This month’s final two-for-Tuesday prompt comes from Paula Wanken.
Here are Paula’s prompts:
- Write a hero poem.
- Write a villain poem.
Robert’s attempt at a Hero and Villain Poem:
Always a favorite Beach Boys song,
because of the harmony, of course,
but also the shifts throughout, and
anyway it’s about good guys, bad guys,
and la-la-la-la, do-do-do-do.
*****
Thank you, Paula, for the heroic prompt (as well as the prompt of villainy). Click here to learn more about Paula.
Click here to share your poem on the WD Forum.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Don’t Get Rejected!
Get it right the first time. Click here to learn how.
Here we are again, my old foe.
My, my, my, how time passes.
It seems like just yesterday that
you were sitting all alone in your little cell,
scrawling the years on you walls.
Since the day you broke free,
you have been a royal pain in my rear.
You started off small, I can understand,
not wanted to draw too much attention to yourself,
snatching purses, hitting banks.
But then, then came the silent threat.
Your little stunts at the football games,
in the harbor,
at the top of the Statue of Liberty.
You kept me sweating for 6 long years.
But now,
now,
you sit in that chair, tied like a pig,
about to face your sentence.
How could you do it?
How could you play so many people
like that fiddle of yours,
and not think that one day, you’d be here,
pleading for your life,
whining like a girl,
weeping like the child you are?
Your death will be plastered
on the walls,
cast in bronze,
and I will bathe in your blood.
Villain?
You?
It looks like you have outlived your usefulness.
Dishwasher Stud Muffins & Parenting Faeries
Superheroes surround us.
There’s no readily apparent superpower,
no mask or special suit, no cape to give them away.
You need pay heed, or you’ll never guess how
their (whispered) actions speak louder
than [shouted!] words to reveal their true identities.
(Note: Appearances may be deceiving.)
Though they seem exhausted – beaten up (& down)
by all manner of evil foes & villains,
most still manage (somehow)
when all is said and done (against all ap-
parent odds) to foster truth and inspire integrity
while still maintaining patience (mostly);
to muster a tired smile, hang on to hope (by both hands),
and come back to do it all again
tomorrow
Day 27
Prompt: Heroes and/or Villains
Who is a villain? Who is a hero?
Villains
lie in wait for innocents
seek their own way at cost of anyone else
care not who gets hurt nor what chaos is left in their wake.
Heroes
risk all to save another
act with courage while quaking in fear
consider others lives as valuable as their own if not more.
Hero or Villain?
Some days, a hero when
I responded to the request,
“Mom make me a new dress for prom.”
Other days, the villain when
“Be home by midnight,”
fell from my lips.
Hopefully, when it’s all faded
into distant memory
I’ll be tagged, “hero.”
Late again.
Hero
Just a small amendment to my prayer:
I know I asked for a hero, but perhaps
I should have been more specific.
I have no need of an epic hero,
riding off toward Troy for fame
and glory, returning twenty years
too late, smelling faintly of swine
and Calypso, leaving me at home
fighting off brutish suitors, raising
his son. Nor do I wish for a knight
in armor—shining or otherwise—
off chasing some grail, his resume
lacking the proper criteria—perfection,
purity. Spare me the tragic hero,
at the top of his game, discontented,
overreaching, falling to pieces
over a simple handkerchief, trusting
his fate to witches, leaving me
walking the floor, wringing my hands.
Grant me instead the everyday hero,
willing to rush into the flames
to save a kitten, lifting the car
off the child pinned beneath,
the hero who finds satisfaction
reflected in my grateful eyes.
VILLAIN Triolet
A man at odds with me
who’s in the driver’s seat,
can pick where I will be.
A man at odds with me
can jail or set me free
glories in my defeat.
A man at odds with me
who’s in the driver’s seat.
My Hero(Harrisham Rhyme Poem)
The man who helps ladies with car trouble,
entertains small children and have them learn
something at the same time, now that’s doing double!
Giving his time, money, whatever good turn
greatly needed at the moment, that man with the stubble,
yep, right there, he’s mine, bye-bye, don’t return.
Maleficent (Harrisham Rhyme Poem)
She was a witch!
Elegant it’s true,
takes a bit of style to be that cold but switch
spots with me and see her with my eyes, I knew
she would find away, she’s dark as pitch
especially with the prince, did you see it when she flew?
My Heroes
slide across the room
with ease and ceremony—
navigate between speed
and pomp. Stretch
in the here-and-now
like there’s no tomorrow.
Can curl up in a ball
and sleep through bad
weather or serenade
you with a gusty yowl.
