Chicken Cot UFO
It crossed the gloaming skies above the roofs,
in awe we followed then, its jazzy course;
mysterious would be the incensed spoofs
this ireful ship, upon us, would enforce.
..We said! Abominable was the ship
that traced its gaudy eights in air with hum;
predestined to avenge our ego trip,
atrocious poulets, would not succumb.
The chicken soldiers were a frightful troop
in pink-pistachio uniforms with spots,
that insolent, bombarded us with moop,
to hit our heads that were devoid of thoughts.
In order to placate the chicken troop,
some started to recite their verse to skies;
confronting that attacking chicken group,
- bird poems they opposed to battle cries.
The angry war-birds listened to the verse,
that was composed by stunned, exposed confreres,
their cackle was bemocking and adverse,
- upon their heads they wore rouge voluperes.
This myth reflected what would happen if
extraterrestrial cots invaded Earth,
relentless chicken-birds in martial tiff
would moop upon some artists of top worth.
© 12/11/2013, G. Venetopoulos
moop = Matter Out Of Place
Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama)
---------------------- "Word Nerds" (like me)...
************Please Have Fun & Read VERY Closely:)***********
now and again
approaches the fog in me
screams its name
apropos adverbs appear
slick little nouns
beyond babbling brooks
sent to exile
beneath eight parts of speech
within prison walls
filled in the past
like Job's tedious job
homographs from heteronyms
words never mind...
they wind the mind
in the wind...
And I walk
across numerical figments
speaking hyperbole dialect to their imaginations.
Numb, blocky gaps
whisper invitation to secret club.
Enticing my stature
to become exponent’s side-kick.
So they can welcome me with open arms.
Coating my digits with inoperable tumors
double-knotted in hot pink laced bow
and baby-breath scent.
They even left a Walmart Rollback smiley face sticker
with crack residue on right cheek
and a comic-style bubble caption, “welcome home puppet”.
This is exactly how Mother 1 told me it would be.
Kinda like marriage,
but less detail-oriented.
But, I could never fit in.
For I am neither positive
about their (cult) ural ways.
Timing would always be off.
An arm from the clock that suffered a stroke at Midnight…
They’d never understand,
how they’d alter this unevenly, odd numerical figment.
For they’ll just calculate,
my sum with rusty protractor.
This Zero, into a fraction...
© Drake J. Eszes
For who is this poetry destroyer
A cop, but who else would employ her?
As she spies no end
No poet, she pretends
Vanilla ice in leopard skin fur.
You ask If I want mommies hug
wouldn’t that be nice, lovely and snug
You just want to hold me
Under that great oak tree
And kiss me on your picnic rug
You want the vultures to enjoy
My sweet flesh, is that your ploy?
Wanting to be them
Eyeing up my sweet gem
Tell the truth, you just want a toy boy
Well our future together would be bright
Injets, pens and cartridges in sight
You’d color me in
Goodness what a sin
As I would always do the best write
Hang up your gloves as your are weak
You are also classed as an antique
A low blow I know
Don’t cry, don’t go
You can come back with a new technique.
If I don’t hear from the poetry cop
I will know I have come out on top
Good bye little girl
Give us one more twirl
Now, this should be the final full stop (.)!
P.D, this is the first one ive done. Took me a while. Very good fun though. I kind of limit’s
Poem by: Mr. Ronald Watson
Sep. 13, 2012
My Poetry on PoetrySoup
Stinking thinking/ it leads to drinking./
What moisten the soul without an inkling?/
Unto making a wild left turn /while the right signal light were blinking./
Within a mild mix of rice, hops, and barley,
Since/ it is too much laugher at a karaoke party./
How Elvis sounds like,/ a broken Bob Marley?/
Now it’s as if,/ inhibitions are lowed/
Frozen in time/ and slipping far out of control./
As intuitions of minds does loathe,/ as such weariness echoes for tomorrow./
Yet,/ a stinking breath that smells just as death/ and it's where all funky asses dwells./
Though/ all hung over /and unjustified to flinging heavy heads into that porcelain king,/
Even this is a sight for red sore eyed Kings!/
It is an aftermath of ravishing through them royal purple cloth bags./
So/ afraid to admit that shallowness slowly drags!/
When,a sense of clarity which will just admit it.
