Eight decades and a half "young" is my mom.
Nine years and half a century am I.
How quickly I have aged gives me a qualm,
but one good thing - I now CAN'T multiply!
And right behind my mom I'm following. . .
The white hairs keep appearing; it's with dread
I picture myself one day swallowing
my food with dentures stuck inside my head!
Mom always was athletic till her knees
gave out. . . so walking fast she does no more.
But luckily, she has no grave disease.
I think she just too often scrubbed the floor!
Well, I don't "stoop" to drudgery. Knock wood!
At least my knees might possibly stay good.
For the Humorous Poetry Contest of Thomas Martin
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
Why does a child have to go to school?
Why do we have to spend so much time working?
This seems simply cruel.
Isn't it just irking?
Some people say school is important for learning
Couldn't a child learn on their own?
It would cause much less yearning,
After all, we can learn from our phones.
I can somewhat see a parents point in sending their child to school.
But why would you choose what we wear?
It just allows us to look like fools,
We may as well come to school bear.
As you can see school is not fair,
So please don’t force us to go if you care.
Copyright © Annika Johnson | Year Posted 2013
Santa Claus has travel worries at the North Pole,
With terrible winter storms brewing there afoot,
He knows Christmas is so close and so he must put
His children first now whom he loves deeply and whole!
And so he must find red-nosed Rudolph to cajole
Him into guid’n his sleigh on Christmas Eve to boot,
For this would bring his kids so much joy—what a hoot!
Rudolph’s red nose bright guiding them from the North Pole!
Rudolph leads Santa’s reindeer on Christmas Eve Night,
While all shout out with joy on this blessed holy night!
Santa’s reindeer love Rudolph in equal measure,
For with him they won’t be lost—oh what a pleasure!
Rudolph’s glowing red nose shines now ever so bright,
As we all with Santa celebrate the Lord’s night!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, (December 12, 2014)
(Petrarchan Sonnet poetic format in Iambic Hexameter)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
Your dad, a Dachshund once stuck in Chihuahua.
The best of both in you, with that expectant
Confusing carpets for the lawn enigma.
I know….the raining….getting wet….you can’t.
As coldness chills the room, a sheet for you.
The perfect tucking of in, but you moved!
I ponder, just how crazy is my Boo?
The sheet’s thread count too low to be approved?
Your dance in circles, spinning on the floor.
Rewards and treasures known upon the racks.
Induced by meals and that one pantry door.
In such a fury, choking on the snacks.
I know what God’s book says, I’ve searched it whole.
But still, I hope you have a little soul.
Copyright © rob carmack | Year Posted 2014
I never enter every contest on soup
Sometimes sponsors can be very hard to please
Achieving first place is not always a breeze
Some don’t like me writing poems about poop
Yet every person is unique in our group
Some wonderful poets with great expertise
Writing different forms with consummate ease
To be skilled like them then I’d be cock a hoop
Yet people moan when they don’t get a high place
Think their poetry is much better than 'mine'
Tell the sponsors their judgment is a disgrace
It saddens me their feelings are so malign
Criticise until they are blue in the face
For each of us thinks our poems are divine
Written after reading Tommy Boy's recent blog
N/A in contest judged on 20th November
Submitted to trashed #4
sponsored by Broken Wings
Italian Sonnet - Rhyme Scheme - abbaabba cdcdcd
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
It's Halloween, that spooky time of year,
when scary monsters prowl the streets all night.
The costumes sometimes give us such a fright -
our heads with trepidation fill with fear,
but light the candles then they disappear.
Young children's faces shining with delight,
lit up by pumpkin lantern's glowing light;
with bags of candy kids run off and cheer.
Some teenage children take it all too far
and play their tricks when they don't get a treat.
I find smashed eggs upon my house and car,
then I use language I should not repeat!
Next year I'll have my front door just ajar
and wear a white face pack and old bed sheet.
Italian Sonnet - abbaabba cdcdcd
Contest: Mad as a Hornet
Sponsor: John Lawless
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
Old Maid Hadder, Got Madder And Madder
Old maid Hadder, got madder and madder
wind blew her bonnet and wet upon it.
Soaking showers from a blackbird's bladder
taken aback, next she fell doggone it!
Did not matter, her day in a tatter
rain pouring down, gave her another frown.
Wind drove and gusted all the more at her
in her shame she felt even more a clown!
She could never rise not that it matters
her sad life now placed her in such tatters.
Her legs exposed showed fatter and fatter
with no lover, simply did not matter!
Sad tale of a mad, old lady Hadder.
To get up, had to use a step ladder.
Robert J. Lindley, 10-17-2015
English sonnet- (modern)
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 109
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015
My whinny,crabby, hungry teen
Your stinky,spoiled and quite mean
You want, you need, you have to have
The latest,newest, modern fad
Your greasy, grimy, hands smear
My wall, light switches, and the mirror
Empty snack bags,with sweet and sour
Create tall,extensive buildings that tower
Your messy,your dirty,in need of a shower
Please make it quick,not loiter an hour
Your smelly,nasty, disgusting shoes
Are slowly poisoning every room
Even with big mouth,rolling eyes and sighs
I would not trade you, I surmise
Copyright © Jennifer Marie Oliver | Year Posted 2013
Near the lobby in the great room
We first make our rendezvous
A breathy trip up to my stateroom
And I am at last alone with you
I breathe your fragrant muskiness
As I tease off your tenuous cover
And reveal the lustrous duskiness
Of your dark body to your lover
As your wrap falls to the floor
And in all your glory you disrobe
The hungry demon waits no more
And I encup your tempting globe
I cannot think what may transpire
Shall I regret today's caprice?
