Proposal of Peter the Poetic Predator

Permit me a rant?
Seeing as I’ve pretty much outed myself and there are several here who know the score… Some witless fool, who should be shown what he thinks of her via his emails to me, is promoting the piece of excrement who ruined my life, on her public forum. Short of slapping her silly (which is frowned upon) I can only say this:

Who in their right mind insists on portraying a liar, a thief and a fraud;
As something wonderful, talented and deserving of laud?

Even with the truth right in front of their eyes
They insist on perpetuating more and more lies

How can you sleep at night, knowing you promote a liar
The evidence is everywhere, found by Professionals for hire

Who would be so callous, cruel and low to flaunt this monster?
Are you clueless or heartless, I really do wonder

~ kei
30 September 2014

Poetic Proposal 1

Poetic Proposal 2

Poetic Proposal 3

How It Came To Be ~ Sestina I

Write a Sestina they said. It’ll be fun they said. I think they were all drunk!

~~~~~

When all the wine had at last been drunk
The last man standing (as it were) was a poet
Thus came to be the alluring and intricate sextain
Speaking words of love as the sky turned purple
And the revellers slept oblivious, replete and wine warm
Among the summer’s best flowers and ferns

And in the lacy green of the tiny ferns
Where along with wine, much mead had been drunk
A fair lass loosened her stays in the warm
As she listened to the words of the poet
Whist fastening her raven hair with heather purple
A blush on her cheeks at the words of the sextain

And the music in the words of the sextain
Had the maiden dancing among the ferns
Her twirling skirts were a ripple of purple
Reminiscent of the shade of much wine drunk
By contented May Day celebrants and a wandering poet
On such a blissful day so green and so warm

Dancing languidly as her skin and heart grew warm
Letting the troubadour’s skill with a lute and sextain
Turn her head and eyes to the lonely poet
Who’s eyes, she observed were a rival green to the ferns
She giggled at the thought, that what spoke was the wine she’d drunk
And the afternoon waxed further into the sunset’s purple

Clouds like sheep were traversing the sky’s blue and purple
The day was deepening to dusk and losing the day’s warm
The kegs and flasks attested to much wine and mead drunk
Who in this state could appreciate a poor poet’s sextain
Yet, he persevered with his deep tenor and lute among the ferns
The fair-haired, green-eyed troubadour and poet

There was a secret unknown to the revellers about this certain poet
And the reason why he chose to perform among heather purple
And how he scorned a feather bed for one among the green ferns
They barely noted how everything about him was so very warm
No one noted the six, six, six of his lilting sextain
Or that he’d been the only one among them not drunk

For only the devil himself or a most cunning drunk
Would attempt such a feat as a melodious sextain
Without becoming a dragon’s breath degree of warm

~ kei

29 September 2014

~~~~~

This is written in the Sestina (Sextain) form. There is a great description of this intricate form here.

Some times, some places

Have a scent, leave traces

Long sleeping thoughts awaken my brain

Thoughts from which I should refrain

Yet they hover round the perimeter

When I’m feeling at my most insecure

Finding their way to top of mind

Thoughts of you are what I find

I wish that wishes made them go

You’re from too far gone I know

I don’t want to remember can’t you see

And yet your image hijacks me

This mist of water in the air

Kisses my face, dampens my hair

I reach for your hand from memory

Though you’re nowhere near that I can see

Still you haunt the corners of my deepest dreams

I’ve never escaped your hold it seems

Unfinished business you taunt me so

If you’ll never come back please…

Let me go

~ kie

28 September 2014

Cináed I

(The King of the Picts, the King of the Celts and Me)

~ think of it as a rollicking tune to be accompanied by hard cider, clapping hands and the bodhrán ~

When I was young, wild and free
A beautiful man came to me…

Tall and dark, eyes like the sky
Ask me nary a question, I’ll tell nary a lie
He beckoned, I followed
Never thought to ask why

