Ven

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Ven
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Ven

Post by Ven » Wed Jun 04, 2003 8:49 am

* Click Here to Visit Ven's Myspace page *


"Censorship ends in logical completeness when nobody is allowed to read any literature
except for the literature that nobody wants to read".



To Purchase a copy of "Duct Tape & Daffodyls" CLICK HERE

New book available soon ... watch this space :wink:



<a name="#index">Index of Archived Poetry</a>
_______________________________


Part One

<a href="#001">Is and Was</a>
<a href="#002">Insomniac Extreme</a>
<a href="#003">It's All Quiet Now</a>
<a href="#004">Just An Ordinary Man</a>
<a href="#005">Literary Bliss </a>
<a href="#006">The Trooping of the Colour</a>
<a href="#007">Fatal. </a>
<a href="#008">In Self Defense</a>
<a href="#009">Broken Box</a>
<a href="#010">Disgraced</a>
<a href="#011">Too Perfect</a>
<a href="#012">Much to do</a>
<a href="#013">Enough!</a>
<a href="#014">Am I Poet?</a>
<a href="#015">This Dirty Town</a>
<a href="#016">The Accidental Mystic</a>
<a href="#017">Walking the Wisdom</a>
<a href="#018">On a Different Note</a>
<a href="#019">Hard Earned Immortality</a>
<a href="#020">Short Time</a>
<a href="#021">The Navigator</a>
<a href="#022">Toward the Light</a>
<a href="#023">A masterstroke</a>
<a href="#024">24 hrs.</a>
<a href="#025">A Rare Soul</a>
<a href="#026">A House Well Hidden</a>
<a href="#027">You Want Dark?</a>
<a href="#028">The Ultimate Inheritance </a>
<a href="#029">They Made Me Crazy </a>


"What we must do let us love to do. It is a noble chemistry that turns necessity into pleasure".
~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



Part Two

<a href="#030">The Wardrobe Monster </a>
<a href="#031">This Love ? </a>
<a href="#032">Three Short Minutes </a>
<a href="#033">Tickle Me.</a>
<a href="#034">To maths and back </a>
<a href="#035">Toward the Light</a>
<a href="#036">Acheing</a>
<a href="#037">Crazy !</a>
<a href="#038">Snow Fun</a>
<a href="#039">Duck !!</a>
<a href="#040">A spirit Dampened </a>
<a href="#041">Toward the Word</a>
<a href="#042">Watching Summer Die </a>
<a href="#043">Well I'll be a Monkeys Uncle !</a>
<a href="#044">Twenty Shades of Yellow </a>
<a href="#045">Unrestricted </a>
<a href="#046">Versifier Depleted</a>
<a href="#047">Mighty Mouse ! </a>
<a href="#048">Mother Can Cope</a>
<a href="#049">A Lesson Learned </a>


Happiness is something that comes into our lives through doors we don’t even remember leaving open.
~ Rose Wilder Lane.



Part Three

<a href="#050">A Masterstroke </a>
<a href="#051">A Rare Soul</a>
<a href="#052">A Roll of the Dice </a>
<a href="#053">A to Z of the UNDEAD</a>
<a href="#054">Acheing</a>
<a href="#055">Ahhh! Warmth</a>
<a href="#056">Mother made Christmas </a>
<a href="#057">Moving Mountains</a>
<a href="#058">My Africa</a>
<a href="#059">Neglecting the Heroes</a>
<a href="#060">No More ...</a>
<a href="#061">Ooooh Look ! </a>
<a href="#062"> Pigeon Hole Me</a>
<a href="#063"> Putting it Right</a>
<a href="#064">Quit Messing ! </a>
<a href="#065">Re; Solution </a>
<a href="#066">Short Time </a>
<a href="#067"> Simply Be</a>
<a href="#068"> Skitzamolic</a>
<a href="#069"> Sometimes Something Special Comes</a>


"Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh".
~ George Bernard Shaw.



Part Four

<a href="#070">Debt Met Roulette Inc. </a>
<a href="#071">Thank You Devon</a>
<a href="#072">The See Monster </a>
<a href="#073">Mad as A Poet </a>
<a href="#074">The Blurb </a>
<a href="#075">The Death of Anima </a>
<a href="#076">Yell Jezebel </a>
<a href="#077">If wishes they were mine to make </a>
<a href="#078">Little Miss Meticulous </a>
<a href="#079">Goldbricker </a>
<a href="#080">Roll it ! </a>
<a href="#081">If the Ref had just ... </a>
<a href="#082">Bless'ed Solitude </a>
<a href="#083">Bipolar Poets </a>
<a href="#084">Side by Side </a>
<a href="#085">As We Pass By </a>
<a href="#086">Directing the Rhetoric </a>
<a href="#087">Note to the Archaic Poets </a>
<a href="#088">Megan’s Magic Ballet Mice </a>
<a href="#089">With These Three Lines </a>
<a href="#090">Xylak .. Champion of the Gnoxie. </a>


"I’ve found that people tend to agree with your theories far more readily if you tell them that Einstein said it first".


Part Five

<a href="#091">Lionheart Sprite</a>
<a href="#092">Variation on a Theme</a>
<a href="#093">Swing ... and sometimes Blues</a>
<a href="#094">The Monkey Trap</a>
<a href="#095">Denunciation ?</a>
<a href="#096">The Gay Apostle</a>
<a href="#097">Who Put Peas in the Whipping Cream ?</a>
<a href="#098">Borrowed Time</a>
<a href="#099">Unclean, Unclean ! ... but as Tough as Old Boots</a>
<a href="#100">Spirited Inspiration<a>
<a href="#101">Paper Cuts</a>
<a href="#102">Side by Side</a>
<a href="#103">Etchings ~ by Mr. Frost</a>
<a href="#104">Siren Song</a>
<a href="#105">The Insobriety of Robert Reilly</a>
<a href="#106">I'd Like A Poet Please</a>
<a href="#107">Merrily Christmas</a>
<a href="#108">Rule of Down</a>
<a href="#109">Forever and a Day</a>
<a href="#110">Mum One, Harry Nil ...</a>


"Condolence is the word for when there are no words".


Part Six

<a href="#111">Pheasant Feet and Juju Babies</a>
<a href="#112">Sweet Marie</a>
<a href="#113">Molly's Eyes</a>
<a href="#114">Non l'esprit d'escalier</a>
<a href="#115">Through the Eye of the Beholder</a>
<a href="#116">The Maunderer</a>
<a href="#117">A Commendable Regression</a>
<a href="#118">A Damned Fine Place</a>
<a href="#119">Unfolding</a>
<a href="#120">Should I say ? (Mother)</a>
<a href="#121">A thoughtful Equivalence</a>
<a href="#122">Snippets</a>
<a href="#123">In Prognostic Mourning</a>
<a href="#124">The Unfortunate Mr. Smith</a>
<a href="#125">The Work-Mans Whistle</a>
<a href="#126">For Them ...</a>
<a href="#127">The Poet & the Bloke</a>
<a href="#128">Falling Out</a>
<a href="#129">Shape-Shifter</a>
<a href="#130">Even When</a>


"The weight of "sense of duty" pressed upon her
like Britannica in it’s entirety on a keep forever daisy".



Part Seven

<a href="#131">Guidden</a>
<a href="#132">To be Lost</a>
<a href="#133">A Short Introduction to the Romance Section</a>
<a href="#134">Little Red Riding Hoodie<a>
<a href="#135">Foundling</a>
<a href="#136">An Open Mind</a>
<a href="#137">Fall We Will</a>
<a href="#138">Ya Live and Learn</a>
<a href="#139">Bemused</a>
<a href="#140">Injuiced</a>
<a href="#141">Questioning the Gift</a>
<a href="#142">To Nanna Raine’s Witchery</a>
<a href="#143">Lore Abiding</a>
<a href="#144">Fishin' 4 Elefants</a>
<a href="#145">She and I</a>
<a href="#146">Time and Space</a>
<a href="#147">The Wasted Philosopher</a>
<a href="#148"></a>
<a href="#149"></a>
<a href="#150"></a>



Part Eight





"We tend to believe that our most mature decisions are those parentally made for the benefit of our children. In reality we are not complete adults until we've made alturistic choices for the sake of a parent.".



Short Stories

<a href="#250">The Underdogs</a>
<a href="#251">It's Just Routine</a>
<a href="#252">The Two Faces of Kelly S.</a>




"If we could sniff or swallow something that would, for five or six hours each day, abolish our solitude as individuals, atone us with our fellows in a glowing exaltation of affection and make life in all its aspects seem not only worth living, but divinely beautiful and significant, and if this heavenly, world-transfiguring drug were of such a kind that we could wake up next morning with a clear head and an undamaged constitution - then, it seems to me, all our problems (and not merely the one small problem of discovering a novel pleasure) would be wholly solved and earth would become paradise." ~ Aldous Huxley.



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Last edited by Ven on Sun Sep 30, 2007 2:50 pm, edited 146 times in total.

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Ven
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Post by Ven » Tue Sep 23, 2003 5:47 am

Part One
_________________________

<a name="001">Is and Was</a>

This land of the Bard
scarred and marred
by a concrete
criss crossed
paving slab embossed
mish mash
of
tarmac
and car parks
as progress embarks
and takes its toll
on the rolling green
awesome scenery
that is and was
the Land of my Fathers.

~
©Ven.Mar2005



............


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<a name="#002">Insomniac Extreme</a>

Repeated images,
projected, woolen but strong,
against a backdrop
of inner eyelids.
Yawn.

A quarter century,
of conscious thought.
Insomniac extreme,
this way
born.

Restless nights,
break dancing on crumpled linen.
Her over thumped pillow,
abused and
well worn.

Images repeated,
sheep jumping fence
10,875 ... 86
and sleep comes,
at twenty five,
to Dawn.

by Ven 2002




.............


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<a name="003">It's All Quiet Now</a>

The toxicity indicator was flashing red.
It's just a glitch,
an error .. they said.
Until people began to fall in the streets,
at their desks,
in the playgrounds and parks,
and supermarket isles.
They said it had to be done.
So as not to cause a panic
and they were right.
It's all quiet now.

©Ven.feb2003





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<a name="004">Just An Ordinary Man</a>

A man came to the door today, long hair, blue eyes, six three.
He said he was in the area, giving estimates for free.
He said that he could mow the lawn, ... do any odd jobs I could find.
He made no mention of saving souls or healing the sick or the blind.
I showed him to the garden shed, where the tools and the mower were stored
and I noticed the scars on the palms of his hands as he reached for the mower cord.

I said, "Are you who I think you are?" and he told me to lower my voice.
He made me promise to keep his secret. He said he had no choice.
He said he'd tried to walk the road that he thought he was meant to take
but it left him open to ridicule and taunts of FREAK and FAKE,
then psyciatric analasis, intravenous aid
and tests that just confirmed the diagnosis that they'd made.

"They say I'm schizophrenic," he said and I think they may be right
because now I take the tablets I no longer see the light,
feel the urge to help mankind or foretell of its demise.
I have no interest in God and his love or the devils hate and lies.
I simply mow the lawns and fix I things where I can.
I am not the son of God, I'm just an ordinary man.

It seems that modern medicine has cured him of his ills.
Made him ordinary with its sugar coated pills.
Cured him of his caring, of his passion for humanity.
Freed him from the shackles of his obvious insanity
but what if he was right ? with no illness or affliction.
What if the healing, was in fact ...
a chemical crucifiction.
~

©Ven.June2003



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<a name="005">Literary Bliss </a>

Pin me down, stroke my mind.
Create a scene
.. Affect me !

Tease me with rich simile to cure me of my apathy.

Stoke my purpose with thoughts sublime
in wording that astounds me.

Look in my eyes, weave intricate lies ~ twist your skills around me.

Swathe me in felicity.
Stun me with synchronicity
and fabricate literary bliss for me,

for this to me
... is devinity.


©Ven.Sept2004



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<a name="006">The Trooping of the Colour</a>


Spring forth o' gallant warrior.

March onward old yellow.

Rush in where pink fears to tread
and worry not of last frosts
nor final breaths of north wind
for thou art the hardiest of foot soldiers.

Occupy the territories !

I assure you ...
new recruits will follow.

Companies of reds and blues
footslogger whites
and pansies
with purple hues
shall trace your maiden course.

Your army will be formidable,
colourful
and utterly unbeatable.

Spring forth and advance
o' valiant daffodil
and storm the verges
'til this drab shade of winter is defeated


©Ven.Apr.2004





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<a name="007">Fatal. </a>

She sits beside him in calm equanimity
and speaks in dulcet' horse whisperer tones.
He just lies there, no motion, no sound.
Closed eyes, torn flesh, shattered bones.

Sedated.

Outward she shows her sweet disposition
but inward in trumoil she screams,
that his careless frivolity caused this hell
and rendered her hopes and her dreams

over-rated.

She thought back to early that morning
and the look on his face when they came.
Those leather clad junkies of red line revs,
eager to join in the game

actuated.

He picked up his helmet, kissed her goodbye
and straddled his iron whore.
They rode off together in search of the buzz
the motto was "More More More".

Unsated.

She knew as he left, that all was not well.
Intuition ? A hunch ? Who knows ?
She just knew in her heart that he'd take it too far.
One word sprung to mind and she froze.

Ill-fated !.

So now, here she sits in acceptance.
For she knew of all this from the start.
She'd accepted his love of the iron whore
and the speed and adrenaline tart

and waited.

Each weekend for his safe return.
Taking comfort from the fact
that from Monday to Friday he was hers alone.
In accordance with a pact

They'd created.

A contract soon to be null and void
for nought carries on past the grave.
Except ... perhaps for this love
Which she believes fate

desecrated.

She returned to the bed they shared
soon after he took his last breath
and swallowed the pills from the cabinate shelf
hoping the act of death,

conjugated.


©Ven.Apr2003




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<a name="008">In Self Defense</a>

I'm building an ornamental mind castle
with turrets made from high ideals
and moats of endless possibilities.

Archery slits for shooting critics
and a portcullis of thick skin
to keep them out

... and keep me in.

©Ven.Aug2003




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<a name="009">Broken Box</a>

We played charades
and monopoly.
We laughed and talked and sang
and interacted,
like family.
The night the tele went BANG !


©Ven.April2003


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<a name="010">Disgraced</a>

Word thief !
Plagiarist !
Purloiner of the written thoughts
of the talented.
The sad.
The funny.
The mad
and the genuine,
who welcomed you in
open armed.
Hang your head
in shame
as blame
points its finger
at YOU
and go now,
permanently.
Your punishment,
... Banishment !


................

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<a name="011">Too Perfect</a>

I watch her walk past my window
each and every day,
in her too short skirt
and her too high boots.

A bleached blond giveaway.
Black rooted
teenage catastrophy.

She strides past with a confidence
that fails to convince.
Her fake tan, fake nails
and fake smile
a little too perfect
and eyelashes too long
to ring true.

Coloured contacts hide the windows to her soul
but I sense her pain.

I hear the stories
of love given too freely
in darkened doorways
and public toilets
and a part of me dies.

I cry,
as I remember the sickness.
The obsession with perfection
and the overwhelming need,
to be wanted.
To be loved.


©Ven.April2003


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<a name="012">Much to do</a>

Up at eight,
to coffee and the paper.
Much to do
around here later.
Washer must be on by nine.
So many chores.
So little time.

Polish, hoover,
wash the car.
Clean all the junk
off the breakfast bar.
Hope the others get up soon.
I want the beds all changed
by noon.

Peel the veg
by one at the latest.
Beef and yorkshires,
mmm .. the greatest.
Sit, relax and eat at two
but still
a million things to do.

Get the dishes done by four.
Then visitors
knock at the door.
Make tea, make small talk
... entertain.
They leave at six.
Then I'm off again

Bathroom is an utter disgrace.
With nothing in
its rightful place.
Get it sorted, WOW! Looks great !
but before I know it,
it's half past eight

and time to get the supper on.
Just a snack though,
won't take long.
Roast beef sandwiches
to use the meat up.
Then wash the plates
and put my feet up.

Gouch on the couch next to hubby.
Eyelids drooping,
fingernails grubby.
He turns and says;
"Ain't Sundays the BEST
It's great to have a day
DAY OF REST".



Ha ! ... Don't ya just love em! :mrgreen:


©Ven.May2003


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<a name="013">Enough!</a>

Fate keeps putting it's brand new shoes
on the table of my day.
Dropping me,
frequently,
butter side down.
Why is it always the way ?
That my well laid plans,
unravell and fray,
ending crumpled,
and dead on the floor.
Why are these spanners
thrown in my works ?
Why is organisation
a war ?

