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Poems By Poet Mark R Slaughter  12/21/2014 9:47:49 AM
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  Best Poems From
  MARK R SLAUGHTER (1957)
 
 
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  117.     

Cat the Con Artist

And so the cat sat on the mat,
Overseeing all he owned.
He patronised the house's tat,
Then further scowled as he bemoaned

The junk we dumped into his bowl!
'Where's my Angus, warm and rare? '
He glared aloof then took a stroll
To seek anew some proper fare -

And prostitute himself next door.
See him rolling, purring slyly -
And acting out the role of wh*re;
Those clever eyes now cooing wryly.

They also think he's never fed:
'Poor little mite – he gets no break.
Now come and sleep upon our bed -
We're off to grill your fillet steak.

Those callous neighbours don't deserve
You loving ginger feline friend.
Now in the future we'll reserve
A warming bed and beef to mend

Your lonely soul and hungry tum.'
So he gets his just delight,
And having conned his neighbour chum,
He's off again to tout his plight!


Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2009
 
Mark R Slaughter
   
 

   
   
 

  118.     

Death, My Friend

Death, my friend - so good to see you!
Stand aloft and view my soul!
I have to say you’re looking frightful -
Bony chum, you affable ghoul.

Death, my friend, so charmed I’m sure!
State your case and tell me straight -
Am I worthy of reward, so
Venture I to Heaven’s Gate?

Death, my friend, a new acquaintance!
You're always welcome in my home -
Though the stare from empty sockets
Indicates to Hell we roam!

Death, my friend - my bosom buddy.
My! your finger points at me!
Be you tired of my frivolity?
Aha, I see - Oblivion, we!


Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009









































































Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death death
 
Mark R Slaughter
   
 

   
   
 

  119.     

Distraction

The fawn faltered,
Released an eye towards
A crimson dawn,
Bequeathed its blood unto the land:
Out of air
The carnivore –
Sleekness blurred in hooks, blades, bite;
Flesh feeds flesh -
DNA in a just-is world.
 
Mark R Slaughter
   
 

   
   
 

  120.     

First rose

A heart of youthful year was yearning,
Crying out the pain; the burning
Tears would e’er remain until
An answer from the man would see them die.

A sympathetic mirror blessed her –
Softened up the curves, caressed her
Skin to help regain a calm –
Assuage a heaving breast and blushing eye.

And through a struggling mind, a chiming:
Someone at the door; the timing
Perfect and exquisite in the
Reconciliation of her woes.

She took the oak to make the parting,
‘Here! ’ a presentation startling.
Drawing deep through radiant lips, she
Kissed her very dream: a crimson rose.



Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010








































rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
 
Mark R Slaughter
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Mark R Slaughter