Poetry Poems

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World*Coronavirus Cases: 176,368,839
Deaths: 3,809,463
Recovered: 160,288,837

country DEATHS/1M pop*Po0ulation

Kris ~ Dreamweaver
13th June 2021.



The Earle of Bay

On battle campaign Saturday mornings, not long after the day´s dawning,
the aroma of freshly rolled hay, before the tents pitched,
crept up my nose and itched.
I knew what this message meant: later today there would be two armies and their fighting stars aligning.
A bit after noon, a silver messenger flew high in our heaven, twinkling, spinning, gleaming, and shining,
It landed before the eleven. The chosen warriors would take to the field to defend our haven. The Earle of Bay was summoned: his commission was victory.

Two of the foes in full armor marked their claim to territory, at the threshold of their 3 columns castle: to take their bales of territorial claim would be a marathon wrestle.
His forces set, all in formation, the Earle of Bay, his back to the southern savannah and the sea, the woods before him, drew abreast of the battle line.
He had with him, his six dragons.

The northern swordsman, his back to the woods, faced towards the Earle of Bay, who wheeled on his sole steels, 50 yards or so south.
Then at the battle commanders signal, he unleashed one dragon and charged.
He raised dragon one close to the Sun, then hurled him like a comet.
He hit the ground like thunder, just in front the northern swordsman leg armor, then sprang in a sudden red streak at his throat.
He strained on his tiptoes, his back and face arched away, he raised his mighty willow sword covering his face, neck, and chest.
Dragon one a red blur passing dangerously close. The chief custodian snatched him from midair, to return him to his lair.

All around the battle ground, loud roars were the only sound.
To the east, above in the blue, Flying fish in a bow formation,
ever ascending and climbing to cloud city nation.
While along the western border mine, the water million bosses held the lines.
In support of their colors their hearts aligned and against their foes maligned.

In rapid flight, the Earle of Bay fired off dragons 2, 3 and 4.
The northern foe tapping the ground with his willow to summon power: flashing, cutting, slashing, and hitting high and low, the red darting about like lightning with each blow struck. The dark carbon forces in their all whites, like worshipers around a golden altar: making sacrifices against the red in running, jumping, leaping, and diving, almost like priestly writhing.

The battle commander motionless and unmoved, astride this particular universe.
Roars vibrating all around, shaking the ground.
The Sun blazing down, on every face a squinting frown.
The pitch aroma seasoning the air.
The eleven watching for dragon strikes, as 5 was now free from its lair.
The Flying fish still climbing high in the east, as one yelled here comes the beast.

Dragon 5 attacked suddenly, burning through the castle defenses.
The Earle of Bay then circled north. He raised high in the sky; the Earle could really fly. His strategy, fire a direct block hole yorker from up high.
Then he released dragon 6, like a supernova from the dark of a black hole, it burned through the willow and nuked the three*column castle,
reducing its foundation to mortar in a pestle.
The tail end then collapsed pitifully.

A great roar erupted, heating the air like lava, burning in the fiery Sun.
The battle commander, from beneath his wide solar brim, signaled the battle won.
The supporting bosses and villagers saluted the conquering pillagers.

The Earle of Bay and his forces had seized the day. The bosses would with good drink and food, reward the warriors who fought bravely today.
They departed the field for the pavilion tents, above the Mill, below which the little stream flowed, down to the secret sea tunnel.

Both the victors and the vanquished reminisced their fallen heroes and discussed how and where they lay.
All raised toasts with great drams of sway, in their enthusiasm for life and play.
All to the Earle of Bay respect did pay.
This was the tradition and the way.
Mutual respect was the currency of the day and, all knew to pray, for longevity of days, before facing the dragons of the Earle of Bay.

After many campaigns, a long 82 days, the Earle of Bay had one last play.
After much earthly and spiritual travail, he faced the journey of the eternity trail.
Wisely, at this battle line, he made the good confession.
Thereby by completing his earthly session.
Now recalled at the completion of his earthly tour of duty,
on his homeward journey, he crossed the veil without earthly booty.
Over there he would rejoice to see unveiled, his rest, reward, and salvation true.
Also, some family and old friends and foes too, who crossed before, would welcome him too, to share in their joy eternal, high beyond the white cloud blue.



