( To T.S.E.)
So the world ends with a whimper
From the prospect of your time
Nowadays it’s not that simple
Whimper trades are in decline
The Bang Party sales are soaring
Over wildest expectations
Whimperers turn down the moaning
No one seems to pay attention
But the Bangers always lose
To the “couldn’t care less”
When there’s nothing left to booze
The Careless Party needs some gas
So they're off to buy again
More of wine and smoking stuff
If the world comes to an end
It will be a drunken laugh.
“This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper”
(T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men)
I guess the version of a bang
Is far more real, than the whimper’s
The hollow men and their gang
Are going to set the new clear winter
They'll get their long-desired perfection
In comforts of the underground
Believers will enjoy ascension
And all the rest will face the ground
Inhale the poisoned air and see
It’s late to cry when you get split
So whimpers time is now, shall we
Join their choir, or just leave it?
. for public domain
Let the flame of your life flicker,
flutter, tremble, smolder, snicker,
raise the eyebrows of a vicar,
raise it like a shot of liquor.
Wave it in somebody's face,
let them yearn for one more taste.
Singe the hairs so near the waist,
ignite a fire with your embrace.
For when our wax and wick are gone,
fires we start may yet live on,
light darkest hours before the dawn,
beyond the whimper, beyond the yawn.
Many people like poems written with ordinary words.
Some that jestfully tell about life in ordinary ways,
even though life is far from ordinary,
They want poems that lighten their days.
Enough with the highfalutin language, they say.
Start writing words common folks understand.
Bring back the use of everyday words.
Oh, you want idioms (words that are canned).
I love the feel of the silken poetic words,
that tickle the ears and whisper to the soul.
they wrap your thoughts in gossamer silk,
both pleasant and bitter their goal.
Writing poetry is a road strewn with boulders.
Life wrings itself out upon our pages.
Where there's beauty, we're often drawn to the dark
found hiding behind it on various stages.
We find ourselves writing about love that threatens,
or long ago left, storming out the door, kicking aside
hope like pebbles. Or, crawling out with a whimper and
a fearful glance, then running: words we cannot hide...
ordinary words.
Heathens at the gate, Heathens at the gate,
We must act lest it be too late,
Shut all doors, man the towers,
We haven’t days but merely hours.
Here they come the brooding masses,
Form a line so not one passes,
Spare no thought of offering help,
Who really cares if they all yelp.
They will whimper, beg and plead,
Yet their goal is fueled by greed,
It’s our lifestyle they all want
So their suffering they flaunt.
We must stop them come what may,
Act with force or rue the day
These illegals soiled our land;
Draw a line and make a stand.
Unite as one behind my lead,
Purge all feelings, act with speed,
Our country’s full we need no more
And yet they come in by the score.
But should we fail remember this,
Those who caused such huge abyss
And when you vote do not forget,
I’m the one that voiced the threat.
held whimper
an unshed tear
teeters
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