Okay, Poetrycats, it’s time to don your black berets, turtlenecks and pretend like a pencil is a cigarette because we are getting ultra cool with words at this week’s poetry slam. Play some jazz, turn down the lights and trip with me down Lyrical Lane with the deliciously cynical and bluntly truthful, Ken Books. Feel free to leave your own poems in the comments.
Ken Books was born in Hershey, Pa., in 1949, and moved to Florida in 1997 to escape the hideous northern weather. He has been editor of two daily and four weekly newspapers, won 24 state and two national awards and retired Dec. 31, 2012.
He has written two books: an informational 96-page book about the Okaloosa County vocational school and “These are a few of the things that I hate,” a satirically cynical calendar-format book of essays sure to offend everyone at one time or another.
He is anxiously awaiting word from several agents that they will represent him and get the book published. And now, sit back, relax and laugh with his poem. I think Edgar would have loved it.
The Loser
With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe
Once as I sat ideas fighting, while I pondered what I’m writing,
Trying to rehash an idea expounded oh so long ago,
While I blathered, my prose shining, suddenly there came a whining,
As of someone raptly mining, mining guilt ’til he’s a bore.
“’Tis some never was,” I muttered, “whining at my office door.
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, so clearly his face appears, wrinkled, frenzied, coated with tears,
As each dripping salt-filled droplet ate away the lacquered floor.
Eagerly I wished he’d go home, vainly I let my poor mind roam,
From my writing due that morning, fading out as last night’s foam.
Thoughts of bankruptcy beckoned, sweat broke out upon my dome.
I lost my idea du jour.
“What, pray tell, brings you here crying, as my feeble thoughts are dying,
Bringing craven raving to me as I loathe you to your core?
Why are you still here complaining, as laments you keep on raining,
Raining with a fearful paining, like a student of Al Gore?
Why don’t you go get a life now, stop your oinking like an old sow,”
Said I to this scab so sore.
“I’m a victim and I suffer, playing golf I’m just a duffer,
My work week keeps getting rougher, and I’m only 24,”
Thus explained the lousy loser, wailing like he was a boozer,
“Give me money without toiling, labor’s lethal lashes foiling;
Give me lawsuits for my failings, ’cause I tripped in Godsey’s store.”
Wailed the loser, “Give me more.”
“I once had a job,” he simpered, “but they wanted work,” he whimpered,
“So I had to say goodbye to that unfeeling duty’s tour.
“Now I need some cash–big bills, please–while I’m living my life of ease,
Do this daily, I’m insisting, and my future is secure.
Just remember–give me more.”
“Sir,” said I, “you make me sicken. As I ponder you I quicken,
To the head to lean on porcelain, and my gut’s contents disgorge.
The stench reeking from your sentiment reminds me of manure.
Maybe you should get a life now, get out into the field and plow,
Think of something–not yourself; don’t be such a wretched boor.
Disdain and hatred follow you, of that you can be sure.”
Cried the loser, “Give me more.”
“Can’t you see that I’m a victim, liberals say so, it’s their dictum,
That my pain is shared by them and they know what’s the score.
Give me cash, give me largesse, send me to Hawaii on barges,
There to languish languidly, doing naught upon the shore.”
Scrunched I my face into anger, searched I madly for a banger,
To smash the loser into coma, there where he can loudly snore.
Moaned the loser, “Give me more.”
Cowered he as I came rushing, vehemence and hatred gushing,
Toward him with tire iron poised and ready, aimed to score.
Crunching him just made me happy; understand this, I implore.
Gleefully, I smote his person, verbally I cast aspersions,
Happily I broke his skull, filled to brim with emptiness.
I enjoyed it, I confess.
As he lay there bleeding badly, his voice raised he almost sadly,
Pierced me with an eye so piteous that I almost felt remorse.
A bloodied, broken hand he lifted, his mouth from the floor he shifted,
Still he had no concept of work or of money or its source.
“National health care,” he moaned. “See that a free clinic’s phoned,
Make me whole, don’t make me work. This I need you to assure.”