Best of all, on a snowy
day, they curl up on your
lap and purr.
To Be a Hero (A Harrisham Rhyme)
So you want to be a hero, eh?
Or do you just want the credit?
Remember that when you say
Readily “I’m a hero,” you’ve said it.
You can’t just take it back halfway.
Understand if you do you’ll regret it.
Exquisitely evil – bond ad
The Bond girls
The sublime martini
The gadgets
Nope beauty is eye candy
Drinks dry
Gadgets just a prop
A backdrop to the snapping bite
Of the bond
Villains.
Not necessarily the prime threats
Goldfinger glittered, but what I recall
Is top hat now writing this realize it’s
Odd job
I have a fondness for henchmen.
They all come too bad ends in moviedom,
But bond, hero, without villain or henchmen
Would be saltless bland fare.
http://jasminecalyx.wordpress.com/2012/11/28/the-long-and-short-of-it/
Hero/Villain
Don’t idolize the hero.
He may not be all he seems.
Maybe he cheated on his wife
or his taxes. Maybe he has
dirty pictures on his computer.
He may just wear that uniform
for the glory, and saving so many citizens
every day has become a grind.
Those superpowers may just be
special effects. He may drink
too much, or gamble, or take steroids,
or maybe he’s just full of himself.
Don’t demonize the villain.
Maybe he struggled in school
and crime is the only job he does well.
Maybe he was neglected as a child,
and that bizarre costume
and maniacal laugh are because
he craves attention. Maybe he has
anger issues, ADD, OCD, PTSD,
and can’t help being destructive.
Maybe he needs a good psychiatrist,
or even a girlfriend, or a dog.
Maybe he’s just misunderstood.
There are more shades of gray
than there are of black and white.
AGE-OLD HEROES (Harrisham Rhyme)
Whatever heroes come my way,
Rescuing me from self-chagrin
Gently persuade my heart to weigh
Youth’s suppleness against thick skin
Supplied by dose of day-to-day
Deliverance of what has been.
Great prompt, Paula! Oh the heroes in my life that I could write volumes on. Everyday heroes, like yourself. <3
Movie Villains
They always talk too much,
explaining their madcap plans
for world domination,
or describing the painful death
they’re about to inflict on the hero,
giving said hero time
to come up with an escape plan,
a way to save the world
and rescue the love interest
without getting a single hair
out of place.
If I were the villain
I wouldn’t say a thing,
just shoot the damn hero,
blasting his or her brains
into smithereens.
But I guess that would be
a very short movie.
mom
She was lean and ferocious
that day on the beach
hand on hip, posing
in her new 38C
purchased breasts,
newly recovered from a
bilateral mastectomy.
She smiled for the camera,
loving her new shape
and the weight lost to
cancer hell,
and I was proud.
She showed me
who to be:
I need not fear life.
She was mean and ferocious
that day she packed the boxes
to be sent from her lawyer
after her death,
making sure that I
received the full
tsunami
of a life disappointed,
my fault
his fault
their fault
never hers.
notes littered the
keepsakes
with spite,
and I was shattered.
She showed me
who not to be:
living in the key of bitter.
So much trouble
making sense
of her life
in contradiction,
my hero,
my villain,
both.
Love this prompt!!
For the record…..my kids made me do it.
The Love You Know
Once there was two orphan boys,
who grew up quite alone;
without sibling, nor friend
nor home to call their own
till they came to a magical school
that would be their first real home.
(despite an imperfect pedigree)
And by the words of a hat who sorts
discovered they had a destiny
beyond the potions, spells and sports.
So they learned some dark arts
and conversed with snakes….(also, Snape)
found respect for a great wizard
while a Prophecy sealed their fate,
In a Chamber of Secrets, a riddle’s revealed -
but both have deep wounds to tend,
and neither one will yet yield.
Just one lonely boy against another —
but there: the similarities end.
One gathers dark powers, followers and souls
and brags of the deeds his foulness extols
he speaks not of love, and kills with a curse
summons his minions, and sacrifices them first
though his magic is dark, and his power strong
he cannot defeat, what he’s lacked for so long
too late he discovers, as twin cores clash
and last sins appear before him in a flash
to hold him at bay and assist his foe
while flying curses set a graveyard aglow
He Who Must Not Be Named, stands alone by the grave
While the Boy Who Lived, escapes with the boy he couldn’t save.
The hero has something: so much more than a scar
though it doesn’t burn, it’s power too leaves a mark
too have been loved so deeply, though the person is gone;
with Love’s last sacrifice, the protection lives on.
