Poetry Thing Thursday: Of Boldness and Might

So let’s take a look,
just how it stands
the woman holds down,
and takes on commands,
listens outright,
all judgment gone.

Diplomacy’s art,
refined at its finest.
Suckled from far,
beneath the anus,
when out of the darkness,
arise doth a light,
devotedly dog-men of the fight,
armed with true-fashion,
equipped with a pun,
they’ll haul your ass out
and lynch it for fun.

Then just ‘fore forgetting,
at that moment of end,
we’ll let you back home,
gently again.

Reawaken your mind.
Let your toes and teeth tingle.
Remember that freedom is found in a jingle.
Look out in darkness,
tell us what do you see.
Is it a beautiful but fast-broken dream?

Riled all up,
and spat out again.
He’ll learn this time,
as original sin…

The problem you realize,
is that this is your moment,
but rather than prove you postpone it,
Humanity is nothing if not forgiving,
but then again, you, have to stop living,
off tvnews, air-raiding radio showtunes,
for it’s a sad monkey-fact,
you’re performing baboons.
Defiled by attention,
and paid out in spite,
you’ve made yourselves fools,
as is your right.
Always remember,
those affairs we do fight,
of wizards and madness,
and boldness and might.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Weep-Wounding Fools

The ladies say it best,
when a’raw and un’dress’t,
that power’s a flaw,
of those filled with unrest.
In waves, and a-rising,
these ladies go sizing,
they speak from the breast,
the one that beats best,
“nature is nothing,
if not filled with unrest,”
but simple facts are,
We see, true, what you are,
you’re a vile and venom,
type of code-seven.

You’re the kind of creature,
that weeps only to wound,
a power you know,
can only consume.
But not quite how you think,
for you’d best be remiss,
when interfering with Wizards,
and Shaman’s-Breath mist.

For these are the things,
that know of true power.
Things only you,
seek to devour.
But you cannot
and will not,
for we stand firm before you.
There is nothing we did to deplore you.

It was you, my friends,
that dug such a grave.
You and your weep-wounding,
madness-parade.

But I’ve come from the desert,
you all claim to know,
and I can tell you now,
you’ve nothing to show.
Your vile and venom,
will do you no good,
to a creature formed,
of antidote-blood.

A little native boy,
came once to me.
I sat him down,
upon my knee.
“Why do you hate?”
he asked to me,
I do not,
my boy,
I’ve simply no joy.

“But can’t you just find it?”
he asked in reply,
I wished and I hoped,
and wanted to die.
But a miracle thing,
instead I did sigh,
I wept and I leaked,
meditatively, why,
I found deep within me,
that native boy’s rye.

Now I say madly,
to those onlooking, resigned,
be careful what you spark,
the whom and the why.
For these wonderful ladies,
my friends they’re so fly,
you’ve no idea the wonder,
hurry,
or why.

You know only your foolish,
ball-stenchly shroud.
Well at least I try to keep down,
that stinky ball-cloud.
It’s not always so proper,
not always so proud,
when your fetid manhood,
adds victimhood-crowd.

If you knew, only knew,
you stupidly fools,
what greatness you’ve squandered,
but set in motion,
your minds wouldn’t have already wandered,
from loving, devotion.
But they have and they will,
and that’s alright, too,
for these ladies are going,
to show the way through.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Lean Upon the Wicked

Lean upon the wicked.
Trod upon the lame.
Chase them through the thicket.
Hang them without name.
If judgment comes to call,
say it was a game.

This is the creed of a motherless breed.
This is the soul-darkened human seed.
This is the eyrie of an immoral steed,
pregnant upon invirtuous deed.

Death is on your ticket.
Freedom’s in your name.
Never can be resown.
We fight but not in vain.
Eyes and minds alight.
And burning as one flame.

This is the song, of a petulant need.
This is the cry, that we cannot concede.
This is a wound, borne of gluttonous greed,
bending like, unbroken reed.

Cry of the fallen.
Breath of the flame.
Forget the calling.
Strike without shame.
For when at last,
the flotsam’s gone to claim,
and tidal waves roll,
cling to the innocents
and not your goal.

This is the sigh of the chaos gone by,
This is the reel of impossible cry.
This is the sound of the freewheel afly,
remembered long past the day that we die.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: MotherVlad

Have you seen the news today?
Have you heard the tale?
The lump you hoped would all repay,
water-logged and setting sail,
Tube-toilette from Lady Justice,
delivered ‘neath the jester’s ass.
But Freedom mends however ail’d
and stupid sells asbestos.