It’s THAT Sunday where we dip into the lyrical world of poetry, and today’s offering comes from one of my favorite authors, A.F. Stewart. Her prose often sounds like poetry with her descriptive phrasing and attention to detail and her work is always comfortingly dark.
These poems are shared from her book, Reflections of Poetry, available on Amazon and Smashwords. You can view more about this wonderful author, and her many books, on her Amazon profile. Don’t forget to add your own poems in the comments section or view past Slams.
And now, please welcome the wonderfully woeful, delightfully dark and ever wealthy with words… A.F. Stewart!
Soldier Boy
Play me a tune for Death;
he has passed this way.
A sad lament, for those
who shed their final blood
on this forlorn battlefield.
Play a song of sorrow
for your fallen friends.
Each and every soul
who shall never grace
again, this vibrant earth.
Captured Beauty on the Rhone
Luminescent stars above those who sleep,
flickering canopy across the sky, to stare,
reflect, within the river, so wide and deep.
Such beauty inspires art to make us weep
that radiant glow laughing in the night air,
luminescent stars above those who sleep.
Shining vines of ethereal reach and creep
and strut along the water, to cavort there,
reflect within the river, so wide and deep.
Light catches river’s embrace, to sweep
away along its course, lacking any care.
Luminescent stars above those who sleep.
Soft, in the murmuring river it will keep
the light of dreams, wishes and prayer.
Reflect within the river, so wide and deep.
Forever, the spectacle to make hearts leap
in joy, in awe, at a glorious sight laid bare.
Luminescent stars above those who sleep,
reflect within the river, so wide and deep.
Inspired by the painting Starry Night Over the Rhone by Vincent van Gogh
I wanted to do something patriotic to remember 9/11 today, but something positive and meaningful. I didn’t know what… until I received this poem in my inbox. I’d like to welcome Angela Winfield to Dandilyon Fluff and a special, Wednesday edition Poetry Slam.
I’d like to invite everyone to share their own remembrances of 9/11 and patriotic poetry in the comments section. I’ve included Angela’s bio after the poem. Please welcome Angela Winfield, and enjoy her inspired offering.
With the weight of the world strapped to his shoulders
And a grenade in hand, his only solace
Are the brainwashed dreams of a Promised Land
He gives his life, in this grown mans fight
The pain he causes, the pain he’ll feel
When he pulls the pin, when he pulls the trigger
This is the last choice he’ll make; the decision is forever
With a small prayer he completes the plan
The mind of a child does not comprehend
Now a page of history, a moment in time
The torturous hell we all felt
Forever images burned in our mind
What choice do we have with innocent involved?
As children we watched the towers fall
Filled with adrenalin and soaring high
An explosion shatters the silent night
He gave his life and there he lies
Waiting to be identified
With eyes forever open, the darkness sets in
The easy part is over, now it begins
Smoke and genocide choke the air
The please for help, the wails of despair
The screams that no one can here
Consumed in darkness, consumed in fear
But now a page of history, a moment in time
The torturous hell we all felt
Forever images burned in our mind
What choice do we have with innocent involved?
We watched the towers fall
But this fight is a grown mans war!
Your warriors are the sheep you swore
To protect their minds, from the rest of us and yet
You rein upon the people a religion of death
A people with out a choice, with out a voice
With out a thought like a robotic moth
They flee to the flame, and burn in the name of faith
Suffering the leadership of a man
Born without reasoning, born with a plan
Bent on hate in the name of faith
Against the weak you dominate
Through lightening wars, you discriminate
We’ve seen you before, we know your face
The same soul a different shape
The story repeats itself, and in the end
Good will rise again and again
‘For we will not fear you or bow in hesitation
We a free people a free nation!
Now a page of history, a moment in time
The torturous hell we all felt
Forever images burned in our mind
What choice do we have with innocent involved?
As children we watched the towers fall.
About the author:
I was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska and lived there until my early thirties. In November of 2011 the Air Force moved my husband and three children to Niceville, Florida.
From the moment we stepped on the plane and for the past two years everything has gone wrong. Many of my fears came to reality and it was then that I realized, that it’s in my weakness, I am strong.
