, but particles upon their way
like a snowstorm towards a windscreen, I wait to
be a final measurement, and yet, to all miscreants
in need of harmonious affairs, as Prometheus upon
his rock, as Nicorates in his right hemisphere of my
ever-seeing, I, the incumbent of waves gliding through
plasmas, he trifled, am never at rest in my somewheres.
The frosty morn was sullen...
My breath lay frigid to the air.
I walked a darkened wintry trail
To enhance this stark affair.
I sat upon a wooded bench
To give aid to my relief...
Beneath a tree... in winter's grip
That bore a single leaf.
How brave to mock the nature
Of a flagitious winter at its height.
This tree was made of sterner stuff...
I was enthralled by such a sight.
This majestic oak would not submit...
It would not lay stripped and bare
And despite a wintry ill-intent...
It gleaned the morning air.
Each day I'd pass that gallant tree
With its cherished leaf to see.
If it could last through winter's wrath...
There yet was hope for me.
But winter shan't be trifled with
And the oak would bear the cost.
When another day... I walked that way...
The treasured leaf was lost.
I sat again... the wooded bench
As cold whipped me to the bone.
The leaf had died a martyr's death...
Now I was all alone.
The End
I recall our early life together:
we were primitive little savages
when it came to matters of Heart –
needy and wanting, demanding and
all insatiable – the envy of older, far
wiser~ those drained Sophisticates,
reduced to salivating voyeurs.
And though life has
yearly ripened us, you are still
my Honey Pot...and I your dangling
Plum of Sugar.
Finely tuned hearts
are really priceless, and ageless.
And love was meant to be trifled with,
when realized to be fearless, thoroughly
explored, elastic~ sensing tender Eternity
shared....
Rarely failed Sunday church service,
Scarcely trifled with being in office,
Then smelling of Doxicycline,
Here needles there Terramycin…
Absenteeism by her not hailed,
Apology letters not failed,
Defiance of Awkward Asthma,
Pretence to sound body plasma;
Case of what she’d strongly believed,
If she’d dropped them had self deceived…
Opponents fought to a stand-still:
Just God knew where she’d garnered the skill.
Thirty six years Breathless Marriage
But self bore with rarest carriage…
Late Irene of Blessed Memory;
Sixty five in the scenery.
I am a virgin! A virgin! A virgin! Carlistica sang.
Her melody was offensive to many as it loudly rang.
I have never been sullied, trifled with or abused she allowed.
Which made her highly unpopular in this diverse teenage crowd.
Her body was found a week after her song rose to a number one spot.
On the pop records in the USA, a dubious place for this snot.
Police ask gawkers for clues while searching for the murder weapon.
Carlistica was a virgin! A virgin! A virgin!" sang everyone.
You should be respectful to women,
and their feelings to.
You don't know how they've suffered,
or what they've been through.
If you still think you're great,
and not alone.
Come back to my stoop,
and give it a troll.
I've read your work,
you shouldn't berate.
Go back to your hole,
and gravitate.
I'll keep at this my friend,
till this message sinks in.
We are not to be trifled with,
my arrogant little friend.
Worship not your turtles on Tuesday
Driving a convertible in traffic is inadvisable
Places you at risk, in peril of bird droppings
Never yawn with mouth open and head up
Yawning is sacrilegious with seat belts off
If you have daughters, don't!
They are not turtles and this is not Vegas
If you have sons, feed them peanuts
They will not become elephants all of a sudden
But they are cheaper than you think
And much cheaper than pink
If you play cards on Thursday be warned
Turtles don't drink or smoke or gamble
Too many decks makes them sleepy
Don't worry about convertibles
Turtles drive trucks but not well
Never on Doomsday or Wednesday
That would be asking too much
They have trouble with the clutch
Doomsdays come around once in a lifetime
Never on Wednesday because that is canasta night
Beer and pretzels are free
(Bring your own pretzels and beer)
Leave your turtles at home
Worship them not on Tuesday
Canasta should never be trifled with
Bring two decks for security
I have seen this before
A fledgling spark stifled
At birth
I have been here before
When mused words trifled
With no worth
When my knees gingerly fell to the floor
Softly they begged and shuffled
At the slamming door
And I sought the windy south
But the spark waxed weak and worn
Two lovers stood lorn
A spurned poet, and a petulant muse
Love
Love is not a game you see, it can happen to anyone not just you and me.
It can rule your heart and also your head, It can prevail over hate and also dread.
It makes your heart skip a beat and without warning can sweep you off of your feet.
It’s gestures it’s feelings are not to be trifled the look from a loved one can leave us stifled.
I walk a fine line of love and misery.
As quiet sadness pervades my thought.
And the love I have is a gamble upon my sanity.
But I know this love is no ficklery.
This feeling is more powerful than any drought.
It's the only thing that brings out my humanity.
I hurt knowing I won't be able to be with you.
But at the same time I want to make you mine.
All I want to do is give up, since what can I, offer you.
At night I cry knowing that I've finally found true love just to let it go like dew.
Because I'm not good enough for you I never will be not in a 100 years time.
Ghosts are also called Spirits - this is something I know about.
They're part of my Spirituality - in this there is no doubt!
A Psychic can contact Ghosts with a pendulum, Ouija board, or by going into a trance.
And if you are properly attuned - of these Ghosts you could get a glance!
If you're meant to see them - then you assuredly will.
And if you're not really ready - your heart may for a moment be still.
I am not afraid of Ghosts - for they can teach us too.
Or give us messages from the other side - if them we are due.
On Samhain when the veil between the world's is the thinnest.
There are many Ghosts around - in the valleys, mountains, and even the mists.
At the end of the Samhain rituals - we leave these Ghosts food and drink.
To keep them out of mischief - as back to the Summerlands they go with a wink.
Ghosts are not to be trifled with - so keep your wits about you!
Understand Ghosts, do lots of research on them too.
Seeking them out should not be a TV show or a game.
For if you do this wrongly - they may haunt you - then you only have yourself to blame!
BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
...inspired by 'A Cooking Egg' by T.S. Eliot
Ronaldo sprawled in luxury
across from where the spaniel lay,
he soldiered on with Mallarme
and, yawning, re-read Chapter One.
The Grandfather ticked ponderously,
there was no other sound in sight
except dear Josephine who plonked
and murdered dear Stravinsky's Rite.
Boredom was the day's absorption
with the National Election,
who shall be our next Great Leader?
pray not a hopeless interceder!
Clementine declared, 'the weather
seems to be a bit inclement,
what shall I wear to Blanche's soiree,
burgundy, or pearly grey?'
Ronaldo trifled with religion,
'Heaven doesn't need a poet
who maligns the Holy Spirit,
I am going straight to Hell,
where I'll meet Lucrezia Borgia,
who will toy with my affections,
feed me fabulous confections,
as she plots my own demise.
Nobility has late escaped me,
suburbanites are out to scold me,
gentle is as gentle does
is not the same as it once was.
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