Do you know how Romero helped cure masculine ailments in the future?

Another Zombie movie fills the screen
and still I have no will to turn it off
Like every other version I have seen,
why don't they shoot the first suspicious cough

from one among them who has disappeared
and come back with a limp or suspect cut?
Am I the only one who thinks it weird?
'Let's wait until they die..'....'Don't be a nut! ! ! ! '

The first sign of a virus, scratch or bite
in any post-apocalyptic world
be sure I will, (don't dream that I just might)
despatch your brains, ensuring they're unfurled.

So if you want to live and be the last...?
May I suggest that man-flu should be condemned to the past?

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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The end of the world is snide?

They say this Saturday is 'Judgement Day'!
A mighty earthquake quivers in the wings.
The graves of the believers, so they say,
will open up to Heaven's hallowed rings.

But those who died without a faith in God
will walk again among those still alive.
This terrifying tale strikes me as odd,
like something written by someone who's five.

The world's moral decline is held to blame
and Israel's appearance on the fray
one other omen they've put in the frame..?
The movements showing Pride in being Gay!

It's at this juncture that the logic stutters...
when 'Zombie Day' has been foretold, by homophobic nutters..; ¬)

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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A sonnet on the wind's promises.

The wind brought me a present yesterday,
a scent it carried for three hundred miles.
It brought the ozone's hue from Sanna Bay
and stirred a pot of thought that so beguiles

and conjures up the past with abject ease,
as if time skipped upon the childhood rope.
Atlantic salt and sand so surely please
each blessed visitor they filled with hope.

The wind blew from the North in Summertime
and though it cooled the ardour on the ground,
It brought that thought that some would call sublime
a memory of love that few have found.

The wind brought me a present yesterday
a timeless beauty, trapped in its bouquet.

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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An Olympian Sonnet Of Sorts

Today, the torch has taken to the Thames
the eyes of all the world, wend this day.
So soon, we'll treasure such Olympic gems
as athletes in their prime will have their say.

For those whose lives have centered on this goal
begin to reap or weep as fate dictates.
Each fish will wish to stand out from the shoal,
(not like in Nature, gambling with their fates?)

The fastest, strongest, most possesed of skill
whose daily training tortures were endured
to sacrifice the years they never will
regain, but see the future they've secured.

The backers and the sponsors will ensure-
today, there's no such thing as...amateur..; ¬)

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Humble p 's are squared. (p R2) (p R2)

How big a bubble must we have to fit
the friends we've made and those we've yet to meet?
The ones who bring us laughter, love and wit.
The ones who keep the lid on our conceit.

Who ground us and astound us everyday
with ad lib quips that bring us to our knees.
Enlightening and frightening in a way,
which, on reflection, always seems to please.

The relatives and strangers by the shore
who share unspoken moments lost in thought.
When synchronicity says so much more
than reaching goals for which we've fiercely fought.

How big a bubble? What does it keep out?
Strategically placed pins, perhaps, may dissipate all doubt?

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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The Will in the Windows

Throughout the night we felt the turmoil build
as weather fronts combined to do their worst
The Gods held conference in their sacred Guild
as trees were tossed and riverbanks were burst.

The muffled movement, pulsing through the eaves
could raise the tiles aloft at any time.
The drainage dissapeared neath Autumn's leaves.
The river now runs straight, not serpentine.

When every tree's a willow in the wind
in some bizarre aerobic fitness class,
they touch their roots like toes till gales rescind
to bend or break until the terrors pass.

The storm breaks and the pessimist may see
his life consists of clearing the debris.

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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King Canute's Daughter

She tried to stop the tide again today
with hidden strengths which struggle to the fore.
Lythe legs wrapped as a lotus by the bay
sat lightly on the shells along the shore.

She breathed in with the ebb, out with the flo,
the dampness drained to dry before her eyes.
That saline breeze began to fall below
the expectations of her own demise.

To punctuate the blandness of the beach
a random passing ship would ring its bell
Enlisting Chi, she charmed the out-of-reach.
Drew down that vital breath, then gave a yell.

'You see! It stops! The Ocean heeds my yearning.'

'Don't be so bloody soft, ' I said, 'The tide's just effin' turning! '

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Did You Really Find GOD In A Fortune Cookie?

I cannot claim the cloak of innocence
for deeds I do no more, and yet... did once.
My catholic culture, quelled, still seems immense
contributing to this, , , deistic dunce.

Those years lost in the faiths which came before..
entrusting in the tales of those who care(?) .
Enlightened and yet frightened by the lore
of folk who read the stars and said, 'Beware'.

'If I am real, ... the voice within your head,
what kind of test or jest could I have planned? '
How many meanings hide in the UNsaid?
A 'God' would surely help us, .. understand?

I ask with no real hope for your reply...
'You dare to question? '.... If...the question's...WHY!

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Jack's missing leg, as a conversation piece.

'Did they take the your leg off, recently? '
'Last December.' He replied.
Then, began a long paragraph of emotional ping-pong.
Describing his treatments and cities he'd been to...
seeking extension, as cures...(?) there were none.

Stoic in turns and then boldly defiant.
The fight being fought, for his loved ones, not he.

But there in the midst of a spirit of courage,
a few chance encounters with a two year old girl
A soul who had shared in his vaccuum pack procedures
albeit, more reluctantly, as she'd wriggled and scratched.

This fighter could stomach his own, hateful health,
yet saved all his tears, for those others, not himself.

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Has Anybody Else Questioned the Dawn

Has anybody else questioned the dawn
and wished, for once, the sun would hide its face?
In reverence for all those who have gone
somehow, the lack of cloud seems out of place.

The wind has dropped and warmth is all around
so early on this tragic, mournful morn.
What solace in this sunlight can be found?
Has anybody else questioned the dawn?

The speculation starts the usual way.
The questions growing louder by the hour
as people grope for something kind to say,
some words of hope to sap that day's dark power.

Has anybody else questioned the dawn,
and wished for once that yesterday was gone

(Written on the day of the Cumbrian Shootings in 2010)

poem by Hola Mentirosa
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