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Larry dillon Jan 2023
The gods let this baby be born
As a thing they could reclaim
One day with cruel delay
Boils from black plague desecrated her skin
Right before her second birthday
A lesson on how a life can be stolen
Shortly after it begins
Or how we're without hope to the whims
Of the bored gods before us

To save the last of his kin
The father implored the science
Of the village sage and physicians
He was turned down at every door
Their medicine was not meant
To save the poor nor destitute
  
Resolute in his faith
there were good gods who gave grace
Unto children without sin
He next beseeched healing power
from varied institutions of the miracle men
Preyed over by priests, rabbis, and sheikhs
He sacrificed and spent
every cent he had saved
And their churches took his tithes
But did not take her pain away

Grief striken, defeated, with no recourse
Liquid sedated in a pub,he feels remorse
" our child will join you soon,
my dearest departed wife"
a pubhand overhears him saying,
"you can still save your daughter's life!"

"listen as I entail
The hidden trail you must trek
before the antelucan hour strikes
Her magiks are only ripe
in the dead of the night
Nestled within that loury forest
Her cabin obscured from mortal sight
Resides an occultist of such cunning:
A bog witch named Blight"

The pubhand helped him to more mead for free
Unprompted he then proceeds to lead
The father through that place he now seeks
-claiming his shift had come to an end
As they drew closer to the cabin
Something happened most curious and queer
The pubhand turned into a black cat,
Scurried off into the brush- to dissappear

Influenced by fermented spirits in his blood
He pays heed to their whisper
-Her cabin door is ajar
And they beckon he enter

Now in Blight's place of power with his offspring.

"oh hapless father when you sing,
How the gods do smile
You worshipped the very ones
who wish to **** your only child
they're vile and malcontent
All they know are delinquent tendencies
They'll torture her spirit for sport,
When she dies you see
But by my incantation
That needn't come be"

"drain the blood of a bat
with deviant intent
Recant the name of your gods;
You now resent  
The blood will brew all the while
-in my elixir
When the little girl drinks:
it will fix her
It will turn her pale white
You will fear she has perished
She will stalk this earth
Forever parched with ravenous thirst
And a stark aversion to sunlight
NOW YOU MUST CHOOSE:
A dead child!
...or a creature of the night?"

The father did as directed
He did not second guess
Unaware of the sorceresses subtle gesticulations
-Were creating a hex
He's blind to machinations set in motion long ago
The wiccan pours her will into a binding circle
As the child drinks the concoction slow

His daughter's vitality returns
The plague is receding
Fangs sprang forth
as she bites into her father's neck
Blood trickles down in specks
The girl keeps feeding
And feeding

all gods once assembled to fight Blight
The powerful mad goddess would direct
her sadistic debauchery at their human subjects
-human praise appealed to the god's vanity-
Her godhood sealed by the Parthenon
in a prison comprised of flesh
Divinity bound;
betrayed by other gods
There were too many for her to resist
A former god trapped in mortal form
Blight's punishment was to simply exist

For 300 years Blight had waited for a night like this
An ancient curse she could wield
As revenge for imprisonment
Finally obtaining the last two ingredients:
A child that was pure
And a father's consent

A direct strike of lightning sets Blight's cabin ablaze  
still in her binding circle, she's indifferent
And unphased
From threats of fearful deities who see
She's about to set her nocturnal creations free
Undeterred by their show of force
she releases her two vamps
with a flick of her wrist and no remorse

Iightning strikes within an inch of Blight
She leers at the heavens
Much defiance and mirth
In the distance a village screams
As her fiends burn it down to the dirt

The Parthenon replies:
Bellowing cumulonimbus clouds
decries her decision
Such chaos;
now her scheming REALLY has their attention
The.Ones.Who.Watch. Above

See all.

Throughout panoptic thrones they peer
pained fury for this village culling:
Blight jeers
Sanctimonius thunderstorm brings fervent rain
Their vain,pious tears-
The skies can not contain

The gods cry.

"Oh, how i wonder what will worship gods then,
When humanity dies?"

Luminous surges of lightning bolts strike
Tries to smite this emboldened bog witch
...Yet, in spite of their wish,
she somehow stays unhurt...

Blight smirks.
I story of a father's desperation abused and a scheming bog witch's revenge.
Sharon Talbot Mar 2021
Children of Louisiana,
Swept away and drowned,
In the river’s flood
And the ocean surge.
Never have recovered
Fully from the rain falling down,
And of a city that was purged.
Ignored by the government
And its fellow man,
Follow in a long line of sufferers
Since the melting, ice age glaciers
And even a tsunami in the North Sea
That wiped out Doggerland.
Dark Ages got darker as people ran
And Britain’s white cliffs were sheared.
Times got better and then got worse,
But the people carried on.
Now, the floods are a weekly thing,
A blip on a newscast,
As lost as the victims in a mess
Of other disasters,
Of wildfires, droughts and don’t
Even mention the quaking earth
Or volcanoes! We can’t take credit
For causing those!
Rich men in their castles,
Feasting and clapping each other
On their fatty backs,
Rolling in the spoils and spills
Of oil, on the flaming water of
The American plains.
Sheikhs in old Mesopotamia
Whine about oil pipelines,
Promised to them by President Cheney,
While the people starve.
Bloated oligarchs spread destruction
All over the world, from
The Congo to Chernobyl,
Melting icecaps and raising the sea,
Sinking islands where they don’t live,
Vacationing in the Maldives,
On special rates before those go under.
They won’t fix Miami, but let it sink,
But not before they plunder
The empty towers built on foolish dreams.
Of course, they’ll be the last to go,
Crammed into mansions up in the Alps,
Fighting with the European nobles
Over who gets a crumbling palace
Now sitting on the last ice floe.
A few American cousins round each other up
To catch the Dixie Flyer down to New Orleans,
Trying to hide from the polar vortex,
A dazzling case of ignorance and greed,
Only to find the tracks buried in the sea…
Down in the mud of the deep, brown sea.
Carlo C Gomez Feb 2020
oh sorrowful
barbary coast
they took your young daughters
and sold them to sheikhs
of the sand as water

not so unlike college girls
from the mainland
disappearing now
during spring break
as midnight contraband
I watch stymied
laughters of the world.
They are momentary tragedies.
Halting
Hindi laugh,
silent
Asian laugh.
Poking each other in ribs
infused with ****** morrow.
Why do I surreptitiously laugh, aloud on paper?

Each diseased curtain
of sawed-pulp wafts gently on
my breath, through ink, away--
contained in incense clouds
from sandalwood shrubs
which rustled once
beside a child
whose mother
dipped in Ganges
her ceremonial robe
whet, with tears,
the appetite you have
tonight
from laughing.

Downtown, outside
my cordoned hallway,
other people cackle;
they laugh like Sheikhs.
They laugh like Mullahs,
                                           rolling copies of Qur'ans
held next to black cloth,
who ask us
"Have you heard the one?"

The bishops,
priests and
generals
lean over their broaching bellies
to hear described:

Crackling yellow flames cast shadows
on maps for weary pilgrims
with questions inside their heads
suspended on the moon-tides.
They sang in a circle, one.
Motives for allegiance
unraveled on the ground of man's
passion, now rotting, beside the
carcasses of camels
too meatless to eat.

In the once cloudless sky,
separated from the stars eternally,
they conceived of
pangs as great as loneliness
which laughter disguises.

Love, a painful, confusing torment.
of which
laughter never inquires
"Have you the time for me?"
although, every few days,
it should.
Running fingers through our lover's hair,
laughter tempts the intellect eternity to
conceive.
Constant fascination is
more bearable than death,
we dream.

We all need more
persuasion
to let go,
let leather reins pulled
taut behind vocal chords
snap free from our hands
in empathy for what
can't be said
and move our tongues aside
to shout
"Again! Again!"
through laughter.

No need.
It repeats, despite encouragement.
Arriving in self-addressed envelopes in your receptacle
                                                      ­ each year
                                                            ­                                                  
              ­                                                                 ­                                 on your birthday
waiting in the dark, crying:
“Open up!
                   Climb down
out of your body.
                                          Come laugh with me,
                                                             ­               between the stars."
MMXII

*Laughter is a mini-death.
Karijinbba Jun 2024
"I got cancer here."
My Kemah King said, pointing to his nose.

"Cancer in your nose?
Liar, I thought!
I didn't voice it!-
"I don't want you to die"
I thought, yet telepathically
my gold- heart read my mind word by word.
How I love you, adore you,
live long, healthy happy prosperous.
Hey handsome wild bird of paradise divine,
Will you cut off your long nose then hu?,
(I asked, inwardly)
Hu Handsome Pinocchio!?
~~~
It's been 50 years, how do you do?  Surely with your prosperous wealth, you are in abundant best of health care anywhere on Earth!
Beloved Kings among Sheikhs.
Perhaps joined your space ship crew towards that new found peaceful world.

Oh you rddjpc! Handsome Roddy traveler Pinocchio, of mine!

Infinite true love,

AsgBba.
~~~~
By: Karijinbba.
2024.
https://youtube.com/watch?v=BVfZu-3aRt4&feature=shared
Antony Glaser Jan 2016
Dismal has became helter skelter
most ladies in Mayfair  seem worn
they're tired, waylaid in fur
but its still a man's world then

The soothsayers grin
England lost to Poland in the qualifiers.
The aftershock of the energy crisis
sees new Sheikhs
money rolls like oil,
it buys and buys for some
even for the horses competing
at the London Riding Horse Parade.
Yenson Feb 2020
T'is the age of the Sheikhs of Bugsdud
resplendent on magic carpet of delusions
how in understated shabby chick these dodgers
hide their short daggers and shun the soaps
once a week is quite enough thanks thee very much
these brave warriors in hooded flairs down in Oz
nurse great resentment like you wouldn't know

Inherent in genes unknown hang shortcomings
by twenty and three the automatic stiffener is gone
in floppy dangling grace they find no led or vroom
thus ensures the quest for the magic blue bullets
while they run and hide from the last dance of day
those that manage the lift give it all up after two minutes
proclaiming better quick than never at all don't you say

There amongst are fetching hues of wood in splendor
hard teaks upping measure for measure longingly ripe
show fielded flowers and see furrows lovingly ploughed
and cries of joy rings out from rafters as every nooks imbue
and crimson flushes tell tales of time well spent in woods
leaving them tall sheikhs fuming and cursing all bothered
reveling in spiteful envy engrossed in dreadful hatred its war

Now add to tinder a renowned Prince of repute à la carte
a charger in wit and wisdom charming beyond compare
a Regent in gold with a sparkling sword like no other around
here comes a recipe for disaster a living nightmare in sheikdom
this esteemed arab dares prances around on the mount of olives
call out the sheikhs with the short daggers open Pandora's box
stop this ***** at all cost, summon all from the Red seafarers

This is no tale for Rome do not quote me rhyme or reason
for its been said that here Prince turned down ivory vessels
dared to answer back our charlatan Tax Collectors an knaves
worst of all he carries a sword unsurpassed and proves capable
charges are greed for owning such a sword incomparable to ours
and greed for not sharing even a touch or a look to those ivories
his fate is henceforth sealed, that sword shall not be polished again

to be continued....
The palm oil industry
ruining it for you and
ruining it for me
them sheikhs ain't none too happy
about it either.

Everything's destruction
try your hand at seduction,
error 69
malfunction
greased lightning ain't slick enough
and I m not quick enough
thinks
I'll pack up my stuff and
be on my way,

that is what happens on Wednesday,
tomorrow's that other day that they
spoke of in velvet tones
or was it in velvet trousers?
either way
it's that other day
and if Freud had his way
it'd be Mother's day.

I'm still jogging on
trying to be at one
but
often at sixes and sevens.
Gamini May 2023
Spas have sprung up near and far
With chirping sparrows eager to spar
With nearly half the fairer *** toiling abroad
At the beck of oil rich sheikhs
And others at home shunning your every move
That brings to life the resultant boredom
So whats up for the pent up and the rejected
They move up the steps to chirping sparrows.

Rejected yes so long neglected
Years been counting, now have lost the count
Moved up the steps to the nesting place
Seeking solace with a chirping bird
Smiling coyly they were all in a row
With long eye lashes and  rosy red lips
Selecting one was a arduous choice
Sparrows yearning to meet the hawk in guise.

The little sparrows why are they on offer
To earn a few rupees to fill their coffer
They give and take its no plunder
So why demean them who work for their supper
Sometimes at sparring do they get hurt
No sparring should always be a friendly flirt
Sparrow you are at a corner of my heart
The memory of that sweet ecstasy is going long last.
West Ham
no ham
not even West
unless you're going
that way.

I'm going West
from the East
on track
not off piste.

Sleepers on the tube train
they don't look like spies
maybe that's an agency
thing.

Passing the Emirates
no sign of Sheikhs.

But
there are vacancies
mainly
in the stares of people
who are and are not
aware
that they can be seen.

Nearly,
an internal gyroscope
steers me
in the right direction.


Getting off soon
my old friend the
Moon
has sunk into my
memory,
I'm waiting for the Sun
to rise.

— The End —