Clubbing on

Clubbing on

The rooster jumped o'er the fence,
cause craved on clubbing on to bask
and gallivant forever, thence
throughout the day and after dusk.

He danced in classy cabarets
where birds enjoyed to fox-trot
his moves jaw-dropping as all pets
were clapping hands around the spot.

Alike a Pro he trotted on
the marble floor, outwearing all,
his Leghorn structure lithe and brawn
his stare all chickens to enthrall!

Thus, dancing, he became a thrill
upon the jazzy floors and decks,
inspiring hens to use their quill
on poetry where art reflects!

© 2016-01-02, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)

Carnal Prayer (Primrose)

Carnal Prayer (Primrose)

The clockwork ticks transformed to fog and air
while dusk absorbed the beacon's blinking signs,
- surreal and indefinite designs
with tangible his steady flash and flare;
beneath the kind, retentive cloak of chance,
- he breathed her in, her aural scent and glance.

Inside the tavern sea-men ordered drinks;
amidst the tulips of the hazy smoke,
he felt the night with the owls' persistent croak,
and lady Sadness on the starboard brinks;
Invisible the night descended slopes
in quietness with dark, elusive scopes.

Her primrose scent - ambrosian sorrow's gate,
remote Paradisos and range of soul
perfumed her whiff surpassed, and burned like coal,
he clenched the glass and drunk the dark drink straight,
the tumbler shattered - deep inhaled her scent,
- with unrelenting his blood thrash torment.

The night was dense; inside the mists he drew
with red drops dropping from the deep palm cut
a wraith, she vanished while her louvres were shut
the nightfall's emptiness inside him grew
caressed the heavy door, its luster stained
the primrose scent inside his mind ingrained.

And she descended - Nymph the fates had graced;
betimes he breathed the scent of night primrose,
same carnal prayer and adytum disposed,
her sacrosanct of pathos' splendor traced;
with flash reflecting in her eyes' domain
the primrose scent dispersed inside the rain.

© 09-07-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved
(five sextains, sestines or sestinas  - Iambic pentameter)

The maid of brines

The maid of brines

The flag was waving on the stern;
she stared saluting and the mist
my face on forecastle, coldly kissed,
- she tried my figure to discern.

The Adriatic was that night
half covered by a cotton cloud,
- endowed the night's adorning shroud
and took our ship afar, forthright.

A ghostly ship, a ghostly log
- the maid of brines had left betimes
addressed us with the sounds of chimes
that rang accordantly in the fog.

Harmonious her song had welled
from depths, unearthly was the verse
that lingered in our minds' rehearse,
bespoken words, beloved and held.

Her image standing on the bow,
in dark my solitude enacts,
while shooting stars on earthward tracks
induct to quell by ocean's draw.

Our recklessness, the route defines
and nautical endangered role,
I know it's wrongful to recall
our bicycling and coastline pines.

The ghostly ship transports us there
attending to the deepness' shrine,
how beautiful the dewdrops shine
and grandness of her seaward fair!

© 04-21-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic tetrameter)