Fug-azi

There is a growing concern where I live that the County Council are not fulfilling the requirements of the electors and are intent on chasing their own follies.

Have the public any legal way of challenging the council to the point of getting an early election?

~Dating With Extreme Prejudice~

Diligence dallies,

drawn between soft-shoe shuffle

of whispering corners,

where finger walking negates talking

‘cos tongues are knotted in spittoon embrace,

and voyeuristic carnage vomiting

from polished pine floor,

where stiff ***** bob to a racing heart

and booty is shaken not stirred.

Ice cube charms melting

under heated collars swerving to avoid

dangerous curves with no safety net

to cushion their fall,

and is it the last dance

when weaving a straight line

with digits as wet as the gusset

they dethroned,

or self relief merely misaimed.

For those who don't know the sestina is a strict ordered form of poetry, dating back to twelfth century French troubadours. It consists of six six-line (sestets) stanzas followed by a three-line envoy. Rather than use a rhyme scheme, the six ending words of the first stanza are repeated as the ending words of the other five stanzas in a set pattern. The envoy uses two of the ending words per line, again in a set pattern.

First stanza, ..1 ..2 ..3 ..4 ..5 ..6

Second stanza, ..6 ..1 ..5 .. 2 ..4 ..3

Third stanza, ..3 ..6 ..4 ..1 ..2 ..5

Fourth stanza, ..5 ..3 ..2 ..6 ..1 ..4

Fifth stanza, ..4 ..5 ..1 ..3 ..6 ..2

Sixth stanza, ..2 ..4 ..6 ..5 ..3 ..1

Concluding tercet:

middle of first line ..2, end of first line ..5

middle of second line ..4, end of second line..3

middle if third line ..6, end of third line ..1

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~Stand Up And Be Counted~

Can it be that construction creates holes

where building blocks are torn without pausing,

no thought to the scars left all stark and bare.

Perhaps we all relish that sense of control,

with not a tear for all the pain we are causing;

are we even aware?

how children grow wiser, become aware

of the sutures we stick to cover holes,

how we ignore their questions to what is the cause

then wonder why they’ve stuttered and paused,

lost all their wonder, have got no control;

all lonely and bare.

We could blame this society for leaving us bare,

no protection from evil, un-aware

that the more we want the less the control,

we can’t see out of this self dug hole

and then its too late to stop or to pause,

pondering the cause

of this apathy, what are the causes

of being shallow, unable to bare;

too quick a life with not enough pauses.

Even in knowledge we stay not aware

content to wallow deep in our holes,

our pseudo control,

when really it’s us being controlled

as we shout for our chosen causes,

accepting their ‘truth’ dribbling through holes,

when the lies lay on their faces so bare

and how I wish I could make them aware

how they are all paused.

Stop the faux building, lets take time to pause

and regain what we’ve lost, take control;

let bureaucrats know that we are aware

of all the pain that they have been causing

and lets start afresh with a sheet so bare,

plug up all those holes.

Time to come off pause and fight for this cause,

take back the controls, no longer be bare,

be self aware as we fill our holes.

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The added twist here is the rhyming.

~together~

was that a sigh

beneath your threshold

or just a mote

absently escaping

your thoughts

as they casually settled

like a plumped pillow

or favourite song

upon devotion

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No capitals or punctuation is intended

~Just A Lie~

There isn’t anything I’d do for you

There isn’t anything worth the time

It would take to make this better

So much less of a crime

Maybe once, or was it twice

Lies fell easily upon these ears

But no matter what you patter

Now I have only fear

Chorus

Why’d you have to whisper sorry?

Why’d you have to cry?

When I told you it was over

It wasn’t just a lie

And perhaps I was mistaken

Though why I do not know

Your eyes they carry lies

And your tears are just for show

Chorus x 2

Perhaps you should stop talking

It’s a sound I’ve heard before

Now it’s far too late to wait

To pick my heart up from the floor

And baby keep your apologise

You’ll need them later on

To be repeated when you’ve cheated

On the next girl that you con

So why’d you have to whisper sorry

Why’d you have to cry

When i said that it was over

It wasn’t just a lie

no it wasn’t just a lie

When I said it was over

It wasn’t just a lie.

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Anyone want to put this to music? I'd be over the moon if someone could.

First attempt at Lyrics for me so would be interested in any critique and someone with music writing skills to write the music for it.

~Just A Lie~

There isn’t anything I’d do for you

There isn’t anything worth the time

It would take to make this better

So much less of a crime

Maybe once, or was it twice

Lies fell easily upon these ears

But no matter what you patter

Now I have only fear

Chorus

Why’d you have to whisper sorry?

Why’d you have to cry?