And on that example, our hero chooses his tract
while the Dark Lord only uses, by faking the act
The Power of Love, The Absence of The Same
can make all the difference – no matter the name.
So, neither can live, while the other survives:
one cheats Death – to what will the other one strive?
He too will beat Death, with a gifting of three;
and sacrifice himself, so his friends can live free.
Now the battles’ begun, and blood will be shed
though the Dark Lord is weak, the snake isn’t dead
but his minions are fleeing – while our heroes defy
and the Boy faces Death, with his head held high
A Dark Lord is vanquished, by the thing he knows not
A soul divided cannot rise again; it can only rot.
And our hero is saved by the knowledge he gains:
That real love never leaves us; to the end it remains.
Always.
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/27/worship/
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/27/when-this-is-all-said-and-done/
I was aggravated to have to bunt on this one—went for cheeky irony when I wanted to go deep and couldn’t find the words… So here’s a second attempt… still not satisfied as there is so much hidden depth in the subjective nature of heroes and villains… ah well.
Big Stones and Very Small Rocks
Our ancestors moved a big stone. Our forefathers broke large rocks,
Today we shovel a thousand one pieces of gravel and punch a clock.
My father’s a modern day hero, a pot-bellied champion of service,
He tries for first place in every race so that even the cheaters get nervous.
Dr. Jones was a great work of fiction, but for all of his fortune and glory,
He understood service was life’s greatest joy and that makes a great hero story.
While it’s true that some Action News heroes, were just at the right place in time,
They are nothing if not plain responsible folks getting by on a hard earned dime.
I pity the whistle blowers, privy to cost cutting crooks,
Cause nothing makes shoveling gravel worse than a bad boss with two sets of books.
But more so, I pity the villains, who live off of other folks’ spines.
What a rotten state! What a heart full of hate! To live so far outside the lines.
Real heroes aren’t quite as chiseled, but that isn’t to say that they’re lazy,
‘Cause heroes do what they know they must, where a villain’s agenda is hazy.
###
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 27
Write a hero poem.
Write a villain poem.
Two Clerihews
MIghty Mouse
Had no spouse
Clad in a cape
He fought villain’s escape.
————————————
Boris Badonov
Was never goodenov
To catch squirrel and moose,
No matter the ruse.
Nov 27: : write a hero or a vilain poem
Hero Sandwich
A gyro is made from meat on a stick
that has been roasted and toasted and brown.
It’s a sandwich you make double-quick.
You make it with pita bread, soft and so thick
with tomatoes and lettuce and onion all around,
a gyro is made from meat on a stick
You whip up a sauce of yogurt. A flick
of the wrist and it’s done. Pour it like a crown
on a sandwich you make double-quick.
To season the sauce, use just a lick
of mint and cilantro. Try not to drown
the gyro that’s made from meat on a stick
To keep it from leaking, her is a trick:
wrap it in foil, tightly bound,
round the sandwich you make double-quick.
You can add peppers to give it a kick,
take a big bite. The flavor will astound.
A gyro is made from meat on a stick
for a sandwich you make double-quick.
Margaret Fieland
Heroes and Villains
My father told me
there are no white
hats and black hats
just tons of gray
riding into the horizon
The “man”
There he is
the “man”
no boy he
pays his own
bills with money
he makes after school
Swooning
she flutters eyelashes
without will
just a girl dressed
in a woman’s body
Proudly permitting
his heroic hands
to roam stirring
her blood
Until it pounds
in her ears
and blocks
the sense and
sound of that
first slap
that splits her lip
powerful. just.wow.
My villain…
Writer’s Block
A starving artist
dancing for poetic rain
in all this drought
“Heroes”
To take a year-long assignment in Antarctica, you’d have to be predisposed
to a limited community and comfortable in relative loneliness.
That was the guy who picked me up in a floor-to-ceiling stuffed and partly rusted
Subaru hatchback bound for Burning Man. We came to each other via Craigslist,
hooked up by another group. (We were their overflow.) At three, we got on the road,
and by four, we were done talking. I found the man to be brusque, peevish and tactless:
“Going to chase a wee skirt,” he barked in a fleeting Scottish brogue, re: his Burning Plans.
Then, though he was the one who had to stop for groceries, he groused at me for “wasting
time” in the store. When I talked about my dog, he said, “the one that barfed in the plants?”
“Oh, right” I sighed. “You met her,” and thought, “A.S.A.P, I’ll get away from you, pard.”
Twenty miles north of Sacramento, the car sounded like a stack of falling pans.
It wasn’t going anywhere. Waiting for the tow truck, we went to see Jet Li
as “Hero.” In the movie, he plays an assassin who takes incredible pains
to kill the first emperor of China, but chooses, at the last minute, mercy.
After the movie, the tow truck arrived and the driver carried the car and us
back home. At midnight, I said goodbye to our savior and to the guy I would see
never again. Nor would I return to Burning Man. That was in 2003.
Wow. You should go back someday, but without that guy…
Really like “re: his Burning Plans”
Robin Hood
he is a hero to the poor
giving with such generosity
treasures to meet desires and needs
of poor people down the street.
They call his act
to risk his life,
gallantry
perceived
he is a robber
taking with such gall
treasures and comforts
of rich people isolated in their homes.
they call his act
to risk his life
thievery.
Oh yes! excellent subject choice for the prompt.
Robin Hood
he is a hero to the poor
giving with such generosity
treasures to meet desires and needs
of poor people down the street.
they call his act
to risk his life,
gallantry
perceived
he is a robber to the rich
taking with such gall
treasures and comforts
of barons traveling the road.
They call his act
to risk his life
thievery.
As soon as I posted earlier, I was sorry. I couldn’t let that stand as my attempt for the day.This I am happy with.
The Mask of Zorro
The heroes are ready a bomb to disarm
without any thought to personal harm.
The villains are always ready to swear,
but the heroes come riding in ready to wear
the white hats.
And the valiant ones in the comics books, please.
They’ve got tricks up both of their sleeves.
They can fly and bend steel, even swallow a flame
But there is only one thing they all have the same
—a mask.
Is it easy to be a chump with no pride
to disguise a super persona inside?
The one seen to flee at the first sign of danger,
so the hero arrives at the side of a stranger
for the rescue.
We expect our heroes to be more than human.
But now when they fail us, we’re so quick to sue them.
Politicians’ sex scandals, and athletes doping—
paparazzi’s new headlines keep everyone hoping
for more.
So where do we place our trust?
Even Superman turns to dust,
as Ironman does to rust.
Back to heroes in white hats, but that isn’t proof.
When “Z” marked the spot, it was never a spoof.
A white hat for Zorro would be too great a cost.
He might have changed hats, but he would surely have lost
his mojo. Ellen Knight 11.27.12
The Villain
It doesn’t wear black
or lurk in alleys.
It doesn’t dwell
in putrid swamps
or waylay travelers.
It doesn’t creep
around in the dark
or carry knives.
It loathes all
drama.
It resists all
change.
It has no conception
of better.
It wants everything
to stay
the same.
Child of long
evolution,
Advocate of
unconditional survival,
it does not
trust aspiration.
It does not suffer
dreams. It keeps
me heavy and silent.
It cautions me
to remain safe
inside.
IT’S BECAUSE OF ME, DR. FLEMING
after the discovery of penicillin by Dr. Alexander Fleming
I am not a pest. I didn’t know
whose window it was I traversed when I flew in
or what piece of bread that I did spin
upon. I left a memory of where I had been, so
what else did you expect from someone of my kind
that travels about such places. We collect
the refuse of civilization. We respect
what others throw away and we remind
them what they consume. Ah, oh my, did I forget
the remains of their canine companions when they fall
upon the sidewalk, droppings appearing when nature makes a call
we come to pick up the bacteria—what’s wrong with that!
The window was open, what difference did it make to me
if this was a pub, or if this was a hospital,
or these little dishes were samples, all
to discover cures for diseases, here sterility
was the rule of thumb. Then me, a fly,
I landed on dish with a piece of bread
in a medium, something that was supposed to have said
how it attacked the bacteria inside it, why
it happened, how it might work in some other place.
You hear these things in the air, that’s where I be
most of the time . . . maybe I’m dumb, but I don’t see
Dr. Fleming had to wait so long to close the case
of the petri dish from which he shooed me away.
Dr. Alexander flicked his hand, I was out of there,
almost as soon the bacteria in the dish did disappear.
Will miracles never cease! Up to that day
the critter in the medium took two weeks to leave
some poor waif sweating alone in their bed
I offered my lousy stuff and then I sped
out of the window into the air to weave
return to some abundant garbage pail.
I still don’t understand you, learned Doc
that was in twenty-nine, right on the clock.
the contents always working without fail
year in year out, it’s nineteen thirty-nine,
you still refused to believe, because I buzzed
into your laboratory, you were lost.
Then came the war, it sure worked mighty fine.
Zev Davis
HEROES AND VILLAINS
The old dog’s reached his golden hours.