Why do graemlins live in my week
and place obstacles
in my path ?
Can they be caught with
a graemlin trap
and then drowned
one by one
in the bath .. or,
would this be considered
a genocide ?
Would hippies
rise up in defense
and sell little badges
and "save em" stickers ?
mmm ... probably not
and hence.

I am starting today with a mission.
I'll be burning those brand new shoes.
My toast,
I will butter upside down,
while singing the graemlin blues.
Then I'll track em
and whack em
and kill em all.
I'll show em
I'll blow em away
and others will
hear of the story
and no more will they
mess with my day.


©Ven.May2003

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<a name="014">Am I Poet?</a>

My life.
Slightly dusty ?
In need of a feathered flick.
Or lightly iced
and sweet.
What's the trick ?
Each day so different.
So diverse.
From sad
to ecstatic
in the blink of an eye.
Mood swings converted
to poetry, lyric and
theraputic verse
are my saviour.
Or are they my curse ?
Do words take me over
and bend my emotions ?
Did I make the write sad
or did the write
sadden me ?
Did ditty and limerick
spring forth
from my joyous soul
or was cheer indeed
simply a goal
and the write
merely an appropriate tool ?
Am I true poet
slave to the word
or just a dependent
and pretentious
fool ?


©Ven.March2003

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<a name="015">This Dirty Town</a>

So green my valley, so rolling my hills.
So blue the sky that soothes my ills.
Yet how dirty this town, that nestles in vale.
With sexual favor and drugs for sale.

Tis merely a mile thats separates
the beauty from the deviates.
Natures creation from human grime
beauty and bird song from scene of crime.

Addict and thief have brought disgrace
to what was once so fine a place.
I hang my head in dismay and cry
and watch my home town rot and die.

So few jobs with the steelworks gone
and factories emptying one by one.
Desperate fathers steal, lie,
and drown deeper in debt as days go by,

caring less hour by hour,
of wonders like hills and lake and flower,
Greeness of valley or beauty of hills,
no portion of blue sky can heal their ills.

I wonder what, should be my plan.
Stay and fight it ... if I can.
Or spare my eyes this dismal sight
Pack family ... pack bags .. take flight.


©Ven.April.2003

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<a name="016">The Accidental Mystic</a>

<center>The Accidental Mystic.

Sheer luck, pure serendipity,
lead to the discovery
and provided the ability
to see into infinity.

she awoke with this anomaly
and thought it a catastrophe
not knowing the activity
would be in actuality,

not seen as abnormality,
or sign of some insanity.
So she smiled at the absurdity
and changed her plans accordingly.


©Ven.Apr.2003


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<a name="017">Walking the Wisdom</a>

I got an email today from someone who was sent a copy of the original version of this a couple of years ago and spent ages trying to track down the author " Ven ". She saw a posting by VenPoet and figured that might be the same person and just sent me the first stanza to see if it was mine.
She said she's had a copy of it on her wall for the last year and I just had it filed away in a folder under the title "needs some re-working".
Anyway I figured fate was tring to tell me to get my ass into gear and sort it out.

So here goes ...

B.T.W. I know there is no such word as "Whispersome" but I like the sound of it and I figure if I keep on using it enough ... well who knows ?

Walking The Wisdom

They came to your village to burn your witches.
Not one word in defense, did you manage to say.
They took your eccentrics and locked them in cages.
You averted your eyes as they dragged them away.

They labeled your children as problem delinquents.
For having the courage to just disagree.
They took them to purpose built places of learning,
where they rendered them harmless and then set them free.

Made mindless drones and faceless no-ones.
they mingled well midst the hordes of the meak.
Just spirt dampened, silent cowards.
Forever afraid to stand and speak.
Each instilled with a mortal fear.
An abject terror of standing out.
Of admitting to having a single voice.
Of daring to use it ~ Of daring to shout.
Just shuffling onward from day to day.
Merging and melting within the crowd.
Their voices low and whispersome,
their heads hung low and eternally bowed.

So take your place, among them now
and if someday it should occur,
that someone points the finger your way
and accusingly shouts, "I think it's her !"

( Because you look abnormally tall or your skin is far too pale.
Your eyes are set a little deep and you bear the Devils mark.
Speak with a different accent, or tell a different tale.
Giggle ... when you break the rhyme
and dance alone in the dark ).

They invent for you a persona
of "damaged" and "cannot be healed".
The masses are told they are better than you
and your over and done. ~ Fate sealed !

You bend beneath their power.
Sentence passed ... in the blink of an eye.
They pronounce you guilty of not fitting in
and prove your defence a lie.
then, from deep within you find your voice,
knowing at last what it's for
~ but ironic sadness raises it's head
as your shouts make you stand out more.

Protesting, screaming, hysterical.
You watch your fate pan out
and beads of sweat appear on your brow
as the eyes of your friends fill with doubt.

You watch as whispers encircle the group.
See ties and loyalties sway.
as each of your trusted avert their eyes
and forsakingly look away.
Each searching for justification.
to ease the pain and guilt.
Each giving their pride as a sacrifice,
to this civilized world they have built.

And as for you in your final hour,
you deserve no axe to grind.
For you walked the walk in the very same shoes
when the witches and madmen were tried.
But a thought invaded my conscious mind
as you took your final breath.
I think your spirit placed it there
as it left this place of death.

It spoke with a quiet, yet confident voice,
as it passed it's knowledge on.
It said; "You could shout your message loud"
and "Sing your protest song"
for that role has it's place in the furtherment
of this, the Human race.
Yet, many who instigate
awsome changes never show their face.
What revolution requires of us
is to impart the truths we've found
and without discrimination,
share the knowledge around.

So I ... with my voice low and whispersome.
Without need to stand out, or be loud.
Will share the facts
with all I can ...

As I mingle
unseen in the crowd.


©Ven

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<a name="018">On a Different Note</a>

I'm Hibberdy Bibberdy Dooblespatt.
There's kippers and custard
in my hat.
I wear a purple evening gown,
while I read the papers,
upside down.
I always eat my soup with a fork
and my suck wine
straight outta the cork.
I'm fat and I'm hairy
and a little bit scarey.
There's toys in my attic
and I'm off with the fairies.
But what you see is what you get.
You might perceive me
as a threat,
because I'm not the same as you
and I dont do things
the way you do,
But come,
be friends,
dont be so wary.

Sincerely yours,

The extraordinary.


...........

_______________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
_______________________________



<a name="019">Hard Earned Immortality</a>

Fifty thousand souless tutors.
Time beaten, dusty jacketed philosophers.
Sat row upon row
waiting ...
to impart the facts
and the theroies.

Each one deathly silent.
Neither agreeing
nor disagreeing with the next.

No breath.

No heartbeat.

Just the waiting ...

Longing for a caressing hand,
a browsing eye
and an inquiring mind,
to seek out the gems
of humanities past.

Aching for the interest
of but one living soul,

to soak up,

ponder,

and quote their word,

thus sustaining
their well deserved
and hard earned
Immortality.


©Ven.May.2003

____________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
____________________________



<a name="020">Short Time</a>

<center>Short Time

As I sit and work.
Times flight ever increases.
Monday, Thursday.
August, January, June.
Next year becoming last year,
too soon.
~
Always too soon.


©Ven.Jan2003


........ </center>
_________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
_________________________


<a name="021">The Navigator</a>

I'm a modern day explorer.
Oh ! the places I have seen.
I've experienced the views
from where few men have ever been.
From the very peak of Everest
and the crown of Makalu.
From the tip of the Lhotse
and the summit of K2.

I've been to space with Hubble
viewed the stars I so adore.
Seen the Horse Head Nebula
in the colours that she wore.
I've cruised the reefs in oceans depth
through waters clear and blue.
Seen the species dwindling,
where once so many grew.

I've travelled to the Amazon
and watched with pain and fear
as the cattle rangers desecrate
what we should hold so dear
and I'll never, ever, patronize
a burger bar again.
Since I learn that they would damn us all,
for a little financial gain.

I have visited many countries.
Tasted customs so diverse.
Been everwhere that man has been
in this whole universe.
By setting sail on the url's
powered by the technical age
and configuring my position
by the heading of the page.

©Ven.May.2003


............

____________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
____________________________



<a name="022">Toward the Light</a>

The return journey seems so much faster
even thought I'm driving slow
and soaking up the beauty of the landscape
as I go
over one hill ... then another.
Past craggy outcrops
towering above the rolling green
and patchwork quilted vale.

I pause ...
as born free descendents
of worked hard pit ponies
amble across the road ahead,
blissfully unaware of the industrial shackles
that bound their forefathers.
and I smile.

The sun begins to set
slowly dipping her auburn flamed head
below the tip of the horizon.
Bathing my view
in a pink hue
of last minute day.

I'm almost there now.

The Buzzard on the fence post
glances in my direction
and emits an aura of knowing
as if she feels my disappointment
at having to climb this last hill
and clear its brow.

She tucks her head into her feathers
and settles for the night.

All too soon the wonder is gone,
with nothing to mark the occasion.
No signs to say "You are now leaving Paradise"
or "Welcome to Barter Town"
Yet, there they are !
the artificial lights of home.
Powered not by methane
but by metaphoric,
beaurocratic pig shit.

I check the rear view mirror
but all I see is blackness
and the question raised in my mind
is :
How can beauty become so dark
while this filth shines out
so bright ?


©Ven.May2003

________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
________________________________



<a name="023">A Masterstroke</a>

Piss and wind .. that's all it is.
over priced anthologies.
each a winner .. thats the biz.
tricked, and no apologies,
right ?
yes I know ... you got me good,
... done me up like a kipper.
caught me truly
off my guard.
my God ! You guys are slipper .. y.

Well, I guess the blame is mine.
hell ! ... I should have known.
a little naive is what I was.
this time I think I've shown
a little more imagination.
subtlety is the way.
can you see the message
a poet can convey.
Masterstroke !

_____________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
_____________________________



<a name="024">24 hrs.</a>

They say that at this time tomorrow,
life here will come to and end.
You ask how I'd spend my last
twenty four hours
alright ..
I will tell you my friend.

I'd pray for the souls of my kin.
Say farewell, for I can't watch them die.
Fall to my knee's .. desolated.
Wring my hands.
and ask my God why ?

Dry my tears .. on the way to the bikeshop
and steal an Electra Glide.
Cruise to the beach
and sit on the sand
a pen and a pad at my side.

I'd write of the very last sunset,
Of the waves, the dunes and the sky.
I'd write of the wonders
of living.
whilst sitting there, waiting to die.

I'd write of love and beauty.
I'd write of hatred and death.
I'd write of my life's experiences,
from the first
to the very last breath.

I'd take out the knife from my pocket,
blade .. glinting in last rays of light.
I'd lay out my wraps on the sand
and ponder
the wrong and the right.

Then I'd cut, just to see what it feels like.
Jack smack , to understand .. WHY ?
Smoke crack cocaine, again and again
and get high.
All these things I would try.

I'd pop out one of my eyeballs,
for I've heard that this can be done.
I'd pierce my eyebrows and nipples
and tattoo
"F~CK OFF" on my tongue.

I'd doughnut the bike on the sand.
I'd yell and I'd shout and I'd rage
and now and again, I'd stop take my pen
and commit
how it feels to the page.

For the fear of death has prevented
the experience of so many things.
So I'd do all the sh~t that scares me
and I'd bask
in the freedom it brings.

I'd write of it all on my notepad
and as there'd be no-one to read,
it would matter not, how deep I dug,
how hard
I let my pen bleed

I'd compose an amazing last write,
that I'd sign and throw to the sea
and at twenty three, fifty nine,
fifty nine, I'd scream out,
"I'm done ..
TAKE ME !".

And I'd go ... with little regret,
when the sixtyth second came.
and all that I'd ask, if they'd got it all wrong
is that
Someone remember my name.

VEN.


....................

_________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
_________________________________



<a name="025">A Rare Soul</a>

All her motives were benevolent
and she sought no recognition.
She simply found helping others
Exhilerating.
She arranged an exhibiton
of her poetry and art.
Entry was toll free
but those who came
gave with a generosity
nowadays seldom seen.
She founded www dot Care
and others came
and joined her there.
They organised events.
They'd moon walk for charity,
do anything to make a buck,
though they were always
diplomatic.
And the watchers were
responsive.
Digging deep into pockets
providing the green.
Not a totally organic experience
but the crisp
and folding green.
And her ...
She never tired.
She would have sold
the Sierra mist,
if she could have found
a buyer.
Her dream was lucid
but saddly unattainable.
How much of a dent
can one woman make
on world poverty
for goodness sake.
She disposed of all
her worldly goods.
Took her account
to the limit of redness
untill The listening bank
just stopped listening.
She sold her home.
Wandered alone through
grubby city streets
becomming the symbol of poverty
she had striven to irradicate.
Her only possessions
a jews harp,
A penny whistle
and a harmonica.
The sweet music she made
earned her enough to eat
anything left over
she gave to the poor.
I hear she died,
a year ago.
Found huddled
in a doorway
cardboard quilt inadequate
against the harsh and biting
January wind.
Her body died alone
but her soul I'm sure
resides in the city of God.
Among the elect
... in Zion.


by Ven.


....

_____________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
_____________________________



<a name="026">A House Well Hidden</a>

Alexander Davey lived in a contemporary world.
Most of which exsisted in the confines of his mind.
Reality (a house well hidden)
was rarely now unfurled.
For drugs and booze had twisted him, leaving him resigned
to the fact that other people often viewed him with derision,
as he'd sit, grotesque,
in his grubby recliner,
watching television.
His only plans to guzzle beer, steep his life in whiskey
and shoot more crap
into his arm,
he knew that it was risky
but he'd passed the point of caring
swapped the lobster and champagne
for the cheque from social security
and junk in every vein.
A premature westerly sunset
was all that he had to show.
That ...
and a spartan concrete stone
his epitaph "Made in Glasgow".


©Ven.May2003

_____________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
_____________________________



<a name="027">You Want Dark?</a>

You want Dark ?
Fine ... I'll give you dark.
I'll give you wake up at 4 a.m.
sweating and screaming in the
pitch blackness
type dark.

I'll give you pluck out your eyes,
tear out your heart,
rip out your own tongue
so that you can never
tell of the darkness
type dark.

I'll give you spawn of Satan,
twisted reality,
carved, bone handled knives in your soul
and life blood gushing from
your ripped and torn torso
type dark.

What ? ...
Your not ready ?
Oh ! OK.

____________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
____________________________



<a name="028">The Ultimate Inheritance </a>

Handle with care, decide with wisdom,
for all around is unstable,
delicate, fragile and do not bend,
take your love and your hate to the table.
Be open and frank in discussion
and above all keep your head.
For anger precursors destruction
and then all of us end up dead.
Bubble wrap your freedom
and label "Protect At All Cost".
Only when it has been taken away
will you realize what you've lost.
Cherish your right to free speech.
Hold your tongue when you've nothing to say.
Think of the fool that rushes in,
where angels fear to stray.
Contemplate each decision,
act only if there is merit,
and for Gods sake remember WE choose the world
that our childrens children inherit.


©Ven.July2001.

.............

___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________



<a name="029">They Made Me Crazy </a>

Drenched,
soaked
and dripping enthusiasm,
I walked in
like the queen of the panet.

Flat,
deflated,
brought down with a bump,
I walked
out,
Beaten ... God damn it.

Drove
home,
sad and rejected.
I drank
tea
and considered my choices.

Kill 'em
all,
that would make me feel better.
Then plead
insanity
on account of the voices.


©Ven.Sept2003



............


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___________________________________________
Last edited by Ven on Thu Dec 07, 2006 9:03 am, edited 29 times in total.

User avatar
Ven
Forum Admin - and Closet Hippie
Posts: 754
Joined: Sun Aug 25, 2002 12:01 am
Location: Wales U.K.
Contact:

Post by Ven » Sun Jan 11, 2004 8:42 am

Part Two
_________________________


<a name="030">The Wardrobe Monster </a>

The tingle of hairs that stood on end.
A goosebump extravaganza.
This musty cobweb zone
was cold spot central.

Icy spinal shivers racked
as imaginary fingers probed
those, all to real, emotional wounds
so often salted by nearest and dearest.

For kin made the fiercest of foe.
Armed with knives of knowledge
they would prise my skeletons from the closet
and smug and smiling
lead my ghosts
kickin and fucking screaming
from the attic.

Parading them before me,
while I sat in silent hurt
upon the three seater draylon pew
of holier than thou parental scorn.