No matter the shamest-shame,
or lumpest-lump,
you know MummyVlad,
your kindly grad,
was destined for t’swump.

And here’s what’s best,
now you’re next,
if not quite last,
for it’s ever going-on,
but that’s okay,
it’s all right-on,
so join in on the fun.

Truth is Vlad,
you’re ever-sad,
and really,
you know that.
But,
if you knew the willing will,
you’d remember what is true:
That to clash,
in Bear and Eagle flash,
as foolish then as now, too.

Watch countrymen run,
‘way from fi’ring guns,
never forgetting,
N1T3 will soon come.
No matter how cold,
those rebels most bold,
will find and defeat,
through each layered deceit,
for that is the Art,
of War in defeat.

There is but one way,
to evade now your worst horrors,
Your room-101,
and public-nightmare monsoon.
That harrowing dream,
that cuts at your womb:
the one where you harbor,
each idle tomb–
the one that’s inside,
and gutting,
buffoon.

Admit your defeat,
at the knees of her sheet,
and weep with true grief,
and open-veined sorrow,

For if you do not,
MotherVlad,
the Lady giveth no promise,
of further tomorrows.

But do not mistake,
what in haste seems dead-weight,
for that is the moment
to face the big-hate,
for tried and for true,
expose yourself,
open,
to failure.

Or do you think fate,
perchance to equate,
in a moment uncouth,
would heave all of her weight,
as if just to hate,
bend back, act pithy, ‘n rail ‘ya?

Well I’m here to say lass,
while yer down on yer ass,
would you rather it’all,
burn down around ‘ya?

If so perhaps I,
do solemnly scry,
the chances of wet scurvy ang’a.
So be tough and true,
warrior through,
but remember your lost man,
name of Sun Tzu:
some arts lost are better forgotten,
run this one through once more,
won’t you,
MotherVlad Rotten?

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Wandering

Wandering and wandering
and wandering we go
where we’re stopped
by whom and the how,
only the notions,
of father time can now tell.

Because in the end
what they call sin
is thinking with
alternative win–
corruption unseated,
mind boggles it, when,
they don’t see it coming
get steamrolled in spin

“If only, if only,”
the cry in the night,
those four sacred words,
turn to sand from might,
like the ancients of old
for what time doesn’t bare us,
was written, foretold,
no need to embarrass,
nor spoil it, see,
for those wee little four words,
contain infinity.

But never fear,
for madness is near,
and love-a-rub dubbing,
kindly riding in rear.
Decipher their words,
but know not their meanings,
for these processions, herds,
and wanton unleanings,
are really the yearnings,
of creatures quite feeling.

All quite like us,
and no wonder, you know,
when wandering and a-wandering
and-a wandering we go.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Best Left for Dead?

Our greatest achievements,
may be the final nail,
in a series that’s secured,
our coffin’s lid and veil.

Cars and planes,
trucks and trains,
all spitting smoke and bile,
in atmospheric style.

Meanwhile great earth-movers,
cut tracks and grooves,
into our fragile soil.

And deep in the cities,
our stars are gone,
even past them it pities,
to look where no man can reach:
the sky’s beauty is taken,
by our polluted bleach.

If only we’d been smarter,
and kept our minds open,
then our greatest achievement,
would have spared us the pavement.

Instead,
perhaps we’re best left for dead.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Grim Spectre

A darkness dawned upon rotten lands,
withered gray as the common man’s hands,
whom,
forsaken by fire,
the Gods,
their elements,
Rises in perverse adherence to nature’s laws
and Grim corruption.

Shall not the dark of the evil rise
forsake what is left,
of this prehuman concoction?
This bubbling froth of witch’s-brew poison–
with a little hatred and fear
tossed right in–
simmered in shame,
and a death prone to tears.

O! yea though we know not what is left,
we do know what be our quest;
might the land be purged of its arcane hell,
if only for the fading moment,
of man’s dying flame.

For the Taken have come,
and the world has changed.

And though now we walk through many valleys,
enshadowed by the Grim spectre,
we know only what is left,
we fear no more death,
for life is too precious to waste,
in naught but pursuit of love,
happiness bereft.

Cleansed now are those souls,
who’d once been so rotten,
for though it took death,
their sins are forgotten.