Are EMOs monopolising the muse?
Why would there be one single, sacred source?
One muse with different guises to direct
each poor poetic soul upon their course
along the path to share their intellect?
Perhaps this creature really does exist
within the upper reaches we reserve?
Those words penned by a quick flick of the wrist
are guided by this strange unnatural nerve
attached to some remote part of the brain,
A seldom fired electron is the spark.
as automatic writing, shows again
which ones of us have true links with the Dark.
Is poetry the passions of the sick?
Well how do you explain the Limerick?
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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A Sonnet On The Passing Of A Friend's Cat
How can a cat connect, yet stay adrift?
How can it share a look that says so much?
The 'Cat''s acceptance of 'Us' is a gift
endorsed by letting carers dare to touch,
To pet, to preen, to scratch and perhaps(?) brush?
(Not knowing when a claw may come to view,
and interrupt our empathizing rush,
as not one other pet, could ever do.)
They show us only glimpses of respect
whenever they see fit, or they're just bored.
Their fixed visages brim with intellect
and smugly show they know, how they're adored.
So when they pass away. what fills the gap
of those who chose to laze upon our lap?
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Behind the Magic Cottage
Who was the inspiration for the story,
'The Magic Cottage' from James Herbert's pen?
An author known for tales so often gory
embossed, engrossed with evils dreamt by men.
While others told of madness, fogs and rats.
In this departure, characters arose.
The 'Moon' no longer bade us doff our hats
to nameless cold cadavers whom he chose
to titilate our teenage tedium.
and sate or satisfy bloodythirsty youths.
Although he introduced the 'Medium'
and risked the true confusions of the truths.
'The Magic Cottage' plays hell with my soul...
the early chapters say more than the whole.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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To Jump or not to Jump
Live not, within the margins of all scope,
but cast adrift the tethers of restraint.
Engage the charmer, raising high the rope
and follow paths from hearts who be not faint.
Adventure lies without the wombs of home,
beyond the cushioned comforts and the locks
which keep both out and in, we dare not roam.
In silence, Opportunity, she knocks.
The boldest have the ears to hear the call.
To see the possibilities in 'chance'.
Would that we all would have the wherewithal
to grasp the nettles of our hesitance.
The price of peril met, may not come cheap,
but faith is not the only driver, goading us to leap.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Waiting for the box.
Submerging her best China in the box,
she sensed she'd never see it, from that day.
Condemned to languish with her summer frocks
in dusty attic corners, left to fray.
She wondered who would find them when she'd gone,
who'd marvel at the history within?
Or would their interest lay more upon
the newspapers which they were wrapped up in?
These fragile treasures, swiftly stored away
lest children's fingers carelessly may roam.
The next time that they see the light of day,
she'd probably be living in a home.
She stopped, she smiled and giggled to herself...
then plopped that China back up on the shelf.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Why do poets argue on forums?
Have any of the so called poets here
considered TRUE-ly how they are perceived
convincing themselves that they are sincere,
regardless of what' others' have believed?
The 'others', meaning- all of us and more
who witness from the sides or choose to speak.
That conscious choice to nod or to ignore...
That conscientious choice twixt strong and weak.
The evidence increases and compounds
with every spiteful riposte and rebuff.
The ignorance of all my peers, astounds
and begs me ask myself, ' Is this..Enough? '
OK, let's say. I tire of these afronts....?
Why don't you just grow up, you childish.....(POETS?)
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Do You Know The Muffin Man?
Do You Know the Muffin Man
who visits every morn
who nothing does as nothing can
while ripening the corn?
wafting smells of syrup dreams
he teases on the breeze
but all is not just how it seems
beneath, we feel diss-ease.
The Muffin Man will steal the souls
of children by the score.
If they don't drain their cereal bowls,
he'll squeeze them to the core.
Don't let him fool you with his smile
his carefree happy dance,
if e'er you see him, run a mile
he only needs one chance
[...] Read more
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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My Old School.
He couldn't go back
to his old school,
the bastards had knocked it down
Tore away his memories
his triggers to his past
and as an afterthought
rebuilt, renamed, and
reneged on their promise.
No more broken stained glass mosaics
no more shiny loo roll
no more lighting bunsen burners
from statically charged fingertips
no more prickly bushes
no more beatings, heading home
no more spittle-flicking
on the blazer backs in front.
No more wistful gazing
to the girls' school o'er the road
[...] Read more
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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The Bell that Rings at Midnight
The bell that rings at midnight makes us weep
and taints the tears that fall upon the page.
It mocks the lost ideas we fail to keep,
and clouds our dreams with caustic camouflage.
Enveloping and shrowding every shred
of forced imagination's courted word.
The writers drag their sorry ar$e to bed,
the search is now abandoned as absurd.
The pillow waits and greets them with regret,
no solace there, no respite from the fight.
Impossibly we chase the Poet's Debt,
the muse has turned her back on us in spite.
They're turning to their meds to help them sleep
The bell that rings at midnight makes us weep
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Mulch ado about nothing?
She took a leaf from off her favourite tree
and held it to the light within her heart.
The pictures it portrayed of what may be
were sadly lacking that one vital part.
She'd hoped the leaf had held some of the two,
who'd sat beneath it's shade so many times.
She sought to see the things they'd yet to do
had they not been exposed to Kismet's crimes.
But, as the leaf was newly born this year
it held none of the essence which she sought.
It hadn't known the love, the hope, the fear.
It knew not of her calculated plot.
She watched it fall to ground, one passing thought.
She walked away, and left it, there to rot.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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