But here's the news ...
THE DEMONS ARE DEAD.
I fought them and won.
Job done.
Now ... nothing scares me
and I piss on thier wardrobe monster.

Ven. © Sept.2002


.............</center>


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________



<a name="031">This Love ? </a>

This love excites,
delights,
bites,
conveys my heart
to dizzy heights.
I wallow in
the joy of it's simplicity.
~
But I wonder
could it bear
to wear
the drugery
of constant care
and the horse hair shirt
of daily domesticity.

©Ven.Mar2004


.............</center>

___________________________________________
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___________________________________________



<a name="032">Three Short Minutes. </a>

Just three short minutes before the bell.
Three short minutes to fight like hell.
No holds barred
as bare knuckles tell
and take their toll
as faces swell
and the rabble yells
caught up in the spell
of the power,
the sound,
the sight,
the smell.
They bay for blood
and for one to excell.
Not long to wait
... time will tell
which man stood
and which man fell
and the Bookie wins
and smiles aswell,
as his wallet swells
with each lost brain cell.
Three short minutes before the bell.
Just three short minutes
... to fight like hell.


©Ven.Oct2003



.............</center>


___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________


<a name="033">Tickle Me. </a>

Do me a favor
gimme a tickle,
put your fingertips
under my armpits
and wiggle them.
Poke my ribs
in a playfull fashion,
feather my feet
cos I've not had my ration
of titters and chuckles
I've been a bit glum.
A grumpy old git
with my head up my bum.
Maudling, gloomy
and mirth insuffiecient
Please tickle me silly.
I'm haha deficient.



.............</center>


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________



<a name="034">To maths and back</a>

Words flow
~ fluid.
Liquid literature
ripples
through an electronic dimension.
Poets thoughts
convert to script
~ then maths
and back,
to be brought to your attention.

Awesome !


©Ven.Jan2004


.............</center>


___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________



<a name="035">Toward the Light.</a>

The return journey seems so much faster
even thought I'm driving slow
and soaking up the beauty of the landscape
as I go
over one hill ... then another.
Past craggy outcrops
towering above the rolling green
and patchwork quilted vale.

I pause ...
as born free descendents
of worked hard pit ponies
amble across the road ahead,
blissfully unaware of the industrial shackles
that bound their forefathers.
and I smile.

The sun begins to set
slowly dipping her auburn flamed head
below the tip of the horizon.
Bathing my view
in a pink hue
of last minute day.

I'm almost there now...

The buzzard on the fence post
glances in my direction
and emits an aura of knowing
as if she feels my disappointment
at having to climb this last hill
and clear its brow.

She tucks her head into her feathers
and settles for the night.

All too soon the wonder is gone,
with nothing to mark the occasion.
No signs to say "You are now leaving Paradise"
or "Welcome to Barter Town"
Yet, there they are !
the artificial lights of home.
Powered not by methane
but by metaphoric,
beaurocratic pig shit.

I check the rear view mirror
but all I see is blackness
and the question raised in my mind
is :
How can beauty become so dark
while this filth shines out
so bright ?


©Ven.May2003




.............</center>


___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________


<a name="036">Acheing. </a>

Profoundly arthritic somnambulist.
Crawling, painfully
through dreams.
Dragging her form
stiff and gnarled,
through yet another
l-o-n-g
winters night.
Restless and empty eye'd
stooped and twisted
but marching
defiantley,
towards just one more
and then ...
another,
cold
and frosted daylight.

©Ven.Jan2003



.............</center>


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________


<a name="037">Crazy ! </a>

I want to be nice.
I want to be.
I know I keep shouting
but it's not really me.
Its just that today,
life is driving me crazy.
So please, let me gouch
on the couch
and be lazy.
Cos my patience is shot
and my nerves are grating.
It's nobody's fault.
I'm just menstual hating.

©Ven.Jan2003



.............</center>


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________



<a name="038">Snow Fun </a>

I awoke at six this morning,
as is normal.
I stumbled to the bathroom,
half asleep.
Pulled aside the curtain,
to inspect the great outdoors
and saw the snow.
Whey hey !! It's two foot deep.

I quickly dressed
and ventured to the garden.
Made snow balls up
and placed them by the door.
Then pelted poor old hubby,
as he came in off the night shift.
Hehee ..
well isn't that what snow is for ?

©Ven.Feb2003



.............</center>


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________



<a name="039">Duck !! </a>

Bathed in glowing
winter moonlight.
Their feathers
frosted
and brittle cold.
No comfort
on that icy lake.
Yet better there,
than plucked
and sold.

©Ven.feb2003




.............</center>


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________



<a name="040">A spirit Dampened </a>

You cut her with a sword of words.
You wound her and it hurts.
You shatter all her hopes and
tread her feeling through the dirt.

You walk upon her constantly.
Never changing always the same
and if you ever loved her,
why do you spit her name ?

She whome you once vowed
to cherish all your days.
She who swears she loves you,
despite your evil ways.

I wonder who could understand
your reasons so arcane.
Or if she'll ever overcome
her loathing and self blame.

I hope that she can just hold on
to who she used to be.
Until the day she finds the strength
to leave you and be free.

©Ven.Feb2003




.............</center>


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________


<a name="041">Toward The Word. </a>

Falsehood,
lies
and trickery.
Statements, contradictory.
Twists,
propaganda
and secret memoranda.
Conspiring heads and dignitaries.
Abettors
and co-signatories
decide upon the strategies
with little thought
for niceties.
The elected
and their minion,
rebuff the mass opinion
and the blind go marching
one by one,
toward the word

... OBLIVION !
~

©Ven.Jan2003



.............


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________


<a name="042">Watching Summer Die </a>

Wiping down the misted windows,
peering out at a dismal sky,
as clouds the colour of age stained linen
pour down autumns tears.
Weeping,
watching summer dir.

Drawing curtains on early darkness,
hearing the wind whistle by
as the first bars of fall's lilting harmonies
turn to winter's song.
Wailing,
watching summer die.


Ven.Sept2001



.............</center>


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________


<a name="043">Well I'll be a Monkeys Uncle!</a>

"and they Fu*cking call this evolution !"
said the old man of the office
to the old man of the forest.
~ ~ ~

©Ven.Jan2004



.............


___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________



<a name="044">Twenty Shades of Yellow</a>

His only aim in life is to manipulate the vulnerable,
as he scours the press, (pen in hand)
with the empty eyes of a faithless priest.
There are holes in his shoes and holes in his heart.
A hole in the place where his conscience should be
... and a soul that God has painted
twenty shades of yellow.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He circles potential victims, marks them with his pen
choosing mostly women as his prey.
Antiquated ladies (freshly widowed are the best).
... He always makes a killing out of them.

Dressed in his blackest finest, he waits among the stones
for the spouse of the departed to arrive
Nods his head and tips his hat (respectfully of course)
and waits, until she's standing on her own.

Then makes his move toward her like the spider does the fly.
and says he has a message from her man
she believes ... because she wants to (even though she knows)
that his web is silken spun of psychic lies.

He smiles, he knows he's got her, twice monthly till she dies.
and she'll pay to hear the messages he brings
and he laughs behind her back and brags to all his mates
about how old ... does not go hand in hand with wise.


©Ven.Aug2003





.............


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___________________________________________



<a name="045">Unrestricted</a>

Once more sleep evades
and sends my mind to spiraling degrees of weary.

Boredom guides my fingers to these keys
so my muse can test the theory
that it's she that calls the tune
and as her words are strewn
across the screen
I see now what my mentors mean.

In consious thought the words become contrived
and try to form a pattern that cannot be derived
from Websters pages.

True art, like the muse,
can only guage itself.

~ ~ ~


©Ven.Jan2004


.............</center>


___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________


<a name="046">Versifier Depleted. </a>

Far too tired to write.
Too fatigued to fight
this bleary-eyed burn out.

Jaded, raddled and played out
the eye lids draw curtains
on clouded sight.

The printed word blurs,
smudges and fades.
Attenuation diminishing

as I doze Zzzzzzzz


©Ven. Dec2003




.............


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________


<a name="047">Mighty Mouse ! </a>

Do not go quietly.
Sit upon no fence.
Don't tittle tattle idly
or hide behind pretence.
Don't shroud yourself in fake, facade
or mock indifference,
nor use your passive stance
as a form of self defense.

Do not go quietly.
Speak it as you feel.
Believe your view is valid
and state your case with zeal.
Stick to all your principals
keep and even keel,
for if your heart believes it
then your voice can make it real.


©Ven.July2003




.............


___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________


<a name="048">Mother Can Cope ! </a>

One tough cookie,
tempered and case hardened.
They think her brave
... strong,
a rock of indurated clay.
They hoist their burdons
upon her matron shoulders
and say "She can cope".

... She does !

Grateful for the fact that
her armour plated exterior
shows no weakness in their presence.

Only in solitude does she gain relief
and unbutton her indulate eyes.
Only in isolation
can she permit her saline stress
freeflow.


©Ven.Sept2003





.............


___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________


<a name="049">A Lesson Learned </a>

The precious gift you gave me
lies broken on the floor,
fragmented by my anger
as I screamed and stamped and swore.

I watched it in slow motion
go hurtling through the air.
You said it barrowly missed your head,
I said I didn't care.

Yet now I've calmed sit here
in sorrow and dismay
and gathere up the pieces
from the carpet where they lay

and place them in a prominent place
upon the sitting room shelf
as a reminder that in hurting you
I also hurt myself.

So the precious gift you gave me
although no longer intact,
Is more special because it reminds me
to think before I act

Ven 2002




.............


___________________________________________
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___________________________________________
Last edited by Ven on Thu Jul 13, 2006 12:55 pm, edited 4 times in total.

User avatar
Ven
Forum Admin - and Closet Hippie
Posts: 754
Joined: Sun Aug 25, 2002 12:01 am
Location: Wales U.K.
Contact:

Post by Ven » Sat Jul 23, 2005 1:20 pm

Part Three

___________________


<a name="050">A Masterstroke</a>

Piss and wind .. that's all it is.
over priced anthologies.
each a winner .. that's the biz.
tricked, and no apologies,
right ?
yes I know ... you got me good,
... done me up like a kipper.
caught me truly
off my guard.
my God ! You guys are slipper .. y.

Well, I guess the blame is mine.
hell ! ... I should have known.
a little naive is what I was.
this time I think I've shown
a little more imagination.
subtlety is the way.
can you see the message
a poet can convey.
Masterstroke !


Ven 2002





.............


___________________________________________
<a href="#top">Return to the Index</a>
___________________________________________


<a name="051">A Rare Soul</a>

All her motives were benevolent
and she sought no recognition.
She simply found helping others
Exhilerating.
She arranged an exhibiton
of her poetry and art.
Entry was toll free
but those who came
gave with a generosity
nowadays seldom seen.
She founded www dot Care
and others came
and joined her there.
They organised events.
They'd moon walk for charity,
do anything to make a buck,
though they were always
diplomatic.
And the watchers were
responsive.
Digging deep into pockets
providing the green.
Not a totally organic experience
but the crisp
and folding green.
And her ...
She never tired.
She would have sold
the Sierra mist,
if she could have found
a buyer.
Her dream was lucid
but saddly unattainable.
How much of a dent
can one woman make
on world poverty
for goodness sake.
She disposed of all
her worldly goods.
Took her account
to the limit of redness
untill The listening bank
just stopped listening.
She sold her home.
Wandered alone through
grubby city streets
becomming the symbol of poverty
she had striven to irradicate.
Her only possessions
a jews harp,
A penny whistle
and a harmonica.
The sweet music she made
earned her enough to eat
anything left over
she gave to the poor.
I hear she died,
a year ago.
Found huddled
in a doorway
cardboard quilt inadequate
against the harsh and biting
January wind.
Her body died alone
but her soul I'm sure
resides in the city of God.
Among the elect
... in Zion.


by Ven.





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<a name="052">A Roll of the Dice </a>


Two thousand and one, January first, it looked quite good on the paper.
I'd bought two tickets for "Around and Around", it was on in our local theatre.
"Please dont call", the advertisment said, your seats are guaranteed.
So long as you've paid by credit card, then there really is no need
to check your reservation, be assured your seats are secured.
We've allocated, first row, center stalls, so your veiw won't be obscured.

We arrived at six thirty, you cruised the crowd. Your quest for new skirt was ardent.
I stood in the que for an hour and a half, next to a soldier, A sergeant !
The sky opened up and he offered his coat. I accepted with much gratitude.
He replied, "No Problem, my pleasure Miss" and a long conversation ensued.
We chatted beneath the neon pink sign, soaked and dripping with rain.
and my anger at you, for wandering off, was slowly beginning to wane.

Strange to think, thirty minutes before, I'd have happily taken a shotgun.
and tracked you down for dumping me there. Lucky for you I've not got one.
Lucky for you I found someone to talk to. Lucky for me ... he was great !
We went back to his place right after the show and decided to populate,
the whole damn county with small him and me's. ... "Jeez man, ain't love grand".
Our relationship flourished, we married, had kids, and not one day of it planned.

So the moral here is, to go with the flow and accept your pennies from heaven.
As I did that night, when fate cast the dice and rolled me a big lucky seven.

©Ven.March2003





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<a name="053">A to Z of the Un-Dead </a>


About before ............
Called .......... desperate,
excited, frightened,
gasping.

Hopeless, I'm jinxed, killed.
Lamented, mournful, nervous.
Obsessive ?
... perhaps.

Quiet ... resoundingly soundless.
Try unmerciful vengence ?
Worryingly xenophobic,
Yours,
ZOMBIE.

~





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<a name="054">Acheing </a>

Profoundly arthritic somnambulist.
Crawling, painfully
through dreams.
Dragging her form
stiff and gnarled,
through yet another
l-o-n-g
winters night.
Restless and empty eye'd
stooped and twisted
but marching
defiantley,
towards just one more
and then ...
another,
cold
and frosted daylight.


©Ven.Jan2003





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<a name="055"> Ahhh! Warmth.</a>

She walks down the stairway,
unslippered
yet, still comfortable.

She enters the kitchen,
and opens the freezer,
to be met by the sight
of soft fishcakes
and pork chops
and peas.

The knife in the butter
slides through ... unaided,

... and while passing
by the sitting room door
she hears a strange and
unfamiliar sound.
.... Family laughter !
Looks like the cold snap is over.


©Ven.Jan2004




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<a name="056">Mother made Christmas </a>

Twas the night before Christmas.
Oh no ... that's been done.

Hang on
... ahem (clears throat)
OK, here we go:



Mother made Christmas

It's Christmas, early morning
and Mam is peeling veg
She's tired and her nerves are frayed
she's teetering on the edge
of a full blown seasonal tantrum
and her head is thump, thump, thumping
the place is in a mess
because the tree's already dumping
all it's needles on the shag-pile
and the lights have blown a fuse,
the dog just ate the fairy
and there's carnage on the news
cos some idiot reporter
grabbed a mic and said
that there's been and reindeer pile up
and now Santa Claus is dead.
The kids are suicidal and will not be placated.
The cat is looking smug,
we think it might have mated
with the turkey on the worktop
which is incidentally .. snuffed,
still frozen in the middle
and now well and truly STUFFED !
so we throw it in the bin and Mam cooks beef instead.
Takes codeine (which works wonders) for the thumping in her head.
Cleans, dusts and vacuums,
lays the table for the spread.
Dishes up .. and washes up, once everybody's fed.
Then collapses on the sofa to watch the Wizard of Oz.
Falls asleep and snores a bit but we just smile because
Christmas is a triumph
Thanks to her, it always is,
and this rhyme is penned in tribute
to say,
Thanks Mam
... your the Biz !


©L.Voss.Nov2003



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<a name="057">Moving Mountains </a>

Children play oblivious
in the valley down below.
In ten by ten foot gardens
where toxic roses grow
and slag heaps tower
precariously,
a top soiled, turfed solution.
and a patchwork quilted epitaph
to the industrial revolution.


©Ven.Aug2003



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<a name="058"> My Africa</a>

This is my Seville
and it satisfy's
yet still,
I sometimes feel the tug,
on the chains
and like a mug
I'm compelled to heed the call,
slip the ties
and drop it all,
Just to stay
for a day
in Africa.


