Songs of Innocence and Cheesecake

Songs of Innocence and Cheesecake

Tyger, tyger eatin' light
His mum says weight is now a fright
lettuce, carrots, celery too.
Fridge light glaring in the night
O he longs for special food

What immortal cook or chef
Could lay thy lemons thick and high?
Th' house lies silent, deep, and dark
Tyger guzzles at its heart

None can see the fangs sink deep
In that confection, lemon sweet
Tyger lick-ed foil-ed plate
Not one morsel dropped-
He feeds beneath the sleeping lamb
(Unaware of's pending fate)

BUT:-
What is this?
The torch light cometh
Mum's pink slippers
Drum new tattoo on wooden stairs.
-Dawn's rich gold belights dark sky
Hide Tyger,
Hide your cheesecaked whiskers!
"It wasn't me mama, I swear-
Twas LAMB who guzzled here, the cake!"

Lamb's alarm begins to shriek
Cheesecake gone, and
Now the eggs!
Toast that burns in streaks of flame
Tyger, time ignored, to blame

As kitchen, house, and lamb's aflame
Mum's roar begins to shake the panes
Lamb's shrieks begin,
Shred curtains tattered.
Windows' glass begins to shatter

As ladders raise,
firefighters spring
Look!-the tyger's gath'ring mint,
Potatoes, rosemary, carrots peas.

Peas and carrots rise
To greet the
Innocent lamb's demise

The tyger burps, he farts and sighs
For innocence
And lambly friends
He gives to dog a piece of lamb:
"Mmmm, twas mighty good tastin',"
Says mutley, snout still lickin'.
"Is there more," he gruffs at tyger?

Tyger asks,
"First, where is lamb's fleece?
For lamb, my friend, needs not it more.
But I twould like to befriend some goats,
And for that to work....
I'll need lamb's coat."

Tyger, tyger, dressed as lamb
creeps amongst the goatish band
He cries, " Grrrr-baaaa !!"
Goats surprised aleap
Circling cycle panick'd ran
To ring his bell'd alarm

With shrilled alarm, the dreams disperse
Nightmare'd lamb cries out for nurse-
As deep beneath in kitchen heaves
Sickly tyger's groans a curse.

For tyger read the label late
Cheesecake well past sell-by date........

Songs of innocence and cheesecake
On kitchen floor
-For beneath the fridge light lies:
A phosphorous glow
Of tyger vomit

Now on tiled floor.......
Midst paw print.

a poetic verse by soubriquet
(with small'd help by rdg)

She kinda dared me to post it.

Oops... new Sisterhood Stealth Bike on Trial

via Growabrain.

Thank You

The Sisters are Seducing our Squirrels!

Our special-forces squirrels, a highly trained and dedicated branch of the Brotherhood of the Besmirched Countenance, have encountered a new hazard in their mission to monitor the actions of the Sisterhood of the Pointy Heels.
Some Sisters, failing to properly respect the squirrels' peace-keeping mission, have been tickling their nuts. And it's causing a real problem for our guys.

Pointy

Great Britain's Communities and Local Government Secretary Hazel Blears suffered a pointy heel moment this week. Of course, the paparazzi were there to document it, so Grit in the Gears could bring it to your notice.
Perhaps her government will start to take note of the poor state of London's pavements?
I doubt it.
But TOP MARKS to Hazel for her ability to laugh at her predicament.

Delicate Negociations

The Knight of the Besmirched Countenance has invited a delegation from the Sisterhood of the Pointy Heels to discuss the nature of the Bilateral Treaty of Mutual Advantage...
Kick off your shoes, ladies, make yourselves comfortable....

Just a thought...

Red Dirt Girl left a comment on my pic of a chariot of fire, a burning bicycle, that
it thus means Elijah went heavenward on a burning bicycle, and Jesus may return on one. Quite a thought... I thought he might come back on his horse.

Warpath, by Ario Farin

Warpath

Autumn comes late in the mountains.
The transmission cables connecting
the cottages and the farms,
the solitary skyscrapers and frozen churches,
are set ablaze for a day or two
by the singeing wings of scouting kestrels,
swallows flying below radar in the pink glow.
No one is injured, bunkers remain intact,
but we skulk in the furrows,
set trap after trap.

Then the renditions began, first from the cities,
chalky white cliffs in the first long night,
to Babylon, to Qom, to Amsterdam, to London:
Paris no longer exists it is said in the papers
that lie spread along the green hillsides
among the trumpet chanterels and the imploding toadstools.
Extraordinary scenes: canals luminous with ghosts,
the motorways silent for weeks except for
the rotating blades of military hovercraft,
cutting the empty road ahead into slices of routes.

Then, amid the last blue flash
of headlights, the fading glint
of a cat’s eye burrowed into the molten tarmac,
she dances, snapping her fingers
amid the flurry of fog and exhaust gases
from God knows where, she dances
to a delusional beat, half asleep
and half howling to a sonar beep,
falling like a raindrop
On a brown-red leaf.

I mentioned this poem, a couple of posts back, as the one that spurred me to look up 'The Horses', by Edwin Muir.

It was on a blog called Scribblings and Sketches, and is the work of one Ario Farin, who says:-

"My actual name is Arioborzine Farin. I was born in Isfahan in 1977 to a Dutch mother and Iranian father. I have lived in Iran, the Netherlands, the UK and now in Germany. English is not my native language. I am not sure I have one. My nationality is Dutch though. I work as an English teacher for adults and translator in Leipzig."

I, a native speaker of english can not write anything in any way as accomplished as this poem, yet Ario is almost apologetic about placing these poems before us, as if feeling them unworthy.

I asked permission to post this, when I posted 'Horses', The reply only just got to me, giving permission to do so. I was going to add it to the Edwin Muir post, but thought again.

The poem deserves a post of its own.

Please comment, you poetry readers and poets, I really would like to hear your views, lurkers, take a chance, step out of the shadows and speak, it won't hurt, I promise.

Click on the links, go visit Ario Farin at Scribblings and Sketches.

My meanderings on the internet have led me to many rewarding discoveries. So many self-publishing writers and poets, I feel humbled.

And jealous.