I am afraid of everything, but what makes me strong, is that I face my fears everyday. I will overcome every time and over and over again if need be. Here I was faced with: new cultures, a boggy environment, bugs that look like a cross between a large cockroach and Satan, loss of family income, a potential divorce and death and my past. I have never felt closer to my potential.
For me, Niceville has become the beauty and the beast metaphor that is my life. It was here in that I rediscovered my love of writing and my passion to become an influential, published author. I have written two children’s books and am in the process of publishing them both. I have written poetry and submitted song lyrics to the International Song Writers Competition and have other projects on the burners.
It’s another Poetry Slam Sunday and my original plan was to do a video recap of the Say the Word Poetry Slam that kicks off in my town every first Wednesday of the month… but, if you read last Wednesday’s post, my car broke down so I missed it. Instead, I’m going to post one of my favorite poems of all time, The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.
“The Highwayman” is a narrative poem written by Alfred Noyes, first published in the August 1906 issue of Blackwoods Magazine, based in Edinburgh, Scotland. The following year it was included in Noyes’ collection, Forty Singing Seamen and Other Poems, becoming an immediate success. In 1995 it was voted 15th in the BBC’s poll for “The Nation’s Favorite Poems.”
It has remained one of mine since the first time I read about the gallant bandit meeting his lovely Bess in the dark of the night… and probably the reason I tend to fall for the rogues ;p Art courtesy of Maryanneleslie.
Next week the lovely, dark poetry of A. F. Stewart will be shared. But for now;
The Highwayman
Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
PART ONE
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Poetry Slam Sunday has been taking off! Tonight’s poet is Jonathon Gunger, author of 34/4 and this coming Tuesday’s interview on Journal Jabber.
Poetry Slam is for everyone so feel free to share your own poems in the comments section. Check the schedule to see who’s coming up next! Want to be a featured poet? Email me:
Last week I officially requested poems for a new regular feature here on Dandilyon Fluff – Poetry Slam Sunday. The meter and verse blew up my inbox! Who knew I had so many poetically inclined friends? Slam your own poems down in the comments and share!
Tonight’s poet is Frank W. Smith, author of Wolf Song and the just released Night Song.
Last week I had so much fun sharing an old poem I wrote I thought about trying to do a regular poetry night here on my blog. There’s all sorts of interesting things to do with poetry – my mind is teeming with the possibilities. Share with me and I’ll be glad to post yours as well. Leave a poem of yours in the comments or send it to me here:
Until I get some poems to share, I’ll share another of mine. This was written a few years ago during an emotionally devastating time in my life. When I read over it now it brings back sad memories and a sense of gratitude that all that is in the past.
Disclaimer: I have been criticized in poetry groups before because I like to rhyme my poetry. I still like it like that.
Fallen Angel
Fallen angel looking to the sky
Every star wilts her soul helping her to die.
Tasting heaven once enough to know what she’s denied
Crying…laughing…swallowing and accepting all the lies.
Falling through a sunset – grasping at the air
Wandering through a life that was never really there.
Embracing all things dark but can’t quite snuff the light
Meandering in circles between what is wrong and what is right.
Dwelling in dark places to taste a bit of moon
Stretch her heart with pain to create a little room
To drink in all the sorrow of the lost souls that she meets.
With eyes full of blank shadow she accepts that life’s a cheat.
Fool her once and she’ll come running
Fool her twice and she’ll be back
Denying all who care for her
Embracing all the lack.
Fallen Angel, darkened angel
Once dwelling in the light
Has turned her back on heaven
To fade into the night.
Speaking of angels… I couldn’t resist sharing this photoshopped picture of one of my angels 😀
Our area has started doing poetry jams here once a month and I’m planning on participating in the next one. I don’t write a lot of poems, but I thought I’d share one tonight. I wrote this years ago for a writer’s critique and challenge site called Themestream. Anyone remember that great site?
Ken Books was born in Hershey, Pa., in 1949, and moved to Florida in 1997 to escape the hideous northern weather. He has been editor of two daily and four weekly newspapers, won 24 state and two national awards and retired Dec. 31, 2012.