Ven. July 2002




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<a name="059">Neglecting the Heroes</a>

He sits in his chair,
near the patio door.
Smelling of urine and age.
He stares through vacant,
mist eyed dementia.
Enclosed in his senile cage.
No longer able to express,
the amazing things he's seen.
To show the scars,
of two world wars,
what he's done and where he's been.
Only the medals upon his chest,
remain to tell the tale,
of bravery beyond the call,
heroism off the scale.
Now, he sits in his wing backed chair
and dribbles down his chin.
His medals the only outward sign,
of the great man he has been.
Carers pay him little respect,
though they meet his every need.
Believing its their duty done,
to clean and change and feed
but if only they could see behind
and glimpse the inner core.
Feel the things that he has felt,
see the things he saw.
Then maybe they would take the time,
to gently stroke his head.
Or spare some words of comfort,
for this man they've washed and fed.
To share some of their thoughts with him,
for though he can't reply.
I'm sure that he is listening,
as he sits and waits to die.
So spare a thought for this unknown hero,
in his chair in the old folks home.
Surrounded by carers, yet inside his mind,
he sits and waits,
... alone.



by Ven.





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<a name="060">No More ...</a>


Cowers in corner,
hands over head.
Crawls though filth
to piss stained bed.
Tear streaked face
matted hair ...
Listens intently for
foot on stair.

Silence is comfort,
solitude safe
painless alone,
unloved waif.
Waiting, hating,
mothers return
shouting, hitting
cigarette burn.

Terrified, listening,
for key in door,
Ha! last laugh,
no hurt ... no more !
Final escape
from pain and sin
as alcohol and pills
kick in.

by Ven.




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<a name="061">Ooooh Look !</a>

Ooooh Look !
Mother Nature changed the bed.
Draped fresh crisp Irish linen sheets
over the mountains
and adorned the trees
with a bright white
last burst of winter.

She decorated the sills
with drip ..
dripped
freeze glistening
water crystals
and cake iced the roof
of the wishing well.

Ooooh Look !
mother nature blanketed Wales
while I lay in duck down duvet
snuggled warm ignorance.
She cast a midnight cold spell
and reminded me
How I love to wake
to mornings such as this.

©Ven.Mar2004




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<a name="062">Pigeon Hole Me</a>

Am I male or female, black or white ?
Is either inferior ?
Does it colour your sight
or influence your thoughts as we interact ?
Does it blur how you view me,
control how you act ?
Is age a barrier ?
Do you mark youth as dumb
or old age as affliction ?
Tell me, have you become analytical,
crytical,
frightened of friction ?
Do you bow to the stereotypical fiction
that love all nurtures love
and fist rivals fist ?
Do pigeon holed people really exsist
or is character predestined are we born to just be ?
Are you simple you
and am I simply me
and if you had the power,
be it right or wrong,
the blessing of your peers and a lable or three
Do you think you could sum up my life with mere words
Do you honestly think you could pigeon hole me ?


©Ven.May.2003



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<a name="063">Putting it Right</a>


Quintisentially an English rose,
with skin unblemished porcelain white,
In an age and tear stained Victorian dress,
She endlessly wandered the lonely night.

Awaiting what purpose? I heard you ask
In these cases, the answer is always the same.
She seeks the soul of a long lost love,
for who's untimely end, she shoulders the blame.

So entirely, for this she blames herself?
Oh yes, and in truth, quite justly so.
For, t'was her beytrayal that incited the duel.
T'was her that said nothing, and watched him go.

Asleep in her room, as he met his fate.
yet now, no rest, to no peace she'll be laid.
In grief she searches, to seek his forgiveness
and wander she must, till her debt is paid.

Convinced she'll be able, to set the past right
This weeping specter of alabaster pale,
exists in the certain knowledge that,
forgive he will, for love cannot fail.

So many of our yesterdays harbor a wrong,
that with future's knowledge, we would undo
but to change a day, from your distant past,
if given the chance, right now ...

would you?


By Ven.



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<a name="064">Quit Messing ! </a>

You've switched the hallway light on again,
as if to welcome me home.
The kettle is warm, recently boiled.
Yet, the cup that I left out has gone.

Nothing here stays where I put it
and the T.V turns over itself.
Items I leave in the kitchen and bedroom
end up on the sitting room shelf.

I don't need your help, won't you listen
I don't need a ghost in my life.
If I wanted somebody to mess with my things
... I'd go out and get me a wife.

©Ven.Jan2003



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<a name="065">Re; Solution </a>

For my New Year Revolution
I will take the politicians
and line them up against the nearest wall.
I'll make them ...

... Oh, hang on,
Did you say "Resolution"

Nah, sorry, I don't do those.


Ven.Jan2004



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<a name="066">Short Time </a>

As I sit and work.
Times flight ever increases.
Monday, Thursday.
August, January, June.
Next year becoming last year,
always too soon.
~

©Ven.Jan2003




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<a name="067">Simply Be</a>

Rising always by the clock
each moment filled,
each tick,
each tock.
Each second of
each task filled day
Tempus fugit
as they say
and life flies by
chore by chore.
This can't be it
there must be more.
A little something
just for me,
some time when I
can simply
... be


© Ven.Oct2003



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<a name="068">Skitzamolic </a>

Mini Molly.
Cute fluffy baby.
Silent sleepy sweetheart.
Soft purring,
velvet mittened,
mollycoddled
kitty.

Mad Molly
Feline knuckle head.
Skitish, scampering scallywag.
Drape ruffling,
rug scagging
green eyed
beastie.


©Ven.Jul2003



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<a name="069">Sometimes Something Special Comes</a>

I see figures in knotted bark
and faces in the fire.
Voices whisper from the dark
with phrases that inspire
me
to lift my pen
from sore neglect
and automatic write.
Sometimes something special comes,
I think tonight it might.
But other times
the voice is vague
... hard to understand
and my written word
is meaningless,
sterile,
soulless,

BLAND.


©Ven.Nov2003


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<a name="069a">Alice's Arcanum Archive</a>



Decline

I woke at nine,
I felt divine.
The smile was real,
the smile was mine
but circumstances then combined
to spin my day
into decline.
Enough I cried !
I drew the line.
I'd told them once,
I'd showed the signs.
I set my meal
and sat to dine
on broken glass and turpentine.


©Alice.06



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



C.I.T.C.

Snapshots of the headshot match the mugshots in the files
and specifically identify those we need to classify,
indicate, medicate and stamp as "Suitability"
for dumping into bed-sits marked as "Care in the community".


©Alice.06



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Never Was

I had too much to dream last night,
the rumbling in my head made cluttered, busy, dizzy noise
and voiced its lively up-beat tone
in stereo and technicolor.

I watched, I think, in black and white.
Found the sound in monotone and caught the quiet, fleeting voice
of conscious lost and truths not known
as hands slid past the darkest hour.

Yet now I wake and try as might
the way of sight eludes and sunlight’s dappled dawn destroys
the vision sent and reference shown.
Thought is dismissed - and never was that power.


C-o6Alice




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Felo-de-se

He got up, got dressed.
looked around and unimpressed with all He’d made
He shook His head
in condemnation.

Being He who had made man
did not command as much respect as he had planned.
He sat in silent
contemplation

then pressed His finger to the keyboard
pushed delete and hardly hesitating in his action
rigged his own
annihilation.


©Alice.June06


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


A Pace War with Chaos

Morning pulls the carpet from stairs beneath my feet
in the same way as the trickster pulls the table cloth away
from the table leaving grandmas finest Clarice Cliff intact.

Whille I start with clear conceptions, orderly and neat,
a chaos rabbit leaps out of a nearby hat in disarray
and shouts “I’m late !”, But I’m the one at scamper rate. How abstract !


©Alice.June06


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




Fickle Fuckers !

Fickle fu**kers !
Knew me and you heaped your praise upon my scripted word
but written as this non-de-plume
you brushed aside my lilting verse,
ignored my lines
and spurned my varied offerings.

Now your hollow tributes sting
and all your salutations ring with empty tones
You placed me on a pedestal as poet fine,
then threw me, empty, to the wolves.
I saw the signs
and let you fuel my suffering.


©Alice.June06


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Church of Choice ( Revised )

Do you think that something somewhere hatched a plan or sowed a heinous seed
ensuring each man born would sin, in thought alone if not in deed ?

Do you think that each would feel the fabric of the turncoat cloth
red-raw chafe and itch against their skin ?

Do you think that each would hear the ill-advised and hollow tone
of the whispered voice of doubt that lies within ?


Think that each would creep and fawn in timid fear
when striding forward could have saved the day ?

Believe that each through idle hand and shallow mind
would find a mountain towering in their way ?


Not I !

… for I think steadfast shows its avid heart and turns the mighty mountain to a mound.
and heroism often follows close behind to trample fear into the sin soaked, bloodied ground.
Have such Hope as this ... In all of life ! In where we’ve been and what we base our plans upon
and Faith in the spirit of human kind will surely be our church of choice. ~ The one we need to build a future on.


©Alice.June06



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




I Know the Reaper Cometh ...

Should you live to see the end through time glazed eyes and misted sight.
Strain to hear the feathered beat of angel wings in solemn flight
and drag your form by leaden limb into that one last darkest night
to feel the creeping, gelid hand of death that is becoming …

WAIT !

Excuse me while I interrupt ! ...

May I just say “that darkest night’s” been fairly done to death
and I will not be dragging my self “anywhere” with my life’s final breath.
The feathers represented will be down of duck and pillow-slip encased
And the only spirits welcome will be those that can be "chased"WITH GIN !

So take your maudlin elegy and sentimental folderol
and stick it with your lectures on blood pressure and cholesterol.
I know the Reaper cometh … jus’ don’t know the time and place
but I’m planning to be naked,
drunk ...
and nine tenths off me face.


©Alice.July06



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Untiltled


The Songwriter in her had fallen in Love
She didn’t just think it, she knew it was true,
when word and note, both thought and wrote
became, inexplicably, all about you.


©Alice.Aug06

.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Becoming

He wrote of wars and heroes,
set mythical monsters free.

He honed his art to perfection.
We bantered ~ him and me.

He said he'd simply mastered a craft
but as I was about to agree.

He dipped his pen in introspect
and "there" was poetry.


©Alice.July06



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Life Lines

Like reverse origami
development leaves
a faint, new crease
for each unfold.


©Alice.Sept06



~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Opening Up

I opened the door,
all hope walked out.
I opened my mouth,
I was dumb.
I opened "The Book"
to no salvation.
I opened my heart,
it was numb.
I opened my arms,
found nothing to hold,
I opened my mind
and saw dust.
I opened my eyes
to utter despair,
so I opened my veins
in disgust.


©Alice.06



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


<center>~

Alice’s Shorts:
____


Megan’s Magic Ballet Mice

They chanted thrice, then three times more,
tapped their dance shoes on the floor
then vanished in a shower of glitter,
much to the shock of the babysitter.


~


Spirited Inspiration

Perhaps the ghost of William,
scripted miniature, perfect stage-plays
on the inside of my eyelids while I slept perchance to dream.


~


Obsession

The composer in her had fallen in love !
She didn’t just think it, she knew it was true;
for every note, both thought and wrote
became inexplicably all about you.



~



Impressions

Don't mock my way
for I will bet,
you've not “completely” read me yet.



~



Day Eight


On the eighth day He slept late;
arose with sinister smile on His lips,
created darkness, fury and hate
and promised His children apocalypse.



~




Doe-eyed Doting

A simple sex-drug consequence that the studious psychologist is noting
or a natures own serotonin reaction - with genuine doe-eyed doting ?


~


I See

There ! ... and there again.

I see you - I see you in those caverns of despair.

I see you there with dry eyes crying - Still lips screaming "Help me".

I see you there on dry land ... drowning.




14/02/07





AllWork©Alice06



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



<center>~

Poewit

You may call yourself a Poewit
whilst accounting your affairs
with the chill of Edgar Allen
and the humour of Pam Ayres.

~

<center>



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



An UnHoly Exchange

Seraphim plans
a more fervent flame
than the one that melted
the masochists wax.

©Alice.06



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



<center>Praying for Sedation

Think perhaps, think too much
analyze
look too deep

philosophize and such and such
need to sleep
counting sheep

meaningless these crumpled sheets
give them up
walk the streets

find no peace, help please
mean no fuss
nonplused

Father please deliver us
from nightmares
of the incubus

to medication, softened walls
and glorious
unconsciousness.

~
©Dec06Alice
</center>















































































Debt Met Roulette Inc.


Why fret ?
~ ok, so the debt can't be met
but regret can be offset
and at least
the inhalation of this last cigarette
will carry no more threat
of consequence.

Sweat beads under harsh light
and turns to rivulets of wet ..
and yet
~ You bet your life !
No honour, no etiquette,
just click .. spin .. click .. spin ..
BANG !

The ultimate sacrifice of a family man.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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Last edited by Ven on Sat Apr 07, 2007 7:09 am, edited 51 times in total.

User avatar
Ven
Forum Admin - and Closet Hippie
Posts: 754
Joined: Sun Aug 25, 2002 12:01 am
Location: Wales U.K.
Contact:

Post by Ven » Sat Jul 23, 2005 2:24 pm

Part Four
_____________________


<a name="070">Debt Met Roulette Inc. </a>


Why fret ?
~ ok, so the debt can't be met
but regret can be offset
and at least
the inhalation of this last cigarette
will carry no more threat
of consequence.

Sweat beads under harsh light
and turns to rivulets of wet ..
and yet
~ You bet your life !
No honour, no etiquette,
just click .. spin .. click .. spin ..
BANG !

The ultimate sacrifice of a family man.

~


N.B. Scene recorded for Reality T.V. Programme.
Winning contestants will have their debt paid off in full by Debt Met Roulette Inc. ( which will henceforth be referred to as “The Company” ).

In the likely event that a contestant should lose the gamble all monies over and above the amount of outstanding debt, contestants funeral expenses and The Company programme production costs will be paid to the contestants Spouse / life partner and / or offspring.

The Company reserves the right to disqualify any contestants who are subsequently proven to have an accumulated debt of less than $5000

The Company reserves the right to make the *final decision on all matters regarding the Gamble.

Thank you for playing,

Debt Met Roulette Inc. ( * Not negotiable ).


~

©Ven.Sept2005


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<a name="071">Thank You Devon. </a>

The source of my existence beats and thrums
as each tumbling, foam crested roll comes
and plants its urgent crashing kiss
upon this sharpened shale
and craggy cliff lined shore.

Before this perfect blue skied day
tide-like ebbs and slips away
I lie silent, mesmerized.
Hypnotized as fire meets water
and dips again
below the subtle bend
of the flawless fluid horizon.

I feast my tired, heavy eyes
on lightly clouded, lilac skies
while fading light splays glistening rays
that watercolour paint a magic rippled trail
from beach to just beyond my reach.

No ! ... Way beyond my reach !

A twilight shadow races in
and traces the faces of Sam and Bill
on the blank page that has lately been
my blind poets mind.

I reach to find my pen ~ and then ...

I write,
not to compete
... but to feel complete.

Thank you Devon.


~
©Ven.Aug2005


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<a name="072">The See Monster</a>

Scylla ~ the tiny timid blue eyed nymph
blossomed and became
fragile.

Delicate and fictile,
she was swept up by the game
of lines, lies
and lady laudanum.

Insensible, desensitized,
moth driven to the flame
~ she sank.

Now, driven by her peers
and fears
she is the "See Monster !"

Sent to seek more weak and meek
to suck into the circle
of city life sorrow.

~


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<a name="073">Mad as A Poet</a>

Don't take those flaws and insecurities,
those complexes and instabilities
and turn them into beating sticks
for this imbalance moulds the bricks
that are cemented phrase by phrase
to form the poesy that you praise
and if some comment causes grief
I'm sorry but it's my belief
that tolerance of aberration
and swings from sadness to elation
are just the price you have to pay
for literature that's born this way.



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<a name="074">The Blurb</a>

Once upon a time
in a land quite far away
there lived a fairy called The Blurb,
her name was Molly May
She’d creep through all the print shops
in the still and dark of night
quickly reading scribbles
that the wordsmiths liked to write.

To see if she could add something
to help them sell their wares,
she'd sneak unseen through libraries
college halls and book fairs
and add a little something
to the cover at the back,
some clever words of marketing
to get the sales on track.

But me, I think she's over worked
(so many books, so little time)
I'm sure she needs a holiday
and so I've penned this cheesy rhyme
to say please buy my poem book,
flick though it at your leisure,
I'm sure you'll find at least a few
that ought to bring you pleasure.


~
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<a name="075">The Death of Anima</a>

To sacrifice a kindness
in the name of total honesty.
To shatter false illusions
and spread-eagle pose for all to see
or soften hardened edges
with a silken lingerie of lies
and blur ones imperfections
with pastel painting palate knives.

To brazen forth, to blaze a trail
that's paved with solid concrete truth.
To bear the cross of openness
and wear the arrogance of youth
or subtle clothe and sugar coat
each care-considered bitter pill
and contemplate a compromise
to veil the harsh or spare an ill.

To kill (again !) the MOCKING bird
of open-heart indignity.
To light the crematory flame
and shed no tear of sympathy.
To mummify and bandage tie
each weeping insecurity.
To mourn, to sigh but not to cry
as by free choice, I murder me.


~

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<a name="076">Yell Jezebel</a>

<center>Yell Jezebel

With open mind and gutter-mouth she vocalizes
pushing forth her pertinacious views
informal yet in charge she likes to socialize
and uses all her senses to peruse.
To scan assorted souls for signs of weakness
aiming straight for crevices to wedge
reaching in and touching their uniqueness
while forcing them just closer to the edge
of what's perceived as "borderline insanity"
when in reality, there's really no such thing
and she is just a product of her vanity,
in truth ~ she has no special song to sing.
So pity her, this intellectual jezebel ?
who opens mind to all, yet heart to none
for fear that love will make her less the rebel
reveals her heel and renders her undone.


~</center>

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<a name="077">If wishes they were mine to make</a>

I'd wish your brow not furrowed by the unsmooth marks of sorrows weight.
I'd wish your heart not leaden with the heavy songs of much regret.
I'd wish you eyes that seldom cry ~ smiling lines for years gone by,
comfort and felicity in adequate supply … but yet,

I hold my tongue and stay the spell (those wishes are not mine to make).
I walk among the hounds of Hell. I pitch my camp with Poe and Blake.
I see the thorn, you see the rose. You see the stars, I see debris
I see the rot in all I’ve got … You are too sweet to walk with me.


~</center>


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<a name="078">Little Miss meticulous</a>



<center>Little Miss Meticulous

I think I shall die on a Friday,
in black shiny shoes
and a dress that's pressed particularly nicely.
I think I shall die precisely.

I think I shall die precisely.
I think I shall die at MY chosen time.
Morning feels right. Yes, morning feels fine !
I think I shall die at nine.

I think I shall die on a Friday at nine.
I think I shall die in a place of my choice
away from the noises and voices of reason.
I think I shall die in this frosty season,
in a perfect place of my choice.

I think I shall die on a Friday at nine in a perfect place of my choice.
I think I shall go with no tears in my eyes, no regrets and no fear in my voice.
I think I shall have me a last shallow breath, carbon monoxide, cowardly death.
I'll plan to perfection, I'll not be revived.
I think I shall die
contrived.


~</center>


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<a name="079">Goldbricker.</a>

What lies beneath its mild facade is darker than deceit
and blacker than the blackest hearts desire.
What lies behind its bleary eyes is subtle and discreet
but fans the flames of many a hell born fire.

It seeds the needs of liberals who, driven by its power
(verbally) plot the downfall of the mild.
It spreads its putrefaction, growing stronger by the hour
by making tools of those it has beguiled.

It sucks the souls from those with goals and plans of futures bright
by tutoring them to settle for the less.
It talks a fight but soon takes flight and slinks away contrite,
leaving pep to clear away the mess.

Its names are Sloth, Apathy, Acedia and Phlegm
~ Be wary not to count yourself among them.



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<a name="080">Roll It !</a>

To a poet rhymes are ubiquitous,
..........unlike rolling stones
...they gather ample
moss
... and tumble phrase by phrase
often to the amazement
.........of both the reader and
....the writer.

The faster they roll
..............the brighter they shine !
..Paying little attention to the rules of timing
..........and thus
..alleviating the pompous requirement
..........for each line
to be fine-honed and equally
........... aligned.



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<a name="081">If the Ref had just ...</a>

There was barely a sound at the start of the game
when the miniature Venomous Elephants came
out of the tunnel and onto the pitch
with "WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS" stitched to a banner
and tattooed in red
on the tops of their heads.

The opposing team of Mutant-Mice ~ twice the size
of the usual kind and virtually blind
stood tall and straight near the opposite gate.
Eager to challenge the pachyderm champions
and take home the cup
they attempted a line up.

The Venomous Elephants ( being aquatic )
scrummed in a puddle to built up some static
then launched a dynamic and plucky attack
that involved nylon socks, electrical shocks,
some curly haired rodents
and one or two dubious yellow card moments.

The Mice engineered a cunning defensive
They traded their boots for some very expensive
rubber soled jobbies with ace insulation ~
gave 86 pairs to the Millipede Ref … then waited in stasis
while he practiced contortion
to fasten his laces.

The game culminated in a nil / nil draw,
two twisted tusks and a broke rodent jaw
four dislocations, some minor abrasions
and several huffy, disheveled spectators
who marched to the pay-gate
stamping their feet and demanding a rebate.

The fans were placated and cured of affray
with a bribe of free tickets for “Bunyips” - ( Away )
and went home to their wives and a chair by the fire
to swear at the BBC televised replay
and harp on and on about “how we’d have won”
~ if the Ref (just for once) had let justice be done.



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<a name="082">Bless'ed Solitude</a>

Sweet bless'ed solitude I have missed your mute embrace
so I find good-cheer in your fleeting re-appearance
and this silent time I'll use to hear the soft voice of my Muse
for Her dulcet tones are drowned by interference.

My inner voice will have no choice but to reveal its impulse
and my words will tumble, plenty ( yet succinct ).
I'll narrate my solemn fables through encryption that enables
anonymity ~ ( in a manner that's distinct ). :wink:



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<a name="083">Bipolar Poets</a>

They barefoot walk on thistled ground,
pound their fists on ragged rock
and barrack all the Gods that pay no care
to a single prayer they ever made
(on any day they ever prayed)
then turn to knowledge, seeking solace there.

They scribble scenes of final breath,
resign to all consuming death
‘til nimbus gather dark within their eyes.
~ Then tell the beauty of a Rose
in perfect rhyme or stunning prose
as storm-clouds yield the way to bluer skies.

But ( Janus-faced ) .. their high can rush
to melancholic, weigh down ~ Crushed !
Walls close in and woe stains every phrase
Yoyo ~ Spin … then up again
to painters view and poets rain …
Bipolar poets set the world ablaze.



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<a name="084">Side By Side. </a>

We are fragile, you and I.

Though we trip upon a breeze
that leads us side by side "content"
we wisely realize
we're not immune to stormy skies
and that life cannot be formed
of fairy tales and lullabies.

We are delicate I fear !

We're as stable as the tenuous link
and sometimes breakable I think,
yet caring forms the perfect bond,
it stays the glue through you and I.
So we shall brave the storms ... and more !
and I will love you 'til I die.


©Ven.May2006



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<a name="085">As We Pass By. </a>

We're captured by the spying eye
as we drive by,
walk by,
surf by.
That ATM with tenners on tap
says, "take your money" .. and "thank you honey". (then "click whirr click" they snatch that snap).

Real nice phone you've got there mate with an extensive list of associates
stored within it's sexy, two-tone, holographic flip up skin.
Who'd have thought a thing so thin could hide so many tales within ..
We've read your texts to such and such, we've got your number ... We'll be in touch !

From digital cameras widely placed for YOUR safety and security
to levy vultures perched above each straight and winding route.
How many clips away from here is yesterdays anonymity ?
and now no day before a judge to prove a point was moot.

Beware big brothers gadget makers as nothing comes for free
and chances are the gift horse givers are revenue makers or liberty takers.
We're under the thumb of the info men ~ observed, monitored, snapped and then,
fined, filed, watched again and pointed out by the spying eye
that shoots us all as we pass by.


©Ven.May2006



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<center>
<a name="086">Directing the Rhetoric </a>

Tease your rhythm,
ease your form
and roll around your rhyming schemes.

Blame your more peculiar writes
on self-induced prescription dreams.

Unfinished is UNFINISHED !
Never, ever try to force a theme.

Life’s a bitch,
dead is dead
and things are rarely as they seem.

Leave self pity to idiots
and hold yourself in high esteem.

Ignore the usual boundaries
by pushing your pen to the extreme

and strive to say what hasn't
in a thousand other ways been said

by lecturers,
philosophers
and pensive poets long since dead.


©Ven.Aug2006


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<a name="087">Note to the Archaic Poets </a>

Shall I compare thee to the Bard,
deem your work comparable with “Eloise to Abelard”
or urge you now to drop your thee and thou in favour of a modern guise
and harsher words of here and now.

©Ven.Aug2006


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<a name="088">Megan's Magic Ballet Mice </a>

They chanted thrice, then three times more,
tapped their dance shoes on the floor
then vanished in a shower of glitter ~
much to the shock of the babysitter.


©Ven.Aug2006

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</center>



<center>
~


<a name="089">With These Three Lines</a>

She finds him in suspension
pointing barefoot to the floor
from a love-lost,
woven,
slip-knot rope.
She stands,
she looks,
she makes no sound.

There are no tears (not his nor hers)
and no false hope,
for life is hard
but in denial
she'll make believe
it is not so
and turn
and go

and so I close
with these three lines
the harshest truth
to cause a frown ;
"The one true Love that cut him up
had not the strength
to cut him down".


©Ven.Aug2006


~

</center>



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<a name="090">Xylak .. Champion of the Gnoxie.</a>

"He rode in on an Aardvark
in the still and dead of night.
His name was Xylak
He was two foot tall,
a warrior ...
and "Champion of the Gnoxie."

~ ~ ~

His battle dress was starched and pressed.
He'd four brass buttons on each epaulette
and a row of metal ribbons at his breast.
He looked a little weary
and far, I thought , from cheery
but I bade him, welcome in, so he could rest.

He sat beside the window
and looked out at the night
in silent contempation for a while.
He was conflict weak and weary,
for an hour he didn't speak
but when he did, he started with a smile.

He asked me for my name
and then imparted his.
We talked and shared some knowledge of ourselves.
I said I came from Irish blood
and grew in the town of Merrydown.
He said he came from Faeries, Gnomes and Elves

He said there'd been a vicious war
and he'd fought a hundred years
to protect a fountain made when faeries wept
and he used it as a mouthwash
or as tipple now and then,
for it gave him wings to wander as he slept .

He said he'd travelled time.
Met Dewey, Plato and Jung.
Observed the very greatest men at work.
He said that he'd contributed
to the philosophy of aesthetics,
that was later written down by Edmond Burke.

He said that he'd invented
the art of Aromathearapy.
Inspired by the odour of a sock.
When I told him it developed
into rose oil, thyme and Lavender,
his face could bearly hide the look of shock

"Well, it started out alright" he said
but it's likely to be her downfall.
"I presume it was a woman that did this!".
The stuff will never sell.
In fact, it's my idea of hell.
Cheesy foot aroma ... now that's bliss !

We laughed and laughed some more
then he stood ... walked to the door
and uttered "Fair thee well" before he went.
He vowed to fight no more ...
said, he'd given up on war
and was off to try and set a pecedent.

I watched him ride away,
not to fight another day
but to spread the scent of peace through all the ages.
I went back in to find
that he'd left a book behind
and the following was concealed within it's pages:

~ ~ ~


Because the moon is round
do you consider it's dimentions
and calculate the ratio of the circumference to the diameter.
Can you see what they see ?
Is it still beautiful ?.. Is it still the moon ?
or is it just Pi in the sky ?
Reduced to an infinity of numbers

and if the darkest shade of every colour
is black
Then to the positive does it follow
that Black x Seven = Every Rainbow.


Ven. Oct2003



"Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children." -Kahlil Gibran




Footnote;
Edmund Burke (1729-1797) was a British statesman and philosopher whose contribution to the philosophy of aesthetics was to argue that our enjoyment of beauty is not based upon any measure of intellectual clarity. Instead, it is based upon our imaginations being engaged by the qualities of obscurity and suggestiveness.


~

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The Wonky Table Effect

Picture a table.
Picture a beautiful table
wth four handcarved legs,
each unique in its own way.

Four legs, one on each corner.
Each supporting no more than a quarter
of a weight which would be too much to bear
for just three legs, if one wasn't there.

Three of these legs are creative and wise
They write poetry, some prose
and sing words that explain
why there are thorns in a rose.

The fourth leg is different some would say,
it doesn't fit in, it's not made the same way.
Now the table is wonky.
What does this leg have to say?

In answer to this question,
the fourth leg did say
to the other three legs
on that questionable day.

One of you wants more of me.
One of you wants less of me.
One of you has all I have to give.

So I think I'll just stay here in the corner,
over by the wall
holding up this table
never to let it fall.

I cannot write poetry and cannot sing at all
for I am that wonky table leg
but still the equal of you all .

©Voss.Aug06


~
Last edited by Ven on Sat Apr 07, 2007 6:56 am, edited 3 times in total.

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Ven
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Post by Ven » Thu Aug 24, 2006 2:05 pm

Part Five
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<a name="091">Lionheart Sprite</a>

As magical shades of twilight twist
and hang suspended in the mist
a vaporous sprite makes flurry in
the labyrinth where dreams begin.

Elusive and mysterious,
bedazzled and delirious
she'll whirl and twirl, muted, spellbound
unaware she's doomed and hellbound.

Slipping silent, wraithlike, pale,
o'er dragons wings and sepent's tails
away from shimmering and bright
into the darkness of the night
she's ripped and gnarled though torrid splash
in murky depths by claws that clash.

Undaunted by oblivion
she stands before the Evil One.
and speaks ~ at first, a soft whisper
but then her words get louder, crisper,
a twinge of fear but brave unfolds,
uncovers ~ lionheart and bold !

Sprite transforms and like a giant
refuses now to be compliant,
calls the Dark One "A Son a of a Bitch"
then screams a scream of perfect pitch
which shatters the spell that sent her there
and trapped her in this nightmare.

The end is reminescent I fear
of every fairy tale you'll hear
as magical shades of twilight twist
and hang suspended in the mist
where a vaporous sprite makes flurry in
the labyrinth where dreams begin.



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<a name="092">Variations on a Theme.</a>

You say, "mmm let's give it a shot"
but back-door boogie ... I think not !
The image doesn't get me hot,
I think you've lost the plot love.

Let's make love, like we always do.
I don't feel the need for anything new.
I don't need props or gimmicks to
enhance the way I love you love.

But how about adding some spice to the pot.
Bondage would maybe hit the spot.
Bring a whole new meaning to tying the knot.
I like that thought a lot love.

Roll play games or hide and seek ?
Voyerism ? You strip I peek.
Kinky stuff just once a week.
Oh come on, please just try it love.

OK I'll do it, but I choose the style.
Sit your arse down I'll be back in a while
and I'll show you the meaning of versatile.
I hope your ready for this love.

Now close your eye's I'm coming in
and this is Clarissa, she's my twin.
Wipe the dribble off your chin,
we've got a treat for you love.

Slip your hands into these cuffs.
Say "empty" when you've had enough
Oh, you were right I like this stuff.
I hope your having fun love.

Cos vampire lovin gets me high.
Clarissa and me gonna suck you dry.
Turn your neck and whisper bye bye
Tonights the night to die love.


©Ven.Jan2004



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<a name="093">Swing ... and sometimes Blues</a>


He .. genetically pre-disposed.
She .. catching up, so research shows
and "They" play with fire as desires change with age.

Procreation needs fullfilled and unit secured,
sex becomes an interactive toy for the socially reclused.

Regular romancing no longer cuts the mustard
and although monogomous love is sweet
.. it often states the obvious.

A rush becomes the order of the day
as they move away from yesterdays morals
into the realms of Swing ... and sometimes Blues.


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<a name="094">The Monkey Trap.</a>

Those precious nuts held by clenched fist
once "dropped" would make their way
down Dr.Donahues cleverly constructed
feeding tube to many hungry mouths
but
primate societies greed makes release unthinkable
so top Bonobo sits ... displaying
and demonstrating his power
while those below
starve.




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<a name="095">Denunciation ? </a>

April rain is here again,
droplets cascading like pearls before swine.
It's hard to keep your nose to the grindstone
when your soaked to the skin by half past nine
but me ...
I got my mojo working,
a strategic charm that works like a dream
and a snippet of wisdom my Dad passed on,
he said " Don't change horses in mid stream".
So I try to avoid distracting shenanigans
and bedizen my bonnet (in seasonal tradition).
Brave the showers to conceal my eggs
in this annual,
ritual,
paschal mission
of hiding chocolate for children to find,
here an egg ~ there a bunny,
forgetting religious significance
just like the kids do ~ isn't it funny ?
that we're ready and willing to play the game
that profits the draw of the shopkeepers till
but slow to put change on the collection plate.

Denunciation ? ~ Huh ! Happy April.



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<a name="096">The Gay Apostle.</a>

They call him the gay apsotle.
He wears chrysanthemums in his hair
make-up on his eyes and his sexuality on his sleeve.
He finds it hard to swallow when they laugh,
stare and shout who goes there
but he has faith in his right to be.
He knows who he is
and is patriarch of a new and open generation.

Who do you think you are ?

He pitys those who yell queen
but does not hold them responsible
and though they number millions or more
he keeps not score and holds no malice.
His stance is limpid
but he has faith in his right to be
and rises above prejudice with Helium ease
on the breeze of an august evening.

Who do I think I am ?

I called him the gay apostle.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Yet now, in age and wisdon I digress.
I permitted my sectarian preconceptions
to take a dive
I don't know when it happened
but I'm glad it did
because now that I accept who he is

I understand who I am !



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<a name="097">Who Put Peas in the Whipping Cream ?</a>

Axym Yaz, High Priestess of the Numptyscrumper Tribe
and her second in command, the Gliemun Elf
are setting up the tables for the feast of Nantsyclaps
when a bowl of squid just flies right off the shelf
and before they can react ... or even utter BLIMEY,
( which should be followed by a flabergasterix ),
a cake tray hurtles upwards and sticks to the ceiling
and suddenly it's raining chocolate grapzy mix.

Axym says "we're banjaxed" but the Elf, she disagrees
She thinks that there's a catsbreadth of a chance,
which is better than a whisker, or indeed a hope in hell
so she spins round thrice and slips into a trace,
consults her spirit guide, who goes by the name of Debra
a creature known for wisdom and resource.
A totem ... a rare mix twixt a flamingo and a Zebra
... a chicken headed, pink and stripey horse.

Debra says, “the culprit is much closer than you think !
Just ask who put the peas in the whipping cream.
Make a codswallop cocktail and encourage her to drink
and I promise you will foil her little scheme”.
The Gliemun Elf awakes and grins a cheesy grin
concocts the special cocktail in a shaker
and passes it to Axym, who throws it in the bin
and proceeds to blame the whole thing on the Baker.

The Baker throws a fit at the unforseen accusal
calls the Elf a shifty, twisted sprite.
Pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of her apron
and marks the difference between left and write
takes four and twenty paces left of center
and implodes ... leaving nothing but her shoes.
Nantsyclaps continues undisrupted
and my tale is thus concluded ... Thank you Muse.



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<a name="098">Borrowed Time</a>

I’m borrowing time from the end of my life.
Some hours every weekend ( ‘cos weekdays suck )
I’m better equipped to enjoy them now
than I will be when I’m old and f**ked.



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<a name="099">Unclean, Unclean ! ... but as Tough as Old Boots</a>

Wipe clean chairs, wipe clean floors, sterilized handles on all of the doors.
Vacuum packed sustenance perfectly heated. Pasteurized everything, microbes defeated.
Bottle fed babies raised in a bubble, no mud pies, no bugs ate, no scuff knee trouble.
No "one for two" ice-cream (alternate licks), no home grown immunity and ~ Oh oh … they're sick !
So as a result, I couldn’t care less for your "bleached, disinfected or boil washed is best"
and I wouldn't give a quid (or shit-soiled sixpence) for your pure, super sanitized,
germ free existence.



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<center>~

<a name="100">Spirited Inspiration</a>

Perhaps the ghost of William,
scripted miniature, perfect stage-plays
on the inside of my eyelids while I slept perchance to dream.



~</center>
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<a name="101">Paper Cuts</a>

Writing,
writing faster than fast
to catch each word
before the last
thought disappears.

Tripping,
tripping over the pen
this scribbled verse
makes little sense
when read again.

Turning,
turning page through page
of artists rant,
and manic rage
then pain.

To slow us down
perhaps you must
pour lithium
into these cuts;
These painful paper cuts.


©Ven.April2003



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<a name="102">Side by Side</a>

We are fragile, you and I.

Though we trip upon a breeze
that leads us side by side “content ”
we wisely realise
we're not immune to stormy skies
and that life cannot be formed
of fairy tales or lullabies.

We are delicate I fear !

We're as stable as the tenuous link
and sometimes breakable I think,
yet caring forms the perfect tie,
it stays the glue through you and I
so we shall brave the storms ... and more !
and I will love you 'til I die.


©Ven.May2006



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<center>~

<a name="103">Etchings ~ by Mr. J. Frost</a>

They never met Jack (my children I mean),
though his painting’s, to me, were amazing !

He was gone by the time that my babies were born;
Forced back by the new double glazing


©Ven.Sept06

~</center>




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<a name="104">Siren Song</a>

She’s raven haired with eyes a blaze, a mischievous half-smile sometimes plays
on the corners of her delicate, so-soft, crimson, winsome, honey sweet, innocent,
maiden lips.

But she’s one in a minion, evil child. Her wild eyes tempt, but with contempt
and dislocate the wise from any further acts of wisdom.

The cleavage of her ample breast could easy lend a pleasant, suffocating death
to any god lost, way lost, motherless, wistful, aimlessly blundering,
troubled man.

So headlong into doom they fall as heartlong one by one they're lured to luscious Lorelei
by the mellifluous, sweetly whispered tones (accompaniment ~ by Davey Jones)
of soft and solemn, sultry siren song.



©Ven.Nov2006




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<a name="105">The Insobriety of Robert Reilly</a>

Alas poor Robert, I knew him in a well worn smoking jacket and a real nice pair of, fancy, hand stitched, super shiny, pre-owned crocodile shoes.
I knew him from the down town clubs where smoke filled singers belted out that jumpin' jazz or crooned those slowed-down rhythm and blues.
Alas poor Robert ( R.I.P. ) who's epitaph read "He lived the " life of " always free to lay his hat where-ever he would choose.
His final words like poet Dylan, slurring " Nineteen whiskeys ! Record broken ! ~ Goodbye world and thanks for all the booze”.


©Ven.Nov 2006




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<a name="106">I'd Like A Poet Please</a>

I’d quite like a poet for Christmas;
A specific, prolific example.
I don't want to keep him for weeks or months
just a day and a night will be ample.

I’d quite like a poet for breakfast,
to write about fried eggs and toast.
He could be artistic and draw me a graph,
about why I like poets the most.

I’d quite like a poet for lunch;
We could chops about poetry peas.
Topped, of course with a dash red sauce,
Oh I’d quite like a poet to tease.

I’d quite like a poet for dinner,
the sort of the candle-lit ilk.
He’d be dressed in black smoking jacket,
for I do like a poet in silk.

I’d quite like a poet for bedtime
and after a nightcap or four
we’d snuggle up under the covers
and spark an elusive rapport.

I’d quite like to wake with a poet
and to look at his face as he sleeps
but expressions of woe that'll never let go
Say; “Be wary of poets for keeps !”.


©VenNov06




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<center><a name="107">Merrily Christmas</a>

Shiney bright
for all to see;
her Witches Ball
on Your Christmas Tree.

©Ven.Dec06</center>




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<center><a name="108">Rule of Down</a>

Woe is this, woe is me
and everything I write and see
is lacking in diversity
accordingly.

©Ven.Dec06</center>




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<a name="109">Forever and a Day</a>

A poet and philosopher of note
who analyzed the total of his work
concluded that the sum of what he wrote
was lacking any literary worth.

Unhappy at its insignificance
he's since devised a keen and cunning plan
he's trained himself to write whilst in a trance
by taking lessons from that Derren Brown.

To date he's written twelve vivid epics
and some intriging pages of free verse
his hand scribbles, automatic, frantic !
Like magic dancing shoes it's now a curse.

He loathes the writings of his inner self
and mourns the secret thoughts he gives away
but his art graces many a book-shelf
and his name lives forever and a day.


©Ven.Dec06




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<a name="110">Mum One, Harry Nil … </a>

Harry Grimly's grumbly belly rumbled
'cos he ate cold custard pie at midnight,
Mother Grimly shook her head and mumbled;
Said she'd warned him forty times and quite right.

Harry, who gave very little credence
to anything his Mother ever said,
set about preparing things in silence
and hiding chocolate biscuits in his bed.

By seven in the evening he'd amassed
a veritable plethora of sweets.
He’d say it was a banquet if you asked;
A good and proper gastronomic feast.

But Mother Grimly knowing of his plan
did coat all of the treats with capsicum
and all could hear him screaming as he ran
and all could here the laughter of his Mum.


©Ven.Dec06




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.

















~
Last edited by Ven on Sun Sep 30, 2007 2:27 pm, edited 7 times in total.
.


"Forever is short thought when your skipping this close to the edge".

Ven's MYSPACE
___________________

Google this number; 1905363966

.

User avatar
Ven
Forum Admin - and Closet Hippie
Posts: 754
Joined: Sun Aug 25, 2002 12:01 am
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Post by Ven » Thu Dec 07, 2006 9:05 am

Part Six
________



<a name="111">~ Pheasant Feet and Juju Babies ~ </a>

Miniscule wax dipped effigies and desiccated foot of fowl,
strung from wailing willow bough 'neath silver, slivered, waning moon
left the Slack-jaw jibbering now for lack of sense made fear intense
and the simpleton was anti-sensed ~ laid open to suggestion

~ and Faye (who spun this mind game spell) was capable of evil deed
for she who twists the will of men can sow a heinous, wicked seed
and he, with will not of his own strolled along a path unknown
suspended like a marionette on arcane flax that she had grown.

Yes, onward now he strode by hex as she sat with the juju child,
pushing needles through its form and chanting words she had compiled
from ancient scripts, books of death and personal soliloquy
she waxed, evil, lyrical ~ and cackled at the imagery.

He foot-slogged through a brambled lane toward a goal as yet enveiled
and as the dawn crept o'er plain he saw a cottage, iron railed,
that stood, it seemed, in solitude, though watching from its curtained pane
was Lady Constance Castleton and at her breast was baby Cain.

Cain was heir to all the land, as far as mortal eye could see.
Off summit of Mount Evermore ~ from left side coast to right side sea
and all who lived within its lines were duty bound to bow and scrape.
From times of wealthy noble rule, they feared that there was no escape

but Beldame Faye had other plans and with the magic she possessed
she swore to put the wrongs to right. The common man was much impressed
and gathered all she did require ~ ( from pheasant foot to juju child )
but seems the fool was easy duped ~ and spinster Faye just smiled.

For she who spun this mind game spell was capable of evil deed.
and she who binds the will of men can sow a heinous, wicked seed
so he, against his better will, walked her chosen path and still
danced the puppet dance until the dire enchantment was fulfilled.

By lurk he crept and entered in through servants' door at shadowed rear.
The Lady Constance heard his slow paced echoed step and froze with fear
and as the mark ascended o'er the stoney tread of thirteenth stair
she slipped the child 'neath counterpane and mouthed a silent, pleading prayer.

Her orison was made in vain and as the slayer scoured the place
he heard the muffled infant's squall and traced it to that hidden space.
From 'neath the quilted coverlet that draped to floor at bedstead base
he lifted Cain to final clinch ~ of suffocating grim embrace.

Constance fell to bended knee, torn by grief and sore lament
she begged the mark to slay her and release her from this vile torment
but spell complete, he stood aghast, incredulous and much contrite
he turned face ~ took to heel and left the scene by frenzied flight.

Wracked with guilt and torrid pain he slid his pistol from his belt
and with contrition cursed the evil hand that Beldame Faye had dealt.
He pressed the metal to his temple, then with utter self disdain
he took himself to meet his maker, on the verge near Bramble Lane.

Faye in squalid hovel sat and viewed the scene through second sight.
Wrung her hands with gloating guile and subtle grinned with sick delight
but had she stopped to gaze a little longer at her crystal ball
she would have seen the livid face of vengeance that would come to call.

Whispering to Nemesis, Constance trod the brambled way
and beat a hasty step toward the residence of Beldame Faye
in her hand she tightly held a wooden handled carpet bag
it's contents were; a piece of flint, some pyrite and a gin soaked rag.

Faye still sat complacently, crowing and self satisfied
as Constance gathered kindling from the picket fence that ran the side
of where the garden met the lane, then hushed of step she tiptoed o'er
the weed strewn path that traced the way to flagstone stoop at Beldame's door.

In the porch she huddled and determined to avenge the hurt
she lifted out the the gin soaked cloth and draped it neatly 'round her skirt
then after setting bone-dry touchwood in a modest self-made pyre,
she struck the goldstone on the flint and quietly set herself afire.

As the flames took fueled hold the spinster was alerted and
she rushed toward the doorway with a silver dagger in her hand
heaved the door to ample yaw but then, before she could attack
Constance took her by surprise and bound her snug in firey wrap.

and she who spun the mind game spell was vengence sent to flaming death
yes, she who played the will of men and lived by trick did end by stealth
so evil deed for witches' gain sent the culprit triple cursed
and thus ~ each hex she ever spun was by her death reversed.

The commoners (repentant) raised the orphan child with honest love
and Cain grew strong and ruled the Kingdom, pure of heart and fair thereof.



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<a name="112">For Sweet Marie</a>

Gazing deep into your eyes
your sightlessness accusing me
I feel your skin like porcelain,
like freshly molded clay.

We stood as one through thick and thin
and through my vision learned to see
what others called insanity
was simple disarray.

Our minds and manners misaligned
we ventured on a killing spree;
death and death and more we wrought
‘til all was slaughter, red and grey.

Until you said “enough, enough ! “
but there lies liability
and so you engineered your end;
It fell to me to plot the way.

Tonight we took a midnight walk
to old Diablo’s Sanctuary,
where candles lit by shifting shapes
showed all of goodness kept at bay.

I bow before an alter now,
your naked form enticing me.
I trace the blade from nape to gape
and watch you slowly ebb away …

but one last kiss, a fondled breast
and thrust of love for sweet Marie.
In throws of death I seek the best
of Gods despair ~ and her decay.


©Ven.Dec06



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<a name="113">Molly's Eyes. </a>

They were wide and dead and empty.
They were cry dry, vibrant green.
They were gin soaked drunken
... sunken.
[ Molly's eyes I mean ].
She was dead to dread and heartache.
She was numb and would succumb.
to the whims of pimps and pushers,
unaware that she'd become.
A crack whore junkie hooker.
Injected and infected.
Disrespected by her peers.
Forgotten
and neglected.

Denial keep her ticking
and substance killed disgust,
until sobriety raised its rare seen head
and she decide that she must
destroy the rancid shell
that housed this saddened core
so she trod the road to the station
as she often had before.
But this time,
... this time was different.
There would be no going back.
No more hidding in a bottle,
or behind the coke and crack.

She leapt to death rejoicing.
She embraced it open armed
and she uttered a prayer for the others
that the city slums had harmed.
They found her corpse beside the tracks
eyes open, wide and dead.
Death by misadventure,
the coroner had said
and no one now would miss her
or notice that she'd gone,
tell stories of her past
and sing the song of swan
or tell how they were open wide
tear soaked vibrant green
and no longer cry dry hardened
[ Molly's eyes I mean ].



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.
<a name="114">Non l'esprit d'escalier</a>

Her razor tongue cut deep and hard;
words like weapons, shards of spite,
punctured my initiated skin.

My own retort, uncommonly,
was witless and revenge inspired;
by chance I found the strength to hold it in.

Knowing me, she saw straight through
my shoddy, slipshod masquerade
and yet again she cut me to the core.

Comebackless I sloped away
but as I left it came to me, I turned
and boldly walked back through the door.

Face to face we came again
with neither fain to give an inch,
we stared each other boldly in the eye.

She raised a hand to slap my face:
I raised my gun and shot her dead!
Last words ! "Hey Stupid muther fucker, DIE !!!"


©Ven.Jan2007


~


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<a name="115">Through the Eye of the Beholder.</a>

"The wind farms are beautiful" she said.

but ~ not thirty miles North, nor forty minutes later
as if by contrived contrast, Trawsfynydd intruded
and made foray into her head
rendering her eye's peeled and salted
with it's harsh and sinister visual.

Digital mind recorded the scene
transcribing its eyesore imagery
to a slide-show set between
what was; and all she hoped could be,
posted (all be it in washed out Conservative green)
upon her deceptively delicate
and easily offended sensibilities.

So she disregarded the diversion
and
in an act of deliberate denial,
over-papered it with quaint zephyr blade images
borrowed from the start of the excursion,
hoping only now,
for the meandering sway of an easy day
on the curves of an idyll mountain road

... and exactly so it ribboned forth
from patchwork fielded, hedgerow hemmed farms,
through manufactured forestry, deliberate made, square
and all too familiar
to this;

Her coddling, cushioned, green and rolling Wales
transformed by gradient degrees
and turned then to harder shades
of tree-less bleak and blackened block-scape.

