The hire of a brand spankin’ new man,
Made recipe for disastrous plan,
It was clear from the start,
That he’d bloody well fack up his part,
And we’d all ended up locked in the can.
Da bins damn full of dem rats;
Dey filled it all up wid der shats.
Gone ruined da grain,
From hunger we ’ere slain,
Me should’ve procured dem damn cats
The tick of the clock
slams like a hammer
against Arianne’s eardrum.
Her eyes growing heavy
as the itinerant sun slips
towards the western horizon.
Endless reds, oranges and yellows
spill from the heavens,
onto the blue canvas sky
Great billowing cloud herds
transiting the azure ocean are
set ablaze against the fiery sunset.
Arianne sits by the open window,
hypnotised by the meadow sages
bending in the evening breeze.
Luminecent fireflies dance
leaving fading trails of ghost strings
amongst the old grey stones.
Whilst wisps of fairy dust swirl
in the magical air, like lacy strands
gilding her already flaxen hair.
She knows not who the traveller is,
only that the journey ends
at the old weathered gate.
How much longer must
she wait before her
limit hath been reached.
For as long as she has a heartbeat
she has sworn to help
her weary guest reach the finish.
From the Latin word for “patchwork,” the cento (or collage poem) is a poetic form composed entirely of lines from poems by other poets. Definition of the poetry form taken from poets.org
Suddenly there came a tapping,1
Out of the night that covers me.2
Who are these coming to the sacrifice,3
With throats unslaked, with black lips?4
We wear the mask that grins and lies,5
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light.6
Though it be darkness there,7
Some say the world will end in fire.8
No man is an island,9
And all the men and women merely players.10
We passed the school where children played,11
And that has made all the difference.12
Footnotes:
1) The Raven – Edgar Allen Poe / 2) Invictus – William Ernest Henley / 3) Ode to a Grecian Urn – John Keats / 4) The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – Samuel Taylor Coleridge / 5) We Wear the Mask – Paul Laurence Dunbar / 6) Dover Beach – Matthew Arnold / 7) There is another sky – Emily Dickenson / 8) Fire and Ice – Robert Frost / 9) No Man is an Island – John Donne / 10) All the World’s a Stage – William Shakespeare / 11) Because I could not stop for Death – Emily Dickenson / 12) The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost
I really can’t hold it, oh, what should I do,
A dreadful concoction brewing within,
In a matter of moments the air will be blue,
Clenched and contorted, I squeeze it back in.
A dreadful concoction brewing within,
While my boss keeps talking, won’t let me go,
Clenched and contorted, I squeeze it back in,
He won’t know what hit him, no reprieve when I blow.
My boss just keeps talking, won’t let me go,
Even calling me back when I try to depart,
He won’t know what hit him, no reprieve when I blow,
Thank the Lord, it’s just a wet fart.
Calling me back when I try to depart,
In a matter of moments the air will be blue,
There is no Lord, it’s not a wet fart,
I really can’t… oh crap, I’ve got a pantload of poo.
Leaving for the last time,
in the black of night.
An ill wind cutting through
the 1964 Ford truck I called home.
Dust of the past unable to settle,
a sign of the treachery that
left my heart and home broken.
Wrapped in silk sheets,
she has the honey,
he has my family.
I’m left with only a hunger,
And a few pictures in books.
This poem was inspired by a poem written by Hobbo called Fluffy. A earlier version of this limerick first appeared in comments section of that post. Check out Hobbo’s Poems for more excellent poetry.
There once was a cloud sheep named Shaun,
Who was left with no legs to stand on,
To Wallace no points,
Shaved too close to the joints,
Sheared those shanks clear off, now they’re gone.
My handmaid’s fingers, all torn up and raw,
with one final tug, she’ll tie off the bow.
My corset so tight, a breath I can’t draw,
I’ll slip on the dress, I’m ready to go.
Off we descend from the castle above,
tonight he’ll be waiting down by the stream.
Driver don’t kill us before I know love,
to meet my fair prince beneath the moon’s beam.
The horses barreling out of control.
Into the air then crashing back down,
the carriage breaks free as we start to roll,
a ruckus so loud we woke half the town.
Terror in his eyes and a terrible squeal,
my poor prince laid down beneath the front wheel.
Written for Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest (2022/01/22) at chelowens.com
Painter: Unknown.
Copyright 2022 Greg Glazebrook, All Rights Reserved.
Discovery Channel may have ‘Shark Week’ but they have nothing on Greg’s Blog Spider Week! LMAO!
See The Hunter and the Hunted, my Spider themed Haiku post.
Spider, spider, on the ceiling,
giving me that creeping feeling.
You were meant to be outside,
in dark places, where you hide.
Spinning silken thread, all day,
a patient wait to snare your prey.
With web vibrations you dispatch,
wrapping up your wretched catch.
Liquified to chitinous swill,
slurping up your six-legged kill.
It’s not safe, where you tread,
catch my roommate’s gaze, you’re dead.
Climb upon my outstretched hand,
I’ll put you back out on the land.
The price of freedom’s not so steep,
from my garden, the bugs you’ll keep.
My ruthless garden Queen, you’ll rule,
over all the winged fool.
Until the cold of autumn’s rain,
then my ceiling, you’ll cross again.
Photo Credit: Dustin Humes via Unsplash
Copyright 2022 Greg Glazebrook, All Rights Reserved.
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