He’s a lion on the couch.
He could find a lost child in a snowstorm.
He’s found every tennis ball outside the court.
He makes peace between warring cats.
He only chases the cat when his work is done.
He barks at the door to greet the morning.
The other dogs rush out, he cleans their bowls.
He gathers his possessions like a king.
He takes from the bad and saves the good.
Just try to take a stick from his treasure-heap.
A hero puts the world in order.
The new pup rags the old dogs to a rage.
Everything is her fault.
She hides her bones under my pillow.
She raises dust-devils on the fenceline.
Wherever you go, she’s there to trip you.
She’s the sweet-talk villain in a sable coat.
Her eyes are honey when she begs a treat.
She sleeps like an angel with gremlins inside.
She defeats every training method known to man.
She finds the key you lost.
Nothing escapes her.
She keeps the old dogs dancing.
Zorro of the Black Hat
Ask anyone from four to
ninety-four how to tell the
heroes from the villains.
Right away, they’ll always
answer, “The good guys wear
the white hats.”
And as for the valiant ones
in the comics, well
on top of everything else,
they can fly.
But the one thing they all have
in common—a mask.
Are they just being modest?
Is it easier to hide their super persona
inside a chump with no pride
to take evil to task by
donning the mask?
Or is it perhaps, that
revealing their own humanity
would reduce their powers
in our adoring eyes?
We expect our heroes
to be more than human.
But now they are unraveling
as we watch.
Athletes doping,
politicians ousted by sex scandals,
movie and rock stars exposed
over drugs and domestic violence.
Turn on the nightly news
and choose a mix and match
smorgasbord.
So where do we place our trust?
Even Superman turns to dust,
as Ironman does to rust.
Our heroes are flawed,
because they are
human. As are we all.
It would be nice to go
back to a life where our
heroes wore the
white hats.
And even that wasn’t foolproof.
After all, Zorro was
definitely a good guy,
but he would have lost his
mojo if he showed up in one.
Ellen Knight
My Boy
When I was tall
to you, I would fetch
things that were out
of reach. My fingers
walked up your spine:
your gurgle encoded
our burgeoning language.
I was your magician,
vanishing and reappearing
when the sun rolled out its
bright slide on the nursery’s
hardwood floor, when late
afternoons hunkered behind
crops of the city, the horizon’s
closed eye rested upon the sea’s
face, and silence sat on my lap
or scurried away like a blind
mouse, my arms and chest
were your skirt wrapped
around the transparencies
of both our needs.
The teen years vilified
our rapport. I was no longer
the heroine in your world.
Time had its agenda. And since
I had already drawn two other
berries from the motherhood tree,
I waited on the slow churning miracle
that would present you with new heights.
Now you’re able to reach serving
platters. Questions and answers
meet like old colleagues; you
reemerge just as I think some
unruly friend or fancy girl stole
your identity. I get to lean on
the shoulders of my super-hero.
“In Light of Shadows”
Heroes and villains:
known arch enemies,
undeniable
foes and nemeses.
While one is noble,
other: sinister.
A writer’s balance
to administer.
Woven together,
strength and weakness loop.
They thicken plot like
flour in thin soup.
Truth be told, heroes
are made heroic
in light of shadows
of villains: stoic!
FALLING OFF OF PEDESTALS
Heroes can be defeated.
Villainous agents can ravage
the strong and brave, who can save
the world but have no effect on their own lives.
Looked upon as virtuous and miraculous, the
meticulous scrutiny slips past the eyes so awed
seeing the flawed as more than mere mortal.
At the portal of despair, it is there that the hero
serves his best function – to open the eyes of the weak
and meek to the power they possess; it flows throughout.
Without a doubt, the heroic are stoic in appearance
but the strict adherence to hero law is muddled,
for he stands in a puddle of his own making, shaking
in his red patent leather boots. The only difference between
a hero and a victim is that the “hero” is too stupid
to realize he is afraid. But his decision is made.
Save the world and glue it together, piece by peace.
Janus
“Show me a hero and I’ll write you a tragedy.” ~F. Scott Fitzgerald
“O villain, villain, smiling damned villain.” ~William Shakespeare
Pen in hand, he then created
characters, and one was fated
to be tragic, since tragedy
is that which holds the story’s key.
It didn’t matter. Something would
compel this hero to do good.
But in the end, catastrophe
is that which holds the story’s key.
And as you know, no hero can
exist without his ‘polar’ man,
a villain who’s just bad, since he
is that which holds the story’s key.
The characters are quite complex
because a bit of each reflects
within. Familiarity
is that which holds the story’s key.
