Tag: Rhythm

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Stranger

~ S.M. Nolan ~ 1 Comment

The stranger is strange
when just out of view,
comparing the range,
of each bread loaf’s hue.
I’ve no idea,
just what I’m to do,
when I see the stranger,
with bread made for two.

The stranger is strange,
when hidden by night,
you fear their footsteps,
and so revel in light.
When once they pass,
without second sight,
you see the stranger,
means not to fight.

The stranger is strange,
‘specially in the full-moon,
they’ve bright whitened teeth,
a view with no boon.
Yet look through their eyes,
just a little to gloom,
you feel the stranger,
at home in your room.

We are the strangers,
alone on the path,
that each of us is asked,
to walk without wrath,
But sometimes we forget,
start a blood bath,
of strangers and strangeness,
from poor mental math.

Fear not the stranger,
who smiles at your face
no matter the danger,
we’re all the same race,
for strangeness is Human,
and so too’s our place;
acceptance and tolerance, compassion and grace,
for a stranger seems strangest,
when you greet with a mace.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Entertain The Dead

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Breathe fire.
Light my pyre.
Beat the funeral drum,
feel the rhythm.

Entertain the dead,
no matter your dread,
for their station is long,
and they’re in need of song.

Bring them together,
and incite with a feather,
that tickles their minds and hearts,
ensures they play their parts.

For the passed,
will always outlast,
those of us whom on the Earth live,
ever-subject to death’s sieve.

Embrace the lovers,
fight the fighters,
enchain those that wish to be,
and chase those that wish to flee.

Whatever their poison,
choose it with poise ‘n,
embrace them eternally.
Only then can we be free–

Free to see,
What life’s passing eternity,
has for the liberated,
only then might hunger be sated,
And only then might life thus be rated,
and only then might the risks go un-stated,
and only then might the created,
find peace and entertain the dead.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: What Happened to Stories

~ S.M. Nolan ~ 3 Comments

In the ages of old,
when stories were told,
rather than mold,
and neither quill nor ink were sold,
we knew of imagination,
whose masters could scold.

With a simple inflection,
their only direction,
spurred listeners’ affection,
while inside did correction,
of innermost damnation
became fluid insurrection.

Such is the abstract,
of the heart still intact,
when deep in contract,
with masters of contact,
and relentless dissension,
that readies to retract.

But today we have links,
verbal wars that leave kinks,
in bottomless sinks,
and unhealthy drinks,
from electric derision,
and arm-chair shrinks.

What happened to stories,
both bold and of glories,
where seldom did quarries,
disappear ‘long with lorries,
and hectic decision
or lone allegories?

When did the paper,
along with the caper,
turn from the shaper,
dissolve into vapor,
and delightful incisions,
became keys that did taper?

Whatever the answer,
I’m sure the pen-dancer,
has grown weary of cancer,
from the weakened freelancer,
whose electric visions,
thought himself an enhancer.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Illustrate, Alliterate

~ S.M. Nolan ~ 3 Comments

A frothing phantasm of frightening fortune,
bubbles bilious in the bowels of barbarians,
while sloppily sweet is the savory saint
whose caffeinated curmudgeonly countenance creates
a portrait, a painting, of petulant ‘plaints

Vindictive vaudevillians of vicissitudes verbose
sing medleys of misers, mimed by a moose
while caroling curlers curtsy in court
‘fore a noisy, neanderthal knows not what’s nort’
and so whines at the winds then wittily wins

Surely I jest,
but you know not the test,
that which I’ve taken,
at my own request–
for business is best,
when transacted undressed.

A festering fool finds self filthy-full,
when tightened and tempered, twisted by tools,
brotherly bearing, or broken and boring,
he’s fairly faring a ferry of fairies,
by cutting contentious curtailed capillaries

And the Villainous Vixen of Venomous Vendetta
turns knife into night and now into none.
And then at dawn-down is seen dourly done,
in a fetid and festered famely-known fawn,
ready to purchase and perfect, and by perchance prefect.

And now for the rest,
that we all received blessed,
some call it death,
but I name it “The guest,”
upon whose soft breast,
I’ve been caressed.