When I told you it was over

It wasn’t just a lie

And perhaps I was mistaken

Though why I do not know

Your eyes they carry lies

And your tears are just for show

Chorus x 2

Perhaps you should stop talking

It’s a sound I’ve heard before

Now it’s far too late to wait

To pick my heart up from the floor

And baby keep your apologies

You’ll need them later on

To be repeated when you’ve cheated

On the next girl that you con

So why’d you have to whisper sorry

Why’d you have to cry

When i said that it was over

It wasn’t just a lie

It wasn’t just a lie

When I said it was over

It wasn’t just a lie.

~Crooked Line~

I have angles,

obtuse places without definition

that linger long after day has banished night,

and fight is bravado of dreams.

Après vu follows déjà vu,

motes of memory sliding into voids

like ribbons unfurled

in confusions tempest,

and rest is acutely sparse.

Playing tic-tac-toe with no centre square.

Am I right, left or wrong?

Laying the straightness of this macadam

upon another sandy hope,

thinking maybe another corner won’t lead me back

to a point of no recollection.

In those corners of maybes

could there be salvation?

A statement put to me and i would like to know other peoples response.

The human race has managed to harness the ability to sustain life where perhaps it should not, by allowing certain individuals to live, who according to natures law of the strong surviving should not, are we, in fact, polluting the 'gene' pool of the human race with weaker DNA, thus creating a weaker and weaker species who in turn have to rely on the fewer of the species who are still strong.

If we were to allow nature to take its course would this planet be better able to support life in the long term.

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NB: Not sure if this belongs in Philosophy.

Explain why both or one and not the other or neither.

~Dawn Fix~

There is nothing so fresh

as nicotine scissors,

-inhale, exhale-

to bring temporary death

closer to reality,

and exaltation

of soft spirals

expunging doubt

that both will finally be

ashes.

~Write The Rites To Right The Wrongs~

I could cobble words,

lay them down within precision

of a heart-beat,

Perhaps, count their worth

within their division,

just to build

a better tunnel wall,

Or could I

remove random bricks

from structure.

Let light into their maybe corners

of policing doctrine,

rewrite policy

into abstractive art,

where meter is like

a foreign language,

yes I can,

for thoughts are not containers

for rules or formulations,

for counting lines of snorted coke

to see how high they merit.

Mine are hallucinogenic,

spreading multi-coloured shadows

in refracted reflections.

Not flesh wounds,

but body cavity piercings,

and I will say thank you

as my words slit your throat,

you may dance to your rhythm,

but don’t mock my song.

~Be It Blinkered Or Be It Blinded~

It could be confusion that smothers illusion,

like smog rolling in from the sea,

or an abstract decision, without precision

that forges this doubt within me,

and yet I can’t find a reason to be blind

to all of this human debris,

while here at my feet there is chaff mixed with the wheat

rotting in various degrees.

When our children are born to a world forlorn

of anything too close to shame,

to these mothers so young, that a child should have sprung,

shows how society is lame,

but we avert our eyes up to poisoned skies

looking for somewhere to lay blame,

when all it should take to admit our mistakes

is admitting we are the frame

that captures this sad life in its terminal strife,

and fixes it to our will,

it’s easy to excuse, when myopic views

turn full circle and self fulfil,

and it’s easier to ignore what lays on our floor;

just things that happened to spill.

So my curtains I’ll draw and I’ll forget what I saw

and practice this ignorance skill.

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Each stanza has 8 lines, all odd lines as 12 syllables with internal rhyme.

All even lines are 8 syllables and must rhyme with each even line within the stanza.

~Hollow Echoes Of Retreating Breaths~

Sighs contents litter

across ambit’s reassurance

where security trails ‘in’,

and the language

of a thousand-yard-stare

reveals natural rhythm

for meanings hidden.

A glass-eyed iris contracts

when clouds weave scripts

across vulgar clarity,

deafening the onslaught

of voided accords,

and what of furrowed brows

ploughed into fallow expression,

are they proof of a presence?

~Solitude Of A Shade~

She slipped like a breeze

below a threshold,

just a shiver upon chandeliers

hung in forbidding halls,

hoping the prisms

wouldn’t refract her paleness,

or blind her with company.

She could exist on a sigh

wrapped in self pity

and never miss the colours

of her dreams,

so long as ice remained opaque.

~Dead Past Midnight~

Bible black catches not my prayers

falling like some forgotten wares,

as God himself stands there scolding

while my end begins unfolding.

His baleful eye stalking my thought

to how this death should best be sought.

No matter what he is moulding,

while my end begins unfolding,

it doesn’t catch blinkered vision

tied to my abstract decision,

all I am is not worth holding

while my end begins unfolding.

So take your darkness into dawn,

I’ll wait until it has withdrawn

and spend some time just beholding,

while my end begins unfolding.