Grey-scale misted mountains brooded ominous
and left her thoughts half and half mixed
with equal allotments of oppressed and transfixed.
Each new view
inspiring future rhyming writes
and abstract, slate shaped, palate knife paintings.

The muse giddy spun, danced dizzy through her mind
while her cultured guide (and pilot of this ride)
threw forth reference of history, heritage
and stainless Sospan monuments.
Battle tales of Princes of Wales
recited aloud with a "proud of roots" knowledge undervalued
and seldom now seen
in this modern day hussle bussle "Land of my Fathers"

and yet, still ..

the road upward,
onward goes
to ever more dramatic horizons.
Each surpassing its predecessor.
Each flowing.
Poetic !
Like rhyming lines and metered text.
Each peak a veritable stepping stone to more
and more
and next

'til crag and bouldered summit silent stands,
in wait of the return of Eagles grace.
Listening as the ancient stories flow
onward down the valley from this place ~
where,
from Fathers voice to Sons it travels on
through names best heard when whispered, softly spoke,
or even sung, as Celtic history sings
so smooth upon the tip of Cymru's tongue
Immortalizing many a deed of mettle
lamentful voiced o'er hill and vale it brings
a feeling of at-oneness with the clansmen of my past
and
a loathing of marauding English Kings.

~ ~ ~




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<center>.

<a name="116">The Maunderer</a>


She had candyfloss hair,
a spell binding stare
and a liberal air of confusion about her.

She'd walk with a limp,
like Lenny the Gimp
and often forget where her shoes and socks were.

They asked her this morning
to join without warning
the metal self help group at Garth-Dan-Y-Bryn

but by quarter to ten
she'd vanished again
slipped out the back, with her friend Mickey Finn !

In the market place later
you'd need a translator
in order to work through the slur of her speech.

They sent social services,
many a time
but she either didn't want to ... or couldn't be reached.

I saw her tonight,
she asked for a light
for the stub of a roll-up she'd found on the floor

then went on her way
to the Central Cafe
where she sat every night, table six, by the door

until home to her flat
and Bedraggle (the cat)
on the very last bus, as was always her way.

They'd meet on the threshold,
her inward ~ him out
and with barely a clue to tell which was the stray.


©Ven.Jan07

~</center>



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<a name="117">A Commendable Regression</a>


With a seething fullness of shimmering shine
the complex contents tumbled forth;
a trove of treasure became part mine
while Dora cradled the ransacked box.

But amateur handling jaded the sheen
so rolling backward stone by stone
each jewel returned to where it had been …
Dora smiled ~ and polished the locks.


©Ven.Jan07


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<a name="118">A Damned Fine Place. </a>

They trickle by, treacle slow,
in synchronized formation.
Five hundred walk, ashen faced,
right through the congregation
who do not see, or sense or smell
that something is awry
They sit, in calm oblivion,
as five hundred souls walk by.
Displaced,
expelled,
evicted
from their place of final rest.
Unearthed,
exhumed,
discarded
so the land can then be blessed,
reclaimed,
re-used,
re-classified.
No more this hallowed ground,
shall be the bed where sleep the dead,
a new use has been found.
A housing estate for families,
with a school,
a shop,
a Church.
A fine place for the living
while the dead, they roam and search
and trickle past, treacle slow,
in synchronized formation.
Condemned to walk, forever more,
right through the congregation.




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<a name="119">Unfolding</a>

Life within uneven layers:
Creased,
un-creased
and re-creased
every day.


©Ven.Feb07



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<a name="120">Should I say?</a>

And on that day, that ritual day,
what if they ask me to stand and say
a word or two,
a word or two about you.

Should I say "refer to rhyme
and heed what Philip Larkin said ?”.

Should I tell of selfish thought,
of thoughtless need,
of selfish deed
and spiteful phrases,
sharp like hooks,
with barbs so fierce they rip at skin
and settled in
to stay for thirty years ...

Should I say “I hate you ?”,
or “I love you”,
or “I'll miss you”

Will I say “I hope you rot”

Oh Mother dear,
...............… of course not.


03/07




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<a name="121">A Thoughtful
...........Equivalence;
</a>

A self orchestration,
her slow, intense demise
was the obvious culmination
of a million trivial suicides.

Insignificant inhalations
climaxed
to that (never say the “C” word)
small cell hell.

The resulting “Godspeed” journey
to her final mortal sleep
became a humbling expedition
and the tears we were to weep
would come pronounced
but unpredicted.

For we, “the kin,”
pre-armed
and with our selfish thoughts constricted
would inflict on the afflicted,
a most honourable deception.

A battle that was winnable (we swore!)
and armed with a prescription
for medicinal ammunition
we marched ahead
to pointless, futile war.

We gathered, strong, all allies
to deliver fond disguises
of benevolent little lies
and fine-formed
pretty preconceptions.

… or misconceptions maybe,
for I think, perhaps the lady
(with an understated wisdom)
played along to an
equivalent degree.

~~
03/07




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<a name="122">Dolour</a>

A desktop littered with place keeping words,
snippets,
markers
and dog-eared events.

Irony that life's most profound inspirations come
at a time
when we can find no time to write.

History says;
"Descriptions formed in retrospect
will loose their crude "here and now" impact".

Perhaps the finest writers
have a separate, secret bureau drawer
and special chair
for this unique despair.


©Ven.Mar07




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<a name="123">In Prognostic Mourning</a>

She drips pain.

Like red tainted water
from a rust encrusted tap.

With eyes cast downward
and hands rung in her lap
she sits in solemn mourning
on the doorstep, in the cold rain

she sits there, cursing gods
and dripping pain.


03/07



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<a name="124">The Unfortunate Mr. Smith</a>

That poor ill-fated, hapless prey,
bred to pet yet purchased under false pretence
was destined for the serpents jaw.

A warm and tempting tiny, mobile morsel.
Rodent with no other name but food.

Circumstance however, and the predators indifference
cast a fortune far more favorable
and "food" became Auspicious Mr. Smith.

A cage was bought, a ball, a toy
soft bedding and the finest seed and grain.

But, fate it seems, with overtones of humourless contempt
had alternative ideas
and the scene was set for tragical conclusion.

A monster with a velvet collar ( silver bell connected )
came a'stalking while the house was dark and still.

So ask not who .... A pity, but the bell did toll for him
in an ironic execution, executed by
the feline campanologist.


©Ven.Mar07




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<a name="125">The Work-Mans Whistle</a>

A happy smile did this way come
when whistled at was I
by a brickie with a builders bum
from scaffold in the sky.

He doffed his cap and upped his thumb
I blushed ( a little bit )
but then carried on all dum-dee-dum
So where's the harm in it ?


©Ven.Apr07



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<a name="126">For Them ... </a>

All these days, are all the days we’ll ever have
and none can count how many, not for sure,
so greet each simple sunrise
with the wonder it deserves
and survive it or enjoy it
or endure.

Class each single sunset as a summit,
as peak that is surmountable, with drive.
The world will keep on turning
whether you are here or not
but for love of “them”
strive to be alive.


Ven.Apr07




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<a name="127">The Poet & the Bloke </a>

She wrote in perfect meter
What poem could be neater
What subject could be sweeter
Than love of which she spoke.

She set a perfect scene where
the mood was lighter than air
She painted it then went there
as midnight struck the stroke.

He waited where she’d painted
They sat and reacquainted
Repaired what had been tainted
And fixed what had been broke.

Beloved and united
The spark was reignited
Excitedly delighted ...
The Poet and the Bloke.

©Ven.May07




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<a name="128">Falling Out ...</a>

She marked the move from all eyes on to gone
confirming that he was, as she had feared,
distracted by the charms of sweet Delilah
who watched as she apparently disappeared.

There was no option there to repossess,
for what was lost is gone and there's an end.
To play at making more is worse than less
and reassurances just condescend.

The times they'd had were better times than most
with disagreement seldom slept upon,
so raise a glass and offer up a toast
to love that lived there once but then was gone.

And shed no tears for all good things my dear
must come appropriately to a close.
Say "bon voyage" and say it with good cheer !
May happiness come free with what you chose.


©Alice 26May07
~



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<a name="129">Shape-Shifter</a>

Unassuming, an excellent word !
and a thoroughly good descriptive.
It summed him up
and was to me
a most endearing quality ..
But times they change,
things rearrange,
Narcissus now has nothing on him !
He has become an egotist
and thorn in my stability.


©Ven.May2007




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<a name="130">Even then .. </a>

He never told but could have.
An opening to share
and lift a portion of the burden
had been there,
not for a fleeting moment
but for an immeasurable time.

He never said
but lead them to believe
that all the fires of Hell burned bright
with bellows blowing,
knowing his arrival was assured
and on that dreaded,
longest, darkest night
when no redeemer was in sight
and light of day seemed further
than a million, billion stars away
he fell down weeping
stinging tears of sore regret
and yet …
even then !
Even here and even now
that word he kept,
that fearful, tearful,
ever-loving secret
safe he kept.

©Ven.Jun.07




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.

PART SEVEN
_____________



<a name="131">Guidden</a>

It is a curious force that guides us ( rides us? )
through blinkered, tram-lined calamitous mutterings
and stuttering wayward odysseys.

An affected cause that joins the lot from cot to rot
and scatters the uneven way
with potholes full of hex and vex

-past midnight monsters, closet ghosts that sway and slay
and witches that say, “I’ll get you my pretty,
You wait, I’ll get you, some fine day”


©Ven.Jun.07




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<a name="132">To be Lost </a>


What thing provokes me now
What art, what word, what deed
What need have I
that stimuli
is leaving unfulfilled.

What sights inspire and how
What gluttony, what greed
that leaves me fly
and high and dry,
Where is the I we killed.

And what now sits in place
Of who I used to be
Which wiser woman
takes the chair
from her that once was me.

What chapter at what pace
shall be this third of three
what path to take
and for who’s sake
To be or not to be ?


©Ven.Jun07

~




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<a name="133">An Introduction
to the Romance Section.
</a>

Poets are a fickle brand
who often flit and come and go
with barely ever a "By your leave"
or "How'd you do",
or "There you go".

I however, intend to show
despite the highs
and lows and woes,
they do believe;

We do believe.

I ...

do believe
in Love !


~


Like Candy-Cane Tooth Pain

The way you stand;
the way you walk;
the hand you shape to drink your tea.
The lowered eye;
the sculptured thigh ..
I sigh, I die,
you torture me.


~


"Perfec"

There is no prop
there are no lights
and no stage make-up I can see
that could impress
your flawlessness
and impact more indelibly.


~



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<a name="134">Little Red Riding Hoodie.</a>


This is the updated story

of little Red Riding Hoodie

She lived in Wales ( in the valleys)

Where they ain't so naive anymore.



Her Nan was a Marylyn Manson fan

Who's favorite song was "Fight"

but the wolf in the tale hadn't reckoned for that

when he snuck in her bedroom one night.



When he whispered "Oh Grandma, what big eye's you've got"

She said, "Are you taking the piss ! "

It's four in the morning, I'm s'posed to be snoring

what kind of kafuffle is this ?



She leapt out of bed like a ninja on springs

landing barefoot and squat on the floor

then pounced in flash as the wolf made a dash

for the safe looking shape of the door.



But Hoodie was stood at the top of the stairs

She's just gotten home from a do.

She was still off her head on coke ( and red bull )

and she said, ... WHO (for fuck sake) ARE YOU !!!



Wolfie just stuttered and trembled

and begged to be left alone.

He said, I'm a friend of your Grandmas

You remember ... we spoke on the phone.



I said I'd be coming to visit;

I said I'd be coming tonight;

I followed you home from the party

There's really no need to be fright … end :~)



Grandma said, "Frightened ! … I doubt it"

You're a little ambitious my dear.

It's me and Red Riding that's calling the shots

and you that is shaking with fear.



And with never a thought about mercy

she bludgeoned him over the head

with a big copper pot that believe it or not

was kept purposely under the bed.



They sliced him, diced him and cooked him

with carrots and parsnip and leek

and sealed him in cans with sell by dates

to be shipped off to Tesco next week.



The End.


007


~




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<a name="135">Foundling</a>

You who once was lost and lonely,
left too long to sit in corners,
learning lines from see-through friends
that whispered, "Lo, I'll find you".

I never meant to leave you there,
I thought you were behind me.
I thought that you would find me
as I raced toward where now is
and the promise of this better place.

Yet in the rush I lost you.
As I crossed from there to now
I'm not sure how,
I'm not sure when
but sometime then ... I lost you !.

... It was never my intention.

And now I find you sitting there
in the closet, at the bottom
under books of poetry
and dusty photo's long forgotten.

You who once was lost and lonely,
left too long to sit in corners,
sharing words with timeless friends,
... "It's me, I'm here, I love you !


©Ven.July07




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<a name="136">An open mind</a>

He is superb and I am wayward child;
He is the shine that makes each day worthwhile.
I am no poet there, within his shade,
so I will rest my talents for a time
and in each moment saved for pensive thought
there shall be inspiration to be found
and at each summer morning lit by sun
or winters dark and cold awakening,
I'll raise my head and nod to who is one
that opened dark of mind to let light in.

~

©Ven.July07




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<center>.

<a name="137">Fall We Will</a>

One and all,
like kings of posey
down we fall
we're falling down.

Fall we will
like laws of Moses
long forgot
in rotting towns.

Long forgot
and much lamented
incense scented
fallen, drowned.

All in all
through rings of roses
down we fall -
All falling down.


©Ven.Aug07

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<a name="138">Ya Live and Learn </a>

At seventeen you found her,
the ultimate companion.
She matched your wide boy image,
she was so just right for you !

She was lit by subtle street light
for your fleeting introduction
though in retrospect, some daylight
might have lent a better view.

Kitted in full leather
she tempted and she teased you;
her outward image pleased you
and the comfort pleased you too.

But the clincher for the deal Sir
was you were allowed inside her
anytime you ever wanted,
It was too good to be true !

So you coughed up all your savings
to satisfy the craving
for the speed and independence
she was meant to take you to.

But in the morning by the harsh light
of a thousand thoughts of hindsight,
she was rust encased and not so bright

Well ! …
Live and learn you do.

.
©Ven.Aug07



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<a name="139">Bemused</a>

She greets me and purrrrs
at the top of the stairs,
winding in and winding out
while I river-dance an avoidance.

My cat has no concept of
"stood on" or "stumbled".
"Tripped" or "hurtling headlong".

She winds in, winds out
and then walks on.
Completely bemused
by my death
at the foot of the stairs.


©Ven.Aug07




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<a name="140">Injuiced</a>

I bit
my citrus
too hard
and too swiftly
causing
sweet liquid
to burst
in a stream
that narrowly
missed
both my eyes,
by good fortune !
but now
I birth verse
through a tangerine
screen.


©Ven.Aug07


.

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<a name="141">Questioning the Gift </a>


So that poetry thing ...
was it there all the time;
entangled,
built in,
were you destined to rhyme ?
Or did it come free
as a gift
wrapped in Rizla
or stacked on the back
of a wrap
of class A ?

You could 'portion the fault
to a fine
single malt
or some mushrooms you ate
in the seventies no doubt
but would that be fair ?

... and more to the point,
would anyone care ?
‘cos I couldn’t care
either way.


©Ven.Aug07



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<a name="142">To Nanna Raine’s Witchery </a>

The signs say: To up-sticks and bundle broom,
cataloguing herb and rhyme and cats.

The witchery of silent night time
hooks it’s crooked finger
in a “come ye hither” fashion
and I (despite all science pointing fingers to the contrary)
pack my hat and coat
and blindly follow.


©Ven.Sept.2007




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<a name="143">Lore Abiding</a>

What better time than night to share the other side of reason ?
What better wheel than natures seasons turning one through four ?
How magical the mysteries that lit beneath a silver moon
can spark an intuition and a natural rapport.

What purer need than selfish deed, to aid a preservation ?
What fruitful seed in thought is sown and nurtured evermore ?
How sanative a change of pace that surly cannot come too soon
and apt indeed, the chances that are set within the lore.


©Ven.Sept2007




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<a name="144">Fishin' 4 Elefants </a>


Dali and I,

while fishing for elephants,

fell by mistake

on a swan covered lake

and drowned in

arrangements

of baritone

eloquence;

drawn through

the fine lines

impressionists make.



Through ripples,

reflections,

refractions and likewise

we floated like oil

on peripherals of blue

and danced

the last tango

in sepia dejection,

with him

looking inward

and me

seeing through.