But I cannot vanquish my desire
And sweet passion will not cease
Deferred until tomorrow all guilt trips
And now, oh chocolate truffle... to my lips!
February 10, 2013
Inspired by Jon Cavanaugh's "Ode to Chocolate".
Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013
What is it - this royal and ancient game
That gets in your blood and under your skin?
That invites in men's hearts a peaceful aim
Till you shank one and your head starts to spin!
Not just a game for sadists and killjoys
Though it helps if misery becomes you;
New graphite, titanium and steel toys
Vex me slowly but what am I to do?
I am hooked - addicted to the flagged green,
And no persuasion can my scourge deny:
No finer joy (with pants on) has there been,
But take my wife before my clubs - or DIE!
To all you gals who would have us not play
Hear this... 'tis the fairway or the highway!
Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014
Shall I muse about a famous duo for the ages?
Perhaps it should be Paris and Helen of Troy
Nay! Homer already has written a thousand pages
There's no way that I could ever touch the real McCoy
How about Mark Anthony and that hottie Cleo?
Now that's certainly a pair that sure stirred up a mess
But considering Julius Caesar, that's a trio
So I suppose I'll have to find another two, I guess
Has there ever been in the world so famous a pair
That not even a masquerade could ever disguise?
That wherever they showed up the folks would stop and stare
And regarding them almost couldn't believe their eyes?
Of all the famous duos with which the world's been blessed
I guess that it would be the pair on Dolly Parton's chest
March 20, 2013
Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013
I worked in a bowlin' place settin' pins,
Tryin' not to let a ball break my shins!
In those days of yore, pins were set by hand,
And you had to hustle to beat the band!
I was around fourteen when I was hired,
And was around fourteen when I was fired!
The boss man paid me fifty cents per hour,
'Til one night our relationship went sour!
I advised him where he could stuff the job!
Said he, "Find another line of work, Bob!"
Couldn't face workin' there 'til I retired.
Found work pumpin' gas when I was rehired!
8 November 2014 - Entry for Sara Hendrick's "Jobs" Contest
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2014
Someday I’ll find some Magic Beans to eat
Digest them in the comfort of my shed
They can be black or green or pink or red
The feeling of its warmth inside my tum
And maybe such a bean will go with rum
Then afterward the impetus will start
of breaking wind, to flatulate or fart
to run and hide and take with me the smell
I would not blend in company too well
If only I could make a bean that leaves
The odor of a lovely summer breeze
I’d even add a piquant taste to gel
a Magic Bean without the dire wrath
Exquisite food and not the aftermath
January 8, 2015
Magc Bean Contest
Copyright © Ralph Sergi | Year Posted 2015
A Spenserian Sonnet
(Mr. Snake falls in love with a garden hose)
Today I slithered up a grassy hill,
wet from the creek and eager to explore.
The urge to snare a mate devoured my will,
could not this be the day for me to score?
I spot you there beside the garden door,
your slick green shape pervades my hungry sight.
Your golden head criss-cross my eyes before
your trim tight coil peals visions of delight.
Yet when I push my moves into the light
your body squirms and grows before my eyes,
and dread arises in a burst of fright.
You spit at me in angry spurts, surprise
me with a gush of clear and liquid spray,
while I make haste to scuttle fast away.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
As I soared at forty-thousand feet strapped in the aluminum-tubed aerie,
Racing through my skull was a tune made famous by Peter, Paul and Mary!
They made leaving on a jet plane sound so very romantic and swell!
Contrary to their soothing ballad, mine was the flight from hell!
Ah, the thrill of going through the security check still lingers,
Recalling a most "touching" pat-down by Freddy Feely Fingers!
I had to remove my belt, shoes and the change from my pockets,
And open my carry-on bag to prove I had no guns or rockets!
I was "squoze" betwixt two guys leaning on my shoulders snoring!
One was built like Hulk Hogan - the other as fat as Herman Goring!
A squalling kid hollered for the entire trip! I suffered beyond belief!
I ordered a Manhattan on the Rocks in hopes of finding blessed relief!
About the flight, I told Betty Boop the attendant, "I'm tired of this fuss!
Next time I travel I'll skip all this nonsense and ride a Greyhound bus!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
NOTE: I've suffered through many such flights wondering if the agony
would ever end!
Entry for Debbie Guzzi's "Songs to Poetry" Contest
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2013
Thirty years on, across our globe, my daily ritual.
Alone, surrounded, marching silently forward,
the vast weight of humanity moving back and forth,
in an awkward dance, street theater for the masses.
A piano and a flute, emoting to this interlude,
the analog broadcast, my chosen soundtrack, together
with the metronomic pulse of my worn out wipers,
as they collaborate with the falling snow. Half asleep,
I contemplate the sweetness of this etude, on the radio.
Two instruments, a man and his car, a piano and a flute
building a theme and gathering speed, