The sun was sporting a radiant yellow,
with headlong pause, upon entering her space.
Tanned and serene, cheered by warm fellow,
Larissa’s slightly demure, emanating grace,
framed in the joyful shine of bittersweet tangelo.
Sungaze tints her bucolic gown, each thread,
a xanthous treat in the field of convergent reap.
The stipple wheat, its ocean of resonant red,
veils her pretty feet, as the sun gently falls asleep.
Autumn stumbles out, as Summer slips into bed.
Larissa Laluna with short crop of hair, breathes
in cooling air, the moon playfully turns her white.
The baby’s breath and roses, her sallow wreaths.
A figurine of snow, softly pirouetting at twilight.
Hope’s found in indulgent seasons she unsheathes.
Tapping on her bare shoulder, a yellow rush,
while pastel tulips color the lady’s countenance.
The bounty of seasons, Larissa’s paragon-blush.
The harvest moon, the gypsy’s discountenance
of rivers of green, blue sky, and a sunny paintbrush.
10/4/2021
Emile Pinet’s Quintain (Sicilian) Poetry Contest
HMS
Sheep are shorn
not because it’s Spring wool has grown too long
Shivering as Winter’s blades dig in
furthering suff’ring’s wrong
The shepherd unsheathes his sword,
“vengeance is mine,” the Lord’s song
7/28/2020
The sword in my hand
is a pen
Sharp is the dried ink
I electronically send
Like all the mighty men of old,
I’m not afraid to speak the truth
Children of Judah walk like lions,
we stride bold
Idol loving liars beware,
I love hunting your beastly sins
I love catching you in the dark,
then smiting you with my pen
The sword in my hand
is a Goliath-killing pen ...
it’s fire forged
Slinging a smooth, small stone of truth,
I took the big sword
out of my enemy’s hand
Now it’s a giant sword I’m wielding
So I ask, as I approach: are you foe or friend?
Wrong answer will get you cut down,
struck dead by my pen
Truth is a double-edged sword,
its words are sharp
Blessed is he who has the words of God
issuing from their mouth
Faithful is he who holds that sword
resting on the hot coals
Devoted is he who unsheathes this pen,
ready to join the battle
of Good versus evil
You hide behind
the angels mask
As truth unsheathes
its sword
Your costume stripped,
the devil unleashed
His fire,
—your fate to endure
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
Anguished stares and pleading eyes,
beg for food with empty bowls.
For abject poverty thrives,
where death stalks forgotten souls.
Foul odors cling to the air;
as hunger unsheathes its claws.
And the pain is hard to bear;
when starvation bites and gnaws.
Bellies growl at passersby,
while cripples are forced to crawl.
But hard hearts ignore their cry;
as the weak stumble and fall.
At night, alone with their fears,
sleep morphs into nightmare screams.
For gaunt faces etched with tears;
find no happiness in dreams.
Their treatment is inhumane;
yet people just walk on by.
And subjected to disdain;
these beggars are left to die.
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
No table round will ever square the thing.
All knights have equal access to the bread,
Even the stout are adequately fed;
Each squire gets equal pay for equal knighting.
Then Guinevere unsheathes the distaff lightning,
Uncoils her hair, so lustrous and inciting,
Plumps her lips with a berry crushed and red.
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
Pendragon is ostensibly the.King.
And normally he doesn't miss a thing.
But Lancelot is naked in his bed
And Guinevere is humping him instead.
"No man above another" has a ring.
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
Why is it that the sky retaliates
before its muddy texture is inflamed?
I would not hesitate to execrate
the one who shattered Heaven's placid frame.
I would assume the culprit is of man:
for does not lightning fork upon the earth,
and singe our atmosphere with blinding hands,
disparaging our frail bipedal worth?
The slith'ring Lucifer from Eden's womb
unsheathes his lucent tongue from thund'ring hills.
The frantic people house whilst flashes boom,
and pray for pardon from above; yet still
sporadic sparks, like cracks in clouded glass,
cascade from firmaments of dismal ash!
A conjunction of interests fills the hallow cries of the pleading
Dissonant voices squall the eerie tendrils of agony as if the windswept heath adjourns its
decay
Degenerate efforts subdue the coexistence of love and hate
Concupiscence unsheathes its weary self and cascades into the malevolent maelstrom
But all is silent in my asylum of thoughts
Shrieks never seemed as beautiful as the dawn disappears
Lethargic moans jolt my consciousness
Light has never been so bright except in the midst of darkness
It was the best dream I ever had
The problem was; it was only a dream
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