That stinking thinking is difficult to kick, but
One day at a time, it is the only way to shine, or get fixed.
Thank youMy Poetry on PoetrySoup
I called upon yonder window
That was up to high for me to be
For my maiden gracefully sleeps there
In her bed,beside the sea
I asked her to come hither
For her beautiful face I yearned to see
Twas yawning in the morning dew
As she slowly came to the window for me
To my amazement came forth a ragged wench
Whos hair was as raged as the sea
With eyes that were burnt as nightposts
To bloodshot and squinty to even see
For this was not my fair maiden?
Whos beauty would forever be
But a drunken harlot who came hither
That she spent the night with instead of me
My heart now broken to pieces
Wondering how could this tragedy be?
For my maiden now sleeps with a harlot?
Without the love that she once gave to me?
My mind was now enraged
So I dashed for the wrestling sea
With thoughts of drowning this useless body
That's no longer good enough for my maiden to see
With water just over waist height
And a large wave about to crash over me
I heard a calling from yonder window
Twas my beautiful maiden as I turned to see
Her beautiful eyes in such distress
Her beautiful hair flowing so care free
Twas the beauty of my fair maiden
That I had called upon yonder window to see
For the thoughts that raced through my mind
Evidently,weren't truely what happend to be
For it was her promiscuous sister
Who had come from the other side of the sea
My heart now rebuilt with a sigh of love
A large wave suddenly crashes over me
The last thing I saw was my fair maiden
As my lifeless body is carried out by the sea
Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust
for things start to be.
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
This poem stinks.
It doesn't rhyme
It doesn't do anything
It has a little alliteration
it will have some
because that's the easiest poetic element to incorporate
and if it didn't have any poetic elements
it would not be a poem
but would be prose with
(are carriage returns extinct?)
and that would be dishonest.
This is not a lying poem.
That would be oxymoronic.
It's a stinky poem.
And when I finish writing it
I'm gonna print it out
and tear it up
into little bitty
teensy weensy pieces
(if I have enough patience to get that small)
and flush it down the commode
so it can join all the other
excrementally effluential essences
(note the alliteration)
of all the other stuff that stinks
almost as badly as
Why is it poetry, is a like dirty word and talked of in undertones?
It’s like a naughty postcard, more flesh than there are bones.
Poets tend to deny their art, “I’m not a poet, I’m a rhym-er”
Come on you lot get stuck in don’t be a poetry two-timer.
After a glass of alcohol some may admit-“I like a little verse”
“But no I m not into poetry…” It’s like a speech they did rehearse.
Now poems I’m getting good at, but famous poets I don’t know any
Don’t ask me if I’m a poet, because in wages I don’t earn a penny.
Now rhyme I am not bad at, but at free verse I would stink
As for haiku, senryu, and other forms, I stink I really think…
I listened to some so called poets; decry their art the other day
They denied their art while they listened, to what each other had to say.
Standing there with their poems held high, “I’m not a poet” they all said
Well get down from the microphone and let’s hear a poet instead…
They pass their poems around the table, like some black market currency
Not wanting anyone to see it, but they are at a reading for poetry.
So be loud and proud you poets stand firm for what you believe in
Tell them you are a poet, and just get used to all the teasing
I used to be a shy poet and I write verse with some frivolity
But the definition in my dictionary says “words with a pleasing quality.”
So now I am open to judgement from all of you wonderful poets
You have all commented on my work, but do you really know it?
You all have qualities that scare me, you really seem so clever
So can I finally admit to being a poet, from now on and forever?