~Insufficient~

I pray to crosses thrown

from streetlights through my pane,

that this insane refrain

will cease its hold on my brain,

and offer only sweet release.

How many shadows of shadows

must I commit to conversation?

From their corners of maybes,

with an abstract vocation,

to permit and submit

an elegy to sleepless mourners,

and these lids remain ajar

while ceilings remain mute to questions,

astute observations that these eyes

look like scars

rendered in the fabric of night.

While dawn approaches,

madness encroaches

on another wide eyed day.

The Haiku is a traditional Japanese poetry form that has been translated into English. The common misconception is that Haiku's should have a maximum 17 syllable count split into 3 lines as follows 5-7-5, this is not so a Haiku can contain less then 17 syllables but no more.

The first two lines create an image within the readers mind with the third line creating the 'ku' or aha moment where the reader realises the initial picture is not the whole scene, the 3 lines are all on the same subject but you create a juxtaposition. Traditional Haiku revolve around the seasons and there is always a word that indicates that season, though it may not be obvious. Contemporary Haiku tend to reflect human emotion.

No poetic devices are used in the Haiku, it is merely an observation of a moment in time. Haiku do not usually have titles, but the first line can be used as the title, neither do they contain punctuation or capital letters, the '-' is added only to show where the aha moment starts.

Comments appreciated;

~Haiku #38~

feathers bloom

in spring courtship –

inky quill

~Haiku #37~

a deer trembles

in Autumn’s morning mist –

a cougar waits

~Haiku #35~

in warm eiderdown

by icy pond -

ducklings skate

~Haiku #34~

chaos on the battle field

helmets strewn in autumn dusk -

harvest time again

~Haiku #32~

sprinklers whispering

shimmering ‘cross summer lawns -

house burning brightly

~Haiku #30~

grey-red mosaic

drying below the May sun -

a recent roadkill

~Haiku #28~

perfect sky

ripped by thunder –

pilots playing chase me

~Haiku #26~

Timber shuddering

in early April shower -

a chainsaw cuts deep

~Haiku #25~

suns rays

dancing on the beach;

her hair

~Haiku #22~

two shoes lie mirrored

forgotten when spring cleaning -

the wake remembered

~Haiku #16~

entrance at last breached

by a hard battering ram -

virginities death

~Haiku #15~

shifting the gearing

as more speed is required -

orgasm approaches

~Haiku #10~

virgin cold

shrinks capacity -

yellow snow

~Haiku #9~

sunbathing wet stones

beneath waterfalls cascade:

dog with cocked leg

A little background;

I am a member of on of the worlds largest poetry sites, which holds contests. The contest I entered had a Autumn theme picture and certain restrictions were put upon the poets entering, one of which was we had to have at least three 'phrases' repeating in the poem. I'd be interested in the communities opinion as I am wondering whether to put this one in my new book.

~Beyond Equinox~

Golden tresses shorn

lay beneath the feet of summers passing,

sun shifts slowly towards warmth

of another horizon,

promising to return,

and we are wrapped for winters blues

beneath compressing sky,

as it drains away all colours.

We were tired as we

lay beneath the feet of summers passing,

too many attempts to fly

left our breath

promising to return.

How lethargic morning seems

as it lingers longer in slumber

beneath compressing sky,

with no thought to lights insistence

that night should be on its way.

Too many attempts to fly

left clouds resting against mountains,

dulling their sharpness

into a soft subtle melody,

while the wolf’s moon

called for the chorus to mourn

golden tresses shorn,

soon frost will bleach all temporary white

and as it drains away all colours,

we reminisce on how we

lay beneath the feet of summers passing,

promising to return.

Be Brutal, Be Beautiful, But Most Of All Be Honest.

~Fallen~

She’d had a rye life,

whisky eyes

seen through ice cube charms,

propped up on a bar stool pedestal

accepting only liquid worship -

no chasers for her,

and I caught her eye

as she swept the bump ‘n’ grind persona

of Friday night whores,

draped Dali like across wide-boys arms.

Her half moon smile

tainted by nicotine clouds

as they fought to escape

the confines of an inhale,

and me the rabbit in headlights glare,

tongue tied to this table,

nursing a misplaced conception.

She was slick as she oozed

through the waves of melded bodies,

caught in a chimera of sex and music;

a deep throb within.

Another notch to be nicked

in her playground stick,

a passing phase

in her latest craze,

she was warm in my lap

like a pile of bones before the pyre,

waiting .. just waiting,

and I found I could climb

the ladder of her spine, though her heart

had escaped that cage long ago,

all I could see was my dignity

lying discarded on an unmade bed,

and her proclaiming

“I used to be a lady.”