When I was young, wild and free
A beautiful man came to me…

He said, “Lovely One, please tell me your name”
I tried to discern, find the rules to his game
Then he stole a sweet kiss
And he touched off a flame

When I was young, wild and free
A beautiful man came to me…

We ran with the wind, the thunder, the night
With my wilde, black-haired lover, all was all right
Never minded the shackles
That bound my heart tight

When I was young, wild and free
A beautiful man came to me…

Didn’t care for his titles, his castles, or wealth
He won kingdoms by force, my heart with stealth
A touch of his hand,
And I found my true self

When I was young, wild and free
A beautiful man came to me…

As I tell you this now, I am old, Cináed too
But his eyes still reflect Gwendraeth blue
It’s been said Time’s not a friend
I tell you, that is untrue

When I was young, wild and free
A beautiful man came to me…

Friends of your youth, friends always be
One look in his eyes and still I see
Our wild, beautiful selves, together but free
The King of the Picts, the King of the Celts…
Cináed and Me!

(c) KeiB, 11 December 2010

Cináed I

~ English to Welsh translation ~

Cináed

(Y Brenin y Pictiaid, Brenin y Celtiaid a Fi)

Pan oeddwn yn ifanc, gwyllt ac am ddim
Mae dyn hyfryd ddaeth i fi…

Tal a thywyll, llygaid fel yr awyr
Gofyn i mi nary gwestiwn, Salwch dweud celwydd yn nary
beckoned ef, yr wyf yn dilyn
Peidiwch byth â meddwl i ofyn pam

Pan oeddwn yn ifanc, gwyllt ac am ddim
Mae dyn hyfryd ddaeth i fi…

Dywedodd, “Beautiful One, ddweud wrthyf eich enw”
Ceisiais i ddirnad, dod o hyd i’r rheolau i ei gêm
Yna efe a dwyn melys cusan
Ac efe a gyffyrddodd oddi ar fflam

Pan oeddwn yn ifanc, gwyllt ac am ddim
Mae dyn hyfryd ddaeth i fi…

Rydym yn rhedeg gyda’r gwynt, y taranau, y nos
Gyda fy, cariad Wilde-gwallt du, pob oedd popeth yn iawn
Peidiwch byth â meddwl y shackles
Dyna fy nghalon rhwymo dynn

Pan oeddwn yn ifanc, gwyllt ac am ddim
Mae dyn hyfryd ddaeth i fi…

Peidiwch byth â gofalu am ei teitlau, ei gestyll, neu gyfoeth
Enillodd teyrnasoedd drwy rym, fy nghalon gyda stealth
Mae cyffwrdd ei law,
Ac yr wyf yn gweld fy hun yn wir

Pan oeddwn yn ifanc, gwyllt ac am ddim
Mae dyn hyfryd ddaeth i fi…

Wrth i mi ddweud wrthych hyn yn awr, yr wyf yn hen, rhy Cínaed
Ond mae ei lygaid yn dal Gwendraeth glas
Mae wedi bod yn dweud nad Mae amser ffrind
Yr wyf yn dweud wrthych, fod yn anghywir

Pan oeddwn yn ifanc, gwyllt ac am ddim
Mae dyn hyfryd ddaeth i fi…

Cyfeillion eich ieuenctid, ffrindiau bob amser yn
Fi jyst yn edrych yn ei lygaid, ac yn dal yr wyf yn gweld
Mae ein gwyllt, hunain hardd, at ei gilydd ond rhad ac am ddim
Y Brenin y Pictiaid, Brenin y Celtiaid …Cínaed a Fi!

 

I Got Nuthin’

I got so much nuthin’ it’s overflowing

Enough blank to make a verse

Tired and uninspired

Wanting to hibernate

Wishing for luck

Wishing on stars

Fey thoughts of Sugar Daddies

In the wee sma’ hours

And I wish that I was smarter

I wish that I was pretty

I wish that I could travel

To a warmer city

My thoughts are on a hamster wheel

God bless this ADD

For even in this blasé state

I can still find poetry

~ kei

24 September 2014