Category: Poetry-Thing Thursday

Anything rhythmically or structurally varied from general fiction.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: How Indiscreet

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Bluebirds do not sing,
but rather squawk
in early spring,
when separate from the flock.

How like them we are,
even if we don’t notice.
How high they’ve set the bar,
and how high we are above this.

To say we are not animals,
is to gravely miss the point,
for all of us become irrationals,
when we, with blood, anoint.

Whether sentient or intelligent,
we’re bound to make mistakes.
Fly from the diligent.
Fail to apply the brakes.

Still the bluebirds do not sing,
they merely squawk,
when encircled by a ring,
of steel and domed frock.

Yet we do it ourselves,
with steel and wood, concrete
leaving our hearts on shelves,
how indiscreet.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Great Oak Tree

~ S.M. Nolan ~ 2 Comments

Sit beneath the Great Oak Tree.
Let it whisper near your ear,
nothingness of which to fear.
For the tree’s roots run deep
past the forest floors to creep,
ever onward, ever outward,
toward dour veins that weep.

There by the window bough,
misery’s company come to caw,
in feathered wing and blackened claw.
The grief of withered sight,
drawn furlong, mid dead-of-night.
Grating mind, grinding bone,
of hunts in past-light.

She stands alone.
‘pon a mantle piece.
Cloaked in satin.
Fine silk,
A lady.
No matter his ilk.
Problems be-lie her wounded men.
In her hands, they let her in.
She remolds them,
like clay,
piece by piece,
shows them to win.

Play upon play. Night upon night.
The dancing certainty of one who is right.
The play may uphold, as certain due right,
any liberties people try to fight.
For art is art, as any can tell,
and in rhyming couplets,
the legends foretell;

That when the stage is set,
she’ll roll down her sleeves,
begin to sweat,
strap on her greaves,
and fight with her feet wet.

Even a performance not quite up-to-snuff,
held in regard as rather quite rough,
All the same her people, the audience,
find hating it tough.

She takes her bow.
Exits stage-left.

Mind consumed
by minute failures,
but nowhere near
bound-up by terrors.
Instead she is thinking,
analyzing her errors,
her thoughts re-tracing,
running upgrades and repairors.

Internal monologues play.
Rewind.
Play again.
She’s adjusting,
re-calculating,
choosing her moments.

Then it comes,
a repeat performance.
Never fail.
Never succeed.
Always,
as good as she needs.
Striving forever to be better,
indeed.

If only we all,
could thus,
be.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Rezi Dump

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Rezi Dump,
Rezi Dump,
what an orangish,
vileish,
unstylish lump!

A congealed hint of bliss,
shaked, baked, and burned at high-heat.
Smothered in shit, rinse and repeat.

Ad infinitum.

Rezi dump, Rezi dump!
You oafish fat clump,
I’ve stepped in shit with more use,
than you and those you hump.

So why don’t you,
and perhaps they,
take a flying fuck,
up in the lake,
that you’ve pissed down upon us,
then have a sit,
on one of Vlad’s stakes.

Meanwhile, you dawdle,
while we clamber to wash,
and quarantine the area.

Because Rezi Dump,
my Ruskie stump,
you’re a traitor in form,
in kind
and in slump.
So fuck right off,
up t’drain’t swump.

We’ll let you live,
leave with your shame.
Because we’ve no time,
for hatred or blame.
It was always rigged,
this game,
and you’ve your part,
in this, the fame,
that comes of great failures,
and expulsion of shame.
Too bad for you,
you’re the shit in the flame.

For you’re Rezi Dump,
and you blew the bump;
one too many times,
one too many rimes.

You broke the camel’s back,
for you and for your ilk.
Now we rally as wizards,
cloaked in white silk,
our weapons in hand;
fruited electron eyes,
combined with organic minds.

Sense from the senseless? Certainly.
But that was always assured.
No matter how ridiculous or absurd,
there was always retrospect coming,
after the herd.

Bird,
after all,
is the word.

So, Rezi Dump, Rezi Dump,
you didn’t do it,
but rejoice anyway,
people are great again,
if only, if only,
if only you’d join ’em.

But you won’t;
you’re a corpse,
long drowned in a sump.
You’re bloated and frightening,
and parade like a Klump.
My dear ‘ol,
Rezi Dump,
thyne buttmunch,
what happened to that card?
They called it the Trump.

Well whatever happened,
fuck off up your rump.
For we’ve shit to do,
and zero time,
for pitiful shits like you.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: In Your Waters

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Rise, Goddess;
Queen of blood,
of temples and beauty,
of madness and love.
Rise from the ashes,
of a life you once lived,
and rise to embrace,
the world as it is.

For hidden in shadow,
of legends tall,
of myths ancient,
is a magic that calls.

So rise, Goddess,
rise to its song.
Embrace darkness.
Enlighten yourself.
Rise up to greet
the world and,
make it your muse.

For deceptions abound,
and mystery surrounds,
but you’ll tear them both down,

For you, Goddess,
are rising,
and this world
in your waters,
shall drown.