###
Each just a breath-a choice away from either reality…imho.
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/27/day-twenty-seven-two-fer-tuesday-haiku-style/
This Stuff Writes Itself
She gets kidnapped!
The most visceral of plot devices,
Nothing wrong with a jewel heist,
But go after the woman he loves,
And that’s real drama!
The Director strokes his chin,
But has questions, like why?
Is our hero loaded with cash?
Carrying microfiche?
Our Writer opts to sleep on it,
But the Producer insists the girl,
Be air-headed and full-bodied like a great beer,
So we know our hero prizes her.
That’s the important part, right?
She is precious and oh, so scared,
As the Villain clutches her arm,
And yanks her from the sedan,
With such force her gossamer dress,
Like our Hero, strains to preserve her honor,
Guns blaze and maybe he takes
A bullet in the arm for her,
But keeps going…
Maddened as he sees her gagged and bound,
To a cold steam pipe at the… chop shop?
We’ll have to ask the Writer, but…
She is freed and the lens softens as they kiss.
Long and hard as he pins her,
Again, against the steam pipe.
TRIBUTE TO VACLAV HAVEL
Russian tanks all over Prague
entire European nations shocked
all around Czechoslovakia
looking for America
and yet this voice of a
poet
from somewhere inside there
constantly
on hope in words
we did not understand
but learned to love for the mere
sound of freedom.
Villain
In line at the Bon Marché in Seattle with my mother,
I heard a high-pitched scream. A woman ahead of us
laughed and said it was probably her husband, who
was afraid of escalators. Life moved on, but my mind
stayed in that groove for a long time—maybe a couple
of years. Somehow, that screaming man became a
villain, Snidely Whiplash-style, with mustache,
top hat, and cape. We moved from Seattle to
Thief River Falls, Minnesota, but the memory
moved with me, packed away someplace
secret, so I could play it like a Disney 45
in my playroom in the basement, any time
I needed to scare myself, any time I needed
to make my formless, nameless fear into
something I could turn on and off, or just
let play, over and over, until it was done.
Great prompt, Paula. I grew up with Dudley Doright and Little Nell always refusing the advances of her villain. I loved the simplicity of melodrama and the hope of deus ex machina. Thus the haiku and tanka dilemmas below.
Dilemma 1
The bastard that bound
me to his will rescued me.
I am so confused.
Dilemma 2
My hero lifted
me gently, swept me away,
tied me to his tracks.
Dilemma 3
Pomaded hair and
waxed mustache betray his heart;
his eyes smile at me.
Dilemma 4 Tanka
Fed melodrama,
no wonder women wait for
heroes on white steeds,
and boys with raging sex drives
do right—curse and learn to ride.
Dilemma 5 Advice to Little Nell
So he has money
and loves you–oily perhaps,
talks gangster, tangos
through life, lusts, intense. Women
love projects, nurse lost causes.
Love this, Jane!
How you enter into the familiar trope and go many unexpected places.
I love it. Nell has a brain. What if you flip 1 and 2?
My Villain -
Two Timing Dude
See that Jane by the door
all dressed up
d’you know what for?
In satin dress and three-inch heels
ruby lips, and cheeks that glow,
looking for who, perhaps you know?
Maybe that Dandy, what’s his name?
Such a shame, but please don’t tell
he’s out with that other girl.
My Hero -
My Man …
of many hues
that’s you,
one I cannot fathom
that’s true,
but when I look
into your eyes
all I see is blue,
so maybe that
is how I think of you,
dazzling blue,
always true,
my man blue….
Melodrama
Enter Heroine.
She is dressed in a fluffy manner,
and her behavior is likewise,
fluffy.
She moons after her boyfriend
(Hero)
and fondly remembers him.
She then wishes he weren’t so far away.
Enter Villain,
twirling wicked moustaches,
grinning like the rogue he is,
and steals the Heroine away.
Heroine kicks and flails ineffectually.
Villain recites his plan of vengeance
against Hero, gloating as he
anticipates his ultimate
victory.
Heroine faints in a fluffy manner
as she learns her incipient demise
is part of Villain’s plan of vengeance.
Hero returns early to Heroine’s home,
only to discover
(with remarkably few clues)
what has befallen his lady-love.
Hero leaps astride horse and
rushes to rescue Heroine,
foil Villain’s wicked plan,
and restore his family honor.
Heroine awakes from fluffy faint
tied to railroad tracks.
She shrieks and flails and
calls for help, also noting that
Villain will surely regret this.
