The pawnbroker's reward
She traced the salty track across her cheek
in search of any source that she may stem.
Her quest revealing nothing so unique
as did the secret hidden in that gem.
To laymen this may be an amethyst,
of no great value in the broadest sense.
A trifling trinket tied around her wrist
Reminder of a secret so immense.
A secret sworn between two sisters who
had shared the same placenta in the womb.
Who on that horrid night, were forced into
decide which ones were destined for their tomb.
This bracelet from their kidnappers who fled,
but left their parents and their brother, dead.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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What kind of things could make a grown man cry?
What kind of things could make a grown man cry?
To cry in public, not just to himself.
What lacrimatic views must pierce his eye,
unleashed by secrets hidden on that shelf?
For men have places, locked away from all
who try to find the weaknesses within.
A sanctuary, with the wherewithall
to glorify what others see as sin.
The rawest of emotions find their place.
The bullies and the bullied ones combine,
forgotten friends and loved ones with no face
may not cross this imaginary line.
What kind of things could make a grown man cry?
The losses, love is doomed to magnify.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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A Posthumous Pondering
Tell me no tales of life beyond the grave.
Nor yet of faith for faith's own precious sake.
But find me the temerity to save
the lessons learned from each mistake I make.
I ask this, not of God, but of myself.
Unless perhaps, this 'God' resides inside,
my own persona, with my inner elf
with whom, in conflict, all must be denied.
The struggles of the conscience never end
regardless of the deity's demise.
The sacrifices we make for a friend?
The source of where our inner goodness lies.
The earth lays cold around me where I lay.
I see no dark, I see no light. I merely fade away.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Ode To The Modern Web-Poets
Considering how poetry is seen
by those who read or write within its laws,
I see now that the average is mean,
and hear the constant sharpening of claws.
No noble world of wishes made from love,
can dominate the noodlings on the Net,
while ne'erdowells negate them from above,
thus branding every word they say as, 'wet'.
I've seen the pretty poets fall to tears
in wake of criticism from the crude.
I've watched the old romantics through the years,
reduced to near redundant, by the rude.
And yet for all their vile attempts to stop...
the cream, cannot help rising, to the top.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Styx And The Stones May Break
The Day of Days approaches soon,
the advent of the Blackened moon,
accompanied by maudlin tune.
We wait for the result.
The Demon shedding his cocoon
is welcomed by his cult.
They who have hoped, two thousand years
in frenzied feasts, allay their fears.
They drink and bathe in angels' tears
as man stands by in awe.
Their souls he takes as souvenirs
and smiles from Jackal's Jaw.
His name is that which can't be said,
beside the dried up river bed
which once took Charon to the dead,
those who can now return.
The rest of us will find instead
it's Earth, not Hell where we will burn...
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Are you familiar with the 'Nana Nap'?
Are you familiar with, the Nana Nap?
Have you yourself fell victim to its pull?
The head bobs down, tho' not quite to your lap
as conversation changes to your drool.
These senior moments when the lights go out
and dentures dangle from the pink abyss.
The REMs confirm, there is no doubt
and from the nether regions, there's a hiss.
And all this happens unexpectedly
when you pretend to listen with intent.
As consciousness returns, it's plain to see
you're thinking 'Shit! I wonder what they meant! ! '
With confidence you combat the surprise...
'Och no dear, I was just resting my eyes'.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Picture this (Partial Sonnet)
They say, 'a picture's worth a thousand words'.
A slight exageration, you might think?
This notion needs dispatching for the birds,
as scrutiny reveals the dubious link.
A saying that has entered modern myth,
attributed to sages of all kinds
to conjure up this mental monolyth
and plant a seeded image in our minds.
Confucius would confuse us for a while
when offered as the thought's potential source.
Until at last we recognise the style
allied with advertising needs, of course.
A picture's worth a thousand words? I guess.
But sometimes we see so much more,
when we say so much less.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Where were you on Guy Fawkes Day/Night?
I normally reside beside the fire.
(The one which we've been building for the cause)
But this year our ambitions were raised higher
and so we saught a sight to make us pause....
and think of how the great designs have dealt
the hands of chance upon this Earth today.
And how across the ages Man Has felt.
a myriad emotions, have their say.
We cannot put in words what Nature deals
across the tables far beyond control.
Las Vegas has good Fortune in her wheels
which roll so close to every landscape's goals.
A Canyon can be chasmed through each Land
but this above all others must be 'Grand'
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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A Dragonfly Dilemma.
The dragonfly decided not to land,
nor decorate his ornate garden pond.
It sought some other gardener's hallowed hand
across the lawn, the beck wall and beyond.
This offspring of the year before's event,
held no known knowledge of his love affair.
It saw no sadness in his missed intent,
to frame its micro-second in the air
His quick exposure through a macro lens
had hoped to freeze the wings while in mid-flight.
To paint the perfect picture for his friends
and share with his software, this magic light.
The blurred and fuzzy images foretold
his once, rock-steady hand was getting old.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Well, would you Adam and Eve it?
The day that sin was born has been betold
in tales which each religion claims its own.
The disobedience of the cuckold,
his mate's suggestion, by a serpent sown?
But was the sin the action or the thought?
And who allowed 'Temptation' to exist?
Unacted on, these evils come to nought.
The virtual razor cannot cut the wrist.
What if the thoughts had never, ever been
unleashed upon these creatures, ill prepared?
Could all man's history have been so serene
had God looked at his angels and compared
the number who with Lucifer had sided?
To trust mere mortals seems a tad misguided? ; ¬)
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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