He held my hand all the way home that night.
Crossing through the graveyard gave me a fright.
That was where he first kissed me,
In the graveyard, so misty.
That was my first kiss in the pale moonlight.
He was a tall, dark and beautiful guy
And I was young and incredibly shy.
My pounding heart, it did race.
Was it the kiss or the place?
Yet remembering it just makes me sigh.
Willie McKay, he gave me my first kiss,
Filling my young heart with oh, so much bliss
But he was leaving for war
And I would see him no more.
A lasting impression left on this Miss.
for "first Kiss" contest
* I was 15 and he was a 21 year old sailor,
My mother was dating his CO and they arranged this date.
After the movie he walked me home and cutting through the
cemetary of St. Peters' church, I had my first kiss.
I had a great job
I had a pretty girl
I was moving up
Slowly in this world
Had a good position
In the factory
And was working
For a very good salary
Then comes the war
And things got tough
They close the factory
And at home it got rough
I thought that her love
Was my umbrella
And when there’s bad weather
In her arms I would shelter
And umbrella can do a lot
When you are in the rain
It can keep you dry
Until the sun comes out again
For me it seems like hard times
Had just began to pour
And my pretty umbrella
Had holes I never seen before
The fancy dinners we had
Now become burger king
And I guess she never love me
Just the gifts I would bring
And I brought home a pizza
And she didn’t take a slice
And when I try to hug her
Her arms were cold as ice
One day she went out
And she never came back
And when I look in the closet
She took every last rack
But what can I do
Sure I’m not the only one
Who lost their job?
And their woman was gone
Always know I had an umbrella
Now I don’t know what to say
When comes the rain
She just up an flew away
But I know the time will change
And so will the weather
And one day there will be some one
Who wants me to be their umbrella?
Well here we are the last day of school
Let's hit the beach the park and even the pool
The kids are home for the summer
As I start to think I begin to wonder
They going to be home with me hey that's not cool
Halloween excitement going out night
City Parks Department hosting fright
Costumes, games, clowns, prizes, fun
Chance to eat at least a ton
Fun and games over lights way too bright
On the way home feeling very faint sick
All that candy and hotdogs did the trick
When get home vomit uncontrolled
Mother my head has to hold
Found out next day measles will have to kick
©2012 C. Brent Cloyd
I bought a new scale at the Wal-Mart store.
Made it secure and level on the floor.
I took a breath, then stepped on.
The digits I saw made me moan.
Surely, I do not weigh two-fifty-four!
Let’s balance the scale, then I’ll try once more.
Adjusted proper, they’ll give the right score.
This time the scales will behave.
I stepped on, tried to be brave.
But with a grin they said “two-fifty-four”.
I would like to throw these scales out the door.
Wish they were lying, but I can’t ignore.
I’ve gobbled many things sweet
And chewed on too much red meat.
My expanding poundage is “two-fifty-four”.
My belly is huge, my chin is galore.
Need to lose it, but process is a chore.
Need diet low in fat and starch.
So my stomach will not arch.
Hope to be smaller than “two-fifty-four”.
Would a brisk walk cause my health to restore?
Would losing blubber help me not to snore?
Let’s get started. Soon I say!
Well - after the holiday!
Cause my clothes don’t fit at “two-fifty-four”.
Rednecks make parts in the basement
They've mastered piston emplacement
They'll bore out a block
To be bigger than stock
Displacement has no replacement
Author's note. A really great guy in the office has a classic '67 Firebird
that will go really fast and has fun taking it to car shows in the area.
This is part of American culture. Yahoooo!
Always at the end of his jokes
She heads off to visit her folks
Being a blonde is no fun
So off she does run
For sometime away from her bloke
So into the country she heads
This blonde who is now a brunette
But on the road she does meet
A woolly flock off nice sheep
As she slams on the anchors in sweat
To the shepherd she offers to ask
How many you have is my task
If I guess it dead right
I take one home tonight
As she hopes to lose this blonde mask
She counts as she guesses bang on
There is one hundred and seventy one
Slowly looking around
She takes the one sitting down
Feeling shes on a home run
Now the shepherds been left so agog
Amazed at this brunette road hog
Her shade of hair he has guessed
Birth blonde you are blessed
It's not a sheep you have, it's my dog
This househusband washing his pants
In pockets he must at least glance
If there’s money involved
It might get dissolved
And ruin his future finance
I thought working from home was a snap
And I’d even have time for a nap
But she makes me do chores
Like the laundry and floors
Now this working from home is all crap
Do we post this on Poetry Soup
Let your poetry pals in on the poop
That you street cred’s been stripped
That you’re now “kitty” whipped
And you’ve joined a househusband group
I wrote this for Joe Flach and he even gave me permission to post this saying he did not think his reputation could get any more damaged that it already is.
We’re not called upon to choose anything we live through;
Neither parent nor sibling nor school nor form of sinew;
Neither colour of hair or eye or skin,
Nor love or hate, nor loss or gain
Nor opportunities nor whence we come. So much is true.