Villain answers with an evil laugh,
twirling wicked moustaches,
and grinning like the rogue he is.
Hero dashes in at last moment,
bashes Villain, rescues Heroine,
and calls in authorities to
arrest Villain.
All ends well,
Heroine gives Hero fluffy kiss.
Villain files suit for damages.
Fin.
Real men
When Stan Bowles was
bathing in champagne
a topless bird on each arm,
and Don Revie’s boys
were kicking all comers
to kingdom come,
when Bremner,
Giles and Hunter
were having a oily rag
between passing drills,
when Socrates drank
like the proverbial
and Ardilles smoked
forty-two a day
FORTY-TWO!
when Georgie Best,
well, what didn’t he do?
It was so clear in my mind
there was nothing I wanted
more than to be just like them.
Hero of the Neighborhood
When I was a child of four who spent
Her days imaging games with the
Neighborhood kids and a special friend
Anna Marie, the girl next door
Our yards separated by a prickly hedge
You had to walk around to the side-
Walk out in front. An old neighborhood
Even then, in the days of the great
Depression when every one was poor.
The morning I remember, Anna Marie and
I were playing in our yard. My mother was
On the porch washing clothes – she used the
Old community washing machine that had
A tub and wringer and not much else…Suddenly
We heard the screams, perhaps we screamed
Ourselves, running to the porch where my
Mother’s arm had been seized by the wringer
And would not let go
All the neighbors ran outside
Including Officer Feeney who had stopped
To have a cup of tea with his sister, the
Mother of Anna Marie. When he heard the
Commotion outside he didn’t take the time
To run around the side walk – no, what he
Did was leap the hedge – sailed over in a
Single bound, unplugged the machine and
Set my mother free! What a hero! I
Remember how the neighbors cheered
While I clung to my mother, crying,
Later, I stood next to the hedge. It was
As tall as me. I don’t remember the
Cameras, the newspaper interview.
But when I read of Superman who
Could leap
Tall buildings in a single bound I
Remember Officer Feeney
who did it first.
A robe, not a cape
Fed, taught, healed, was crucified
Arose from the dead
Father Figure
In his arms
she felt safe
her hand in his
She refused
to be a victim
like her mother
Blinded by pride
ignored the warning signs
sleeps with the light on
Locking the door
just makes him angrier
so she takes it
One day she awakes
and makes a decision
to kill her father
A MESS FROM A BOTTLE
(a shadorma)
She watched her
hero disappear.
It wasn’t
overnight;
the villain emerged slowly…
one shot at a time.
pmwanken, I like this one. I like its brevity and impact.
Vexing Villain
Some poems need no syllables
To distract or beguile
Darling, I shape you against me
In a faint, tender half-smile…
The poet dreams in perfect want
For that elusive word
Darling, I’ve borne the perfect taunt
In sudden passion stirred
As the air, obscure around us
Seethes with possibility
Darling, is it not ironic
That love’s perfect poetry…
…is not mouthed in verbal creations
Of bland inequity?
For Muse is a vexing villain
Of hope and insanity
But now we have trumped her ineptness
Though the silence may drive us wild
Love’s perfect poem, oh darling
Exists in a faint, half-smile
The Hero…
You do not come crashing in
on a black stead or verbose and vile
But darling, you persuade me
with nothing, but a faint half-smile
…across the room I see you
My hero; come, let’s go home
Our eyes meet; the air is full
Of love’s most perfect poem
Dang formatting. In Heroic Couplet, the “…himself.” was supposed to appear as an addendum – to the right of the poem. Oh well…you get the idea.
Heroic Couplet
With a totally selfless act, he kept
his entire village safe…that is, except…
…himself.
###
_______________________________________________
Villanelle for a Villain
Evil is as evil does, but he aimed
to be a cut above, this ‘knife’ called Jack…
His crimes kept the press of the day inflamed.
And yet, strangely enough, not one soul claimed
credit, except in hints. He had a knack:
Evil is as evil does, but he aimed
for effect. Victims were stabbed, sliced and maimed
before they bled out. He’d cut them no slack…
His crimes kept the press of the day inflamed.
How could this be? ‘Though several were blamed
throughout this Whitechapel panic attack,
evil is as evil does, but he aimed
to remain anonymous, unashamed,
and it seemed as if there was no come back.
His crimes kept the press of the day inflamed.
Then the reign of terror ended, proclaimed
the papers. An unsolved case, this ripper, Jack.
Evil is as evil does, but he aimed
crimes to keep the press of the day inflamed.