©Ven.Aug2007




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<a name="145">She and I </a>

And Death (The Bitch !) was chilled and vicious
riding roughshod, ever nearer.
Come to take a piece of mine
to take a thing I should hold dear … but didn’t.

Come to steal in increments
the underhanded b*stard !

Come to break
and ruin
and take
one dignity at a time.

And death (the Bitch ! ) paid me no mind
nor any of us courtesy:
She fled the stage to no applause
and never took a bow.

Death, the ingrate
just moved on to someone else’s misery
and wretched cries of “Why, oh why”
or screams of “Take Us Now!”

Death ( The Bitch ! ) promiscuous
and ever indiscriminate,
will pass this way again someday,
of that there's little doubt

then She and I shall have our day
and I will tell her how it is
and She will listen while I shout ...

and then She’ll take me out !



©Ven.Sept2007





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<a name="146">Time and Space</a>

My father sits upon my shoulder
quiet and weighing nothing
but his laws for being bleed through me
as if they were my own.
Through struggle and adversity
he left me markers plain to see
~ he always shone a light for me
I've never felt alone !
His wisdom like a beacon shining
lead me through the fog and mist;
between the storms of life he'd guide me,
past the tempest, fear unknown.
I balance now upon my babies,
practicing this weightless trick;
sitting still upon their shoulders,
bleeding out all I have known
and 'though they're grown in mind and stature
weaned and fledged and all bar flown,
there's always time for escapade
and always space for welcome home.


©Ven.Sept2007




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<a name="147">The Wasted Philosopher </a>

I set off on a tour of self detection,
an excursion fuelled by leaf and quest for text:
Wandered through an Amazon of literates
and thinking minds that history judged the best.
I pondered, read and contemplated wisely
while the company of input grew and grew
but the thinking that I failed to step away from
was the thinking that I almost thought I knew.


I embarked upon a trail of self pursuit,
to research the inner mysteries of I .
I looked inside the psyche of Spinoza;
I searched through Kant and Plato wondering why ?
When all the time the answer I was seeking
was in-situ bold as gold before my eyes !
In metaphysics My conclusion matters
and I am the sum of all that I surmise.


©Ven.Sept2007




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<a name="250">Underdogs</a>

Chapter One

Jaynie woke to the sound of utter silence for the first time in eighteen
months and it un-nerved her.
She rose from her make shift bed, an ingenious invention constructed
from milk crates lashed together with cable ties and topped with an old
duvet that she'd found in an abandoned caravan.
It wasn't the most comfortable thing she had ever slept on but it kept
her elevated from the cold dirt floor and that was a definite plus. Once
you reach your thirties February is no kind of season to be sleeping with
your arse on the ground.
She opened the door of what used to be a back yard lean-to which now
leaned against absolutely nothing and was, she surmised, held up by
either magic or the grace of God, she didn't much care which, she was
just grateful that it stood. Half decent shelter was hard to come by these
days. She still wasn't quite sure why she still came and went through the
door especially as the forth side of the small square building was almost
completely open to the elements, it just seemed like it was the right thing
to do so she kept on doing it.
She made a mental note to fix the place up a bit when the weather broke
then returned to her uneasy deliberation of the unaccustomed quiet.
She walked around back, pulled away the tarp that concealed Betsy,
slung a leg over the tattered vinyl seat of the old KTM250 X and
attempted to kick her to life. Betsy (a severely overworked 2-stroke)
spluttered and coughed a few times and then resigned herself to the idea
that her co-operation was required and begrudgingly transported Jaynie
over the brow of the hill to where the Underdogs were camped.

“Oi ! Over here !” Jake shouted.

Jaynie smiled, waved and haphazardly zig-zagged Betsy through
the rough, frosted mounds of grass to where Jake was sitting.
He lifted the billycan from the camp fire, poured coffee into an
old bean tin and simultaneously raised his eyebrows and tilted his
head in a silent "would you like one ?" gesture.
She smiled and nodded in response as she disembarked the ratty,
rust covered machine, bade it be silent and then parked herself cross
legged on the old tartan rug beside him.
"So .. where did everyone go ?".
"Your guess is as good as mine mate, I went over to the old factory
estate last night, thought it might be a good idea to check out what the
Townies are up to. Got back here twenty minutes before you showed
and found this place deserted. Bastards didn't even leave me a ‘Dear John’.
Had you heard any whisperings about moving on ?".
"No ! but then, they wouldn't tell me anyway would they. They might
have agreed to let me shelter in the old lean-to but they never really
trusted me. Think about it ... who in their right mind would trust a
Lonesome. We’re are all fuckin' crazy you know !" .

She sipped her coffee (which tasted surprisingly good) and contemplated
the Jake thing.
She reckoned he was probably the closest thing to a friend she'd ever had.
He was certainly the only person that had ever made her coffee and he was
cute too. Tall, dark, lean. Mid thirties she guessed
She pulled herself up mid thought ... No! I don't do friends. Friends make
you weak. End of the day, they're nothin' but a liability !

Jake's voice shattered the short but weighty silence.

"That's in a bit of a state he mumbled", pointing half heartedly at the KTM.
"I know but what can I do … no tools, very little mechanical knowledge
and not even a copy of Haynes Japanese Motorcycle Maintenance". She
giggled and batted her eyelashes in an "I'm just a poor vulnerable female"
act that Jake didn't really find very amusing.
"One of these days you might have to bet your life on that thing starting
first kick and I wouldn't fancy your chances. I've got a tool kit in the back
of the Dodge, I'll take a look at it if you like".
"Cool ! Thanks".
Jake got to his feet, brushed the crumbed remains of breakfast from the
front of his combats and took the five or six steps required to get him to
the back doors of the dodge. He climbed in and scrabbled around for the tool
box."Found it !" he shouted as he jumped down from the tailgate and humped
the big red box over to where Betsy was lying ( her side stand had long since
corroded and fallen off in protest against the tragic lack of T.L.C.).
"Anything I can do to help ?" Jaynie enquired.
"That pretty much depends on whether or not you know the difference
between a tyre lever and a ten mil spanner " he laughed, turned towards her
and winked. "If you could just pass me what I ask for when I ask for it I'll
be happy. You can start by digging me out a screwdriver.
"and would that be a flat head or a phillips you'll be wanting" she said
with a grin and winked back.

"These electric's are a farce, best bet would be to rip out everything that's
not essential and replace the stuff that is" he muttered, not really speaking
to anyone except himself and wondering what idiot had gone to the trouble
of adding indicators to a dirt bike in the first place. "12 mil spanner" he
said in a loud and clear voice, sounding a bit like a surgeon in an operating
theatre. Jaynie passed it and watched as he effortlessly undid the nuts and
removed the rust and mud encrusted bullet shaped blinkers.
He tossed them over to where she was squatting. "could you put these in
the big plastic box in the back of the dodge ? ... it's on the left hand side as
you go in, next to the littlewooden table thingy with the big red battery
charger on." "Oh and while your in there" he added, fetch me one of the
wiring looms off the floor in the corner ... right by the door".
“Oky Doke,” Jaynie chirped.
She'd already completed the first part of the mission before he had finished
speaking and was now scrambling around on the threadbare carpeted floor
of Jake’s Dodge looking for the loom.
Got it ! She got to her feet, dusted her self down a bit and then for the
first time took a good look around. This place was fairly cool ! kinda like
a do it yourself mobile home. She had already noticed the carpeting while
rummaging around on her hands and knees but know that she was standing
she could see the bunk that was positioned above the drivers cab, it was
partially curtained off but open enough that she could see it had a proper
mattress and for a moment she struggled to overcome the urge for a quick,
sneaky lie down. To the left was an old wooden cupboard with a caravan
sink sunk into the one side and the draw below it haphazardly nailed shut.
Below that was a largish door ... she opened it ... mmm full of fire wood,
Good idea ! The other side of the cupboard contained a large wooden barrel
labeled SALT. Next to it was a pink battered half stuffed two seater settee
covered with clothing and a couple of big green cushions. She guessed that
color co-ordination was not one of his talents. Not that things like that
mattered anymore even if they ever really did in the first place.
There was a make shift stove to her right that had been constructed from
an empty propane bottle (and as far as she could tell had never once been
cleaned) and the wooden table with the big charger on. She pondered that
for a second and then came to the conclusion that the Underdogs must use
vehicles to charge vehicles, what with there being no mains power. Some
folks had Gennies but they were very few and far between. The rest of the
space... floor, wall and hanging was taken up with clutter.
Clothing, vehicle parts, and tools adorned every square inch of useable
surface and a candle lamp hung from a short chain suspended from a brass
hook in the center of the ceiling.“Hurry up !” Jake shouted, making her jump
and bang her head on the swinging lamp. Stupid fucking place to put a lamp
she thought and yelled back "Found 'em ! ... Just coming !"
She jumped down from the tailgate with the wiring loom in one hand and
a hammer in the other, ran the five or six strides to where Jake was hunched
over Betsy and before he had a chance to turn around and say thanks she
rained down a hefty hammer blow to the back of his skull swiftly followed
by six of the same leaving a hole you could just about put your fist in.


....


Jaynie kicked Betsy to life and rode back to the lean to, packed the few
belongings she needed into a knotted blanket and then set about removing
one of the more sturdy and less weather beaten planks from the door of
the ramshackle shelter. Riding back to the dodge with the blanketed parcel
on her lap and a five foot plank under her right arm was no mean feat and
took considerably longer than she had anticipated.
Crows and magpies were already circling and that, sooner rather than later,
would draw unwanted attention.
She felt bad about Jake and decided that time, the availability of a shovel
and a suitably soft patch of ground allowing, she would bury his body
before leaving. She knew that this wasn't really an option but thinking
about it for a little while made her feel better.
In reality it was already starting to get dark, she needed to get back to the
underdog camp, lean the plank against the tailgate, ride Betsy up and into
the back, get the old dodge up and running and get the fuck outta there
Asap.




Chapter Two


Notes: The Elite; As per dictionary definition were “The very best of the best”
A highly organized group of expert individuals from all walks of pre-catastrophic
-event life.
Doctors, dentists, tailors, sailors, thinkers, scallies, thieves and killers who all
managed to rub along together just fine because their common denominator
was intelligence.

The Elite were smart ! and perhaps wisest of them all was commander in chief,
an ex performer, stage hypnotist, self proclaimed psychological illusionist,
perceptual manipulator and smart arse who went by the name of Darren Crown.




... to be continued



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<a name="251">It's Just Routine</a>

It's Sunday morning. I'm sat here alone.

I'm always the first to rise and always at the same time. She knows this and that's when she comes.

The ritual is identical, week after week. Nothing changes. I shower and dress ... make coffee and toast then sit for some peaceful time at the computer ... and she watches.
She never speaks, she just stands there in the doorway and she always looks the same. Long hair ... straight, dark and slightly damp. Cotton frock, grey, pressed, starched and pristine.
Her stature I would describe as petite and I'd estimate her age to be maybe eighteen or nineteen. Her face ... pleasant enough, but devoid of expression. I think if she smiled, you would call her pretty.

Two years !
... Two years of Sunday mornings
... Two years of thirty three minute ritual. (Yes I've timed it) and not one word nor one single deviation on her part from the weeks precedeing, nor I suspect, from the weeks to come.
Maybe I should ask her name, try to find out why she's here. Maybe do some history research on the propery.

...or maybe not.

I drink the last mouthful of tepid cofeee and glance and the clock. It's 10.33 a.m.
The same as last week and time to wake the others.
She walks behind me as I take the first flight of stairs and then stops.

She never takes the second.



© Ven.Sept2003



........................

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<a name="252">The Two Faces of Kelly S.</a>

It was 11.45 a.m. when she finally got up and came down the stairs.
God ! I thought I looked bad first thing but she was a whole new ball game. Ruffled hair, the remnants of too much makeup smeared under her eyes and a face like a pit bull licking capsicum.
"Morning Kel" I chirped, in as cheery a tone as I could muster. No response.
"Are you off out tonight love ?" I asked. "Yes" she replied with a distinct inference of, what the hell has it got to do with you?, in her voice. She shuffled past me and headed toward the bathroom and I shrugged my shoulders and continued with endless list of Saturday morning household tasks.
Forty five minutes later she emerged, looking considerably more human than she had previously but there was still something about her attitude that bothered me. "She can be such a cow", I thought to myself ... but I said nothing. I just tip-toed around her all too familiar volatile ill humor, unwilling or maybe just unable to bear the thought of another, blown out of all proportion, Kelly confrontation. God knows I had enough to do today without having to deal with the aftermath of another one of her demented tamtrums.
"Where are my black trousers ?" Kel screeched from the top of the stairs.
"I don't know" I replied, "did you put them in the laundry basket after the last time you wore them ?"
"No I left them on my bedroom floor."
"Well that's where they'll still be then babe, if they don't get to the laundry basket, they don't get laundered. You should know that by now.
"Well that's no bloody good to me" she yelled. What am I supposed to do now. I've got nothing to wear !.
"Right ! ... well just go in my room and borrow a pair of mine" I said, thinking that would solve the problem but I couldn't have been more wrong.
"Oh for FUCK sake !" she shouted. "Like I can go to the pub wearing a pair of old ladies trousers. What are you trying to do Mum ? Turn me into a fucking laughing stock. You'd love that wouldn't you ?".
I did'nt reply ... it wasn't worth it. I just thought, "old ladies trousers, cheeky bitch !, thirty nine I am !, not bloody seventy.
The thought was interupted by a tunefull rat tat tat tat on the back door. I peeled off my pink rubber marigolds, glanced in the hallway mirror, quickly smoothed my appearance and answered it.
"Hi Jake ... How are you today ?"
"I'm fine ... How are you Mrs. S.?"
"Busy as usuall I replied with a smile ... Come on in, I'll give Kelly a shout for you. She's upstairs getting changed.
Cup of tea ?"
"Yeah, that would be great, Thanks. I'll make it if you like, I can see you've got your hands full. Do you want a coffee ?".
"Umm, Yes ... Why not. Cheers Jake".
I walked over to the bottom of the stairs and called to Kelly.
No reply.
I shouted again, a little louder.
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW ?, she bellowed in the style of someone demonically possessed.
"Jake is here for you" I said.
It was like flicking a switch. Kelly went from devils spawn to butter wouldn't melt in her mouth angel in less than a micro second.
I glanced at Jake, sat in the armchair sipping his tea and watching VH1
... I hope the poor lad knows what he's letting himself in for I thought.




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~
Last edited by Ven on Mon Oct 01, 2007 5:39 am, edited 99 times in total.
.


"Forever is short thought when your skipping this close to the edge".

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bags123
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Post by bags123 » Wed Dec 20, 2006 10:40 am

Anybody seen Ven around here. I though for sure she was wandering around in her vault again. :hello:
I prefer to keep an open mind,....but not so much that my brains fall out.- Carl Sagan
Your brain is like an umbrella. It only works when it's open- Someone Smart


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Ven
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Post by Ven » Wed Dec 20, 2006 10:50 am

I was just doing my housework, anybody seen my backless pinney and feather duster ?
.


"Forever is short thought when your skipping this close to the edge".

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Google this number; 1905363966

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bags123
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Post by bags123 » Wed Dec 20, 2006 11:11 am

What's a backless pinney? I suppose you'll want to dust when you find your feather duster huh?
I prefer to keep an open mind,....but not so much that my brains fall out.- Carl Sagan
Your brain is like an umbrella. It only works when it's open- Someone Smart


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Post by Ven » Wed Dec 20, 2006 11:17 am

Pinafore ... apron sort of thing :shrug: Dunno what you guys call it
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Post by bags123 » Wed Dec 20, 2006 11:21 am

I thought a Pinafore was a small ladies umbrella. :grin: Find your duster yet?
I prefer to keep an open mind,....but not so much that my brains fall out.- Carl Sagan
Your brain is like an umbrella. It only works when it's open- Someone Smart


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Post by Ven » Wed Dec 20, 2006 11:22 am

Yeah got it, all done and dusted now. Does it look any cleaner ? :grin:
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"Forever is short thought when your skipping this close to the edge".

Ven's MYSPACE
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Google this number; 1905363966

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Post by bags123 » Wed Dec 20, 2006 12:24 pm

Still looks kinda vault like. Do you have any plants we could spread about.
I prefer to keep an open mind,....but not so much that my brains fall out.- Carl Sagan
Your brain is like an umbrella. It only works when it's open- Someone Smart


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Post by heinzs » Sat Apr 21, 2007 4:35 pm

alphabetizing
**************************************
An' it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed Be.
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My Poet's Page Archive | Topics I've started

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