tower oozing wealth and power
now a symbol of our love
sit below it, quiet hour
as the rain falls from above
and remember that first kiss
Paris, nothing is amiss
Author notes: For contest https://allpoetry.com/poem/add?item[for_contest_id]=2866378
With sonnets, and when asked for one that's blank,
I often find the road to be uphill.
I rhyme, and you can take that to the river,
if rivers where a place to take assertions.
See what I mean? It clearly doesn't work.
Absurdity, hilarity ensue,
and that will tend to make me feel a jackass,
but not a jerk for fear that I get served.
So hopeless is the task, this lame endeavor,
that this example surely can instruct,
the odds of that occurring low, how could they
be anything but low, this stanza failed.
In short, excuse this miserable flop.
and don't you let me win, or my mike falter.
With every inch he gains in stature,
inflating ample silhouette,
the man, no Reagan and no Thatcher,
reminding us lest we forget,
how far our politics have fallen.
And yet, he answered to our calling,
this vain expression of our will.
Much like a snowball down the hill,
he grew from aiming for the bottom,
and now, a giant of a beast,
abominable in the least,
as sure as winter follows autumn,
will seek to add you to his pelts.
Hope springs eternal that he melts.
To seek a favorable future --
according to the Iliad --
the Greeks would find a sheep to butcher --
a maiden if that's all they had --
then read their entrails on the dais,
invoke the gods of war and chaos,
and once assured so, by the priest,
man painted warships headed East.
We have our own Iphigenias.
In seeking to redeem the past,
to make it present, make it last,
and how dare anyone deny us --
we sacrifice them, then set sail,
assured that now, we cannot fail.
the jackass and the elephant
are canvassing by telephone
texts raucous and irrelevant
are blowing up my phone
the truth, at most an element
a voting booth development
the room contains an elephant
a making of my own
so what are we to do with it
republic to the loo with it
on top of it a deficit
so should I even vote
the ocean is belligerent
the Earth needs a refrigerant
but ignorants are vigilant…
we'll need a bigger boat
There doesn't have to be a reason --
so said the poet, pen in hand --
to celebrate the silly season --
no special need to understand,
to craft incisive dissertations.
Here doesn't rest the fate of nations,
though how amazing would it be
if in our yearning to be free
we shed our everyday disguises
and wore a costume suit to fit
our transformation thus complete,
and like the sun, which also rises
we walked into a bright new day
like children when they start to play
Confronted with an evil spirit
I choose to exercise restraint.
It's not as if I dread or fear it,
and nor am I about to faint,
but one must never be too hasty,
and lest the spirit find you tasty,
approach it with a wary hand.
Attempt to try and understand
its very essence, raison d'etre.
Then, when you're certain of its cause,
read the disclaimer, every clause,
even the finer print, etc.
Then, only then, proceed to drink.
Or that, at least, is what I think.
I miss those days -- you know, it's kind of funny --
when witchhunts were so few and far between.
The target would most often be a granny,
a mean one, one that everyone was keen
on getting rid of anyway, good riddance,
rewarded by a parcel of her land:
why not, for service rendered, just a pittance,
symbolic, as it were -- you understand.
But nowadays, the witches are ascendant,
and with them come, inevitably, hunts,
it's to the point we seem to be dependent,
confronting them, accosting on all fronts,
though I'll admit, a certain question itches,
that maybe, after all, we are the witches.
So stop me if you've heard this one before:
A minister, a rabbi, and a priest,
each in their role, religious to the core,
and gathering together for a feast,
to labor as a setup for a joke.
The subject matter doesn't even matter:
they'll ridicule the sleeping or the woke
at fundraisers, a thousand bucks a platter,
perform at a bar mitzvah or a wedding,
guffaws from the appreciating crowd,
when all else fails make mention of the bedding,
or stray a bit off-color if allowed.
And later, if it's not a bridge too far,
you'll find that they have walked into a bar.
find my Dorian Grey
somewhat sorrier, greyer
and as night follows day
and reprieve follows prayer
find the face that once was
can't be found on the canvas
having never found Oz
though no longer in Kansas
gone, the bluster of youth
I've replaced it with caution
wrinkles tarnish my truth
sickness ravages motion
should have known that the portrait
would turn out this bad
this is what it was for
you might say I've been had
Carnivorous relationships, like those
established between predator and prey,
that prey would understandably oppose
had Nature given it the proper sway,
but as it is required to persevere,
pretending all is well and all is equal,
and try as best it can to sound sincere,
while hoping to do better in the sequel.
What of its other, its significant?
Its predator, let us assume a lion.
Does it complain or grumble, does it rant,
since it is not the one that must be dying?
Apparently it doesn't give a damn,
and advertises: lion, seeking lamb.
A watercolor struggles with a rose.
Can't fully grasp its thorny disposition.
Its fragrance -- so, so easy for a nose,
won't pose -- and the resulting composition
feels sterile, more a postcard on a shelf,
a washed-out, antiseptic-looking copy,
than a reflection of its truer self,
no different than a tulip or a poppy.
What's needed then? A sharper, finer line?
A better brush with tempera? Acrylic?
To grant your rose a touch of the divine,
replace the blissful, pastoral, idyllic,
with chaos, life unmitigated, raw,
and then step back, and let your flowers grow.