###
we were cousins
in our under-roos
emblazoned cotton courage
superman, aqua-man
I changed
in the bathroom
while they marveled
became a wonder of a woman
in my 6 year old
heroine under-things
justly united
we saved them all
invincible 1970′s children
we saved ourselves
while truth ensnarled bad guys
within the looping of my golden lasso
those fascists
those corrupt & power hungry
those villains who foolishly grew up
and abandoned childish dreaming
Saving Time
Where is the one
who longs to make me belong
where is the one
who wants to play me his song
where is the interest of my being
where is the eyes that keep on seen
Lingering smiles
smoldering longing
shoulders apart
some where else
where to start
Fly down
set me free
take hold of my
very soul
take hold of my hand
take hold and control
Whispering winds
passing by
words fly through the air
in disquise
giving something to rise
Saving time
where have you been
take me off my feet
do not hesitate
or over compensate
With sparkle smiles
leading the way
making something better
than yesterday
something to crave
Telling heroes from villains
is a moral dilemma
depending upon
which of the
bull’s horns
you find yourself
pinned on,
for it pays to be on the side
of history and her cadre
of writers,
a painful reality
seemingly
only obvious
if you’re on the losing side.
It’s quite profound,
all these heroes and villains
going together like
one big
oreo
cookie,
black and white, for sure,
and yet
without one
there can’t be
the other
and still call it what it is –
hard unyielding strength
sharply breaking
with a satisfying
crunch
versus
soft vulnerable giving
quite unbreakable
but easily licked,
all depends on
your taste,
I guess,
and whether or not
you first dip
the whole bull
in a giant cup of
myth milk –
ever notice when you do that
it all just seems
to melt
in your mouth?
The Looking Glass
I look in the mirror and there she is
My own worst enemy staring back at me
She knows my every weakness, my every flaw
I am an open book to her, even what I hide
She leads me astray, exploits her knowledge of me
Intent on getting her own way
But I am all there is
No one else can fight her
I alone can conquer
To run the race before me
Though my path is not smooth
And the way ridden with obstacles
I need no one to swoop in and save me
For as I am my own villain
I am my own hero
Shouldering the burdens of reality
I press ever onward
Refusing to be defeated
Oh my this has hit my heart you are your own villain we all are in a sense. Really well put x
1. What Will We Tell the Children
as the doors close on yet another opportunity?
How do we explain to them
as they sit waiting for us to lead
that they are not worth our time and money
simply because they did not
have the privilege of being born among us?
How do we sleep at night and
what will we tell the children?
2. What Will We Tell the Children
as the pendulum swings back to reason?
How do we share the exhilaration
of finally having that which will bring
wonder, discover and wildest dreams
into their small worlds?
How do we keep from jumping for joy and
what do we tell the children?
UNCLE BILL
Uncle Bill was a bad man. Mother always
said as much each time the departing AJS
got curtains twitching down the avenue.
She’d sniff the blue smoke, fold her arms
and step indoors. He’d walked out on
two wives and dumped a mistress (off
the back of his motorbike – quite literally –
in the middle of Carshalton Park).
That moustache – Clark Gable style – above
a row of gleaming teeth; the sideways glance,
the shift of eyes away, the quick, one-sided grin
that passed for interaction; the gargled laugh
like clockwork in reverse, at the end
of every gag and anecdote – evidence all
to Mum of a long steep fall from grace away
from magnolia walls and the well-cut lawn.
Her censure passed me by. Any man who could
spit pips into an empty glass; stump upstairs
like Grendel coming home, farting loud on every riser;
change a spark plug in a storm on Kingston Hill;
switch the pipe to the side of his mouth and float
smoke rings like naughty haloes ceiling high, was
a buccaneer in tweeds and leathers, unsafe, risky,
blowing in from a world beyond the garden gate.
Beautifully done.
A LITTLE BIT HERO, A LITTLE BIT VILLAIN
He stands aloft and aloof,
the one who makes her heart whole
the one who breaks her heart too.
Not the man she thought,
not the man he wanted to be.
His cape is smudged and torn;
over used and tattered worn
and still, she sees no flaw.
Tall buildings will defeat him,
steaming locomotives will out run him.
Speeding bullets will surely kill him.
Just a man in the American Way,
hoping she finds the hero she needs.
Wow, Walt…you just give me chill bumps with your poems sometimes! Wicked good, as they say here in Massachusetts!
Wow. This is an awesome poem! Love it!!
kudos, very nice a heroic effort….
Walt, I really like this. Even with his flaws, he is her hero; only, he can’t see it. It makes me sad for them both. Nicely done!