The Better Poem

write your poem
he commanded
but thoughts do not come that way
asked by way of command

poems are an act of
coming between thoughts
crowding into a brain
and then spilling out
onto the wall
a projection
of images and feelings

remember when you
found that projector
and you threaded that reel
and you moved the furniture
and suddenly
you had a theater
and you clasped your hands in front
of your mouth
as you saw younger versions of
you knew as old

that is poetry
isn't it
the past made present
the unreal remade into the living
the thought coaxed into breathing

Eileen and Walter
holding hands on a beach
the waves covering their bare feet
prescription cat eye sunglasses and Ray*Bans
perched on their heads
little white shadows around their eyes
and across the bridges of their noses
a large umbrella lounging in the sand

Norm and Ethel
Frank and Georgette
grinning with their hand*woven hats
and patterned Bermuda shorts
toasting under a turquoise cloudless sky

the flickering
and the click*clacking
of the end of the tape
and the bedroom wall images

where did they go
the line of your smile
and the better lines of the poem
you were told to write

how is it the lines
you don't write walk away
and the memory of them
satisfies you more
because they disappear

beauty and people
fade and die
but the memory
will always satisfy
and remain
turn on the projector
and they return to you again

this is the better poem:
the natural one re*called and




Deliverance Praise

I love you, O Lord,
With all of my strength;
So loved and adored,
For life at its length.

The Lord is my rock,
My fortress I stand;
Bended knee I talk,
Follow Your command.

My deliverer,
Whom I take refuge;
Shield and redeemer,
I never refuse.

The horn and stronghold,
As my salvation;
Abiding as told,
For my foundation.

I call on the Lord,
Worthy to be praised;
Being one accord,
Who I am amazed.

Though the cords of death,
Torrents to destroy;
Saving of each breath,
Foes cannot deploy.

The deathly sorrow,
Floods of wicked men;
Faith in tomorrow,
Will prevail again.

The sorrows of hell,
Confronted by snares;
The place that I dwell,
God blocks for He cares.

I call upon the Lord,
Help in my distress;
His grace is out poured,
To comfort and bless.

Copyright © 2021 Richard Newton Sherrer



Sammy´s Mini Rap

Sammy´s in his man cave
Rustling up a cake
Air Fryer´s quietly heating
Hot enough to bake.
Guitars and Ukuleles
stacked across the floor
Leaving just a passage
To the cooker and the door.
Wine bottle´s in the cooler
Ready for later on
The time is quickly passing
Where has the morning gone
He´s issued all his invites
To his Special Little Rave
Wine and home baked cake
In Sammy´s Own Man Cave.



OH Angels II

OH Angels II

Oh Angels excell Jesus name
they sing praises with us from the heavenly place

Angels oh holy angels you are strong and meek
protecting the earth even while we sleep

Oh angels singing Christ hymes
anouncing Jesus word to His followers and friends

Against evil and every lofty thing
Oh the angels how angelic they sing!


Love Michelle Lee Carter



Don't ask me to write about butterflies

Don't ask me to write about butterflies

Don't ask me to write about butterflies,
There ain't enough of 'em round here to
Stick on a pin. Heavy engineering has
No taste for butterflies, too concerned
With steel, aluminium and iron billets. Metal
That can be hung, swung and rolled under
The hand of man to become fearsome
Machines of death and wanton destruction.

Don't ask me to write about flowers, there
Ain't enough of 'em round here to fill a vase.
Heavy engineering has no taste for flowers,
Too concerned with gun turrets, giant trucks,
And tanks. Machines made to roam the
Earth firing a million rounds a minute, and
Woe betide any flower that gets in the way.

Don't ask me to write about the wonders
Of the woods, we did for trees long ago.
Bomb making has no time for birds, bees
And bunny rabbits. Launch pads are what
We need, bigger bullets, bigger bombs
And bigger missiles. Point 'em anywhere
You like, raze your enemy to the ground,
Nuke anyone and everything you don't
Like. Bring the world to its knees, crack
It wide open, and have done with it.

Don't ask me to write about charity, there
Ain't enough of it round here to buy a bible,
And who needs a bible, when you can take
What you want by force. Stealth aircraft are
What we need, spies in the sky, armed to the
Teeth, ready to take out anything that moves.
Don't ask me to write about butterflies, I
Haven't seen one this whole year complete.

© Joseph G Dawson
12/06/2021 and earlier




Sometimes it´s gravity and sometimes it´s the lack of
It´s the energy
It´s the melody that only floods our ears
It´s the refuge that sometimes keeps us safe
But sometimes exposes that which hinders our progression
Not only meant to shield but also be a safe place
One that doesn´t allow masks
It´s the flow of electricity that starts in my left
Brightens the depths of my hidden truths
Exposes them to you
But warms the depths of your true face and hearts desires
Connecting pieces of us to a land we had forgotten how to journey to
And shoots like a flair calling for only our kinda help
And drawing us like a moth to the flame that lights our way
She is.my muse
The epitome of my home.
She is everything that reminds me of my former life of royalty
She is treasure
Not one that you can hold in your hand
She is the most intangible treasure that cannot be owned
A treasure like hers has to be given freely and continually earned
The cost of this is mere dirt when you feel, taste, see, hear, and smell the essence of this woman
Her being.is a part of my being.
Thank you Clarity.


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