But as much as this truth I hold as true as sunlight,
I know that painful times will time to time alight
When with bitter phlegm you curse
The earth where you breathed first
And wish your day of birth were scratched by He with might.
I know. Same feelings have plagued my adult soul
And the wish for better home to make each day whole
Has been dashed by shameful news,
Where Hope, seeing Hitler, and 94’s Hutus,
Needs to hide its youth to stall the death toll.
But amidst pain, hate and bottled despair rife
There’s the rare love, innocent and hardly grasping to life.
For here, we can give our all
When we choose to keep you from a fall.
We really do it: humble, loving…just like the Lord’s life.
Yes, it’s easier to perceive the weeds in one’s garden
For the pastures beyond gleam in our myopia, hiding their burden.
And seeing that weed can cast a shadow
On all that’s sweet, but cause much ado
About the bitter parts, and it day by day your heart will harden.
Think of the evening breeze on the night grill,
Feeding the flames of a delicious family fish meal.
Think of hitting the unadulterated
Lands of hills where ancient rivers percolated
And happy goats skip, and cattle graze and one can feel
Life whizzing through rustling leaves of dancing old tree or reed,
Playing the music our ancestors learned to read,
Making your lungs touch their purpose,
Dazzling your eyes like a Jabbawockeez pose,
The music we’ve forgotten as we focus on some RSS feed.
Think of the youths wise with tradition re-enacting solemnly
The dances and music handed down from before when Ptolemy
Phrased ancient philosophical data,
To the time of the expansive empire of Sundiatta
Beads stomping the dust frantically in musical poetry.
Picture the pure darkness which crowds the silent night air,
Unveiling the marvellous dotted and scattered there
In the moonlit heavenly canvas,
Watching us from light years past,
And we fascinated by the sparkling magic they share.
So to sum it all up, I know it cannot be perfect,
And sometimes I rant and make massive graffiti of its defects,
But this home my parents chose
Still draws my spirit close,
For the bond is deeper, far deeper than human senses can detect.
He sported a new hickey
I thought it rather icky
Right there on his neck
It made me a wreck
To kill that girl is tricky
Perhaps that is too dire
Will fight fire with fire
I’ll plaster her lips
And wiggle my hips*
Known to ignite desire
Revenge, they say can be sweet
Mine, a delectable treat
Full body hickey
Wasn’t too tricky
Now, MY poor boy she won’t greet!
*Reference to belly dance
For Heather Ober’s Make me Laugh Contest
July 2, 2013
It's two thirty, there's a knock at my door
Hey, it's my neighbour, what's he here for
"it's so plucky of you!"
Playing my Bagpipes the noo
If I wasn't, then what are you here for
In darkness I dwell, feeling all the pain as well as, the need
to have some one to talk too.
My home is in a box you see, it's not much but, it's home to me,
I can't leave so, I just hang around.
Silence eats away at me. I try to talk but, I can't seem to
get what's on my mind out of my mouth.
My words. I write about, my life seem to be
of, terror & being confined.
I'm locked away inside this
place, trapped with in my mind some say.
A time will come when I'm set free, some one will
take me away some where, I don't know & I don't care.
I only hope somebodies there for me to talk to
so, I don't have to ever be alone..
The Death of my Town
(for Bradford, West Yorkshire, England)
At first I was self-righteous and held the moral high ground
On approaching the imminent death of my town
Some days I would observe and shake my head
And say loudly “You know, I think my town might be dead!”
Looks on faces say should I no longer care?
What can we do for the people out there?
But the Town Hall had a plan
There was some government money in the pan
Which they spent on a big pond in the ground
To fill with water, applaud themselves and stand around
And that was supposed to revive our town
Bring it back to life so we could once again be proud
Visitors would flock from miles around
To bask in the renewing of my town
Which would filter round and round
Dragging us all up off the ground
Despite their plans, I did not know
Just how quickly the death would take
As I watched as the town’s thinning corpse
Wither away....and start to decay
I could not know how I would feel
When its lifeless body was at last laid out
That I no longer had the strength to shout
Or believe in those who had told us to be proud
But its people still hang about
Without the means or strength to leave
So they try to drown out the death of their town
By drinking and drinking and drinking until they fall down
And to those who were paid to save it and did not
But stand by and let it fall down
Wasting all that money
On a pond in the ground
I must believe the day will come
When they must pay for what they have done
At best competent
At worst nowt’
Because I refuse to understand
That all they could offer was a hole in the ground
To prevent the death of my once loved town
Trapping all those around
Whilst their confidence rang out so loud
Telling us all we had so much for to be proud
But knowing they were simply
Cursing us all to life in a dead town
Although I believe they can still get out.....
There once was a man from San Marcos
Came home to a strange pile of carpet
Didn’t know what it was,
Scratched a chin full of fuzz,
And said, “P’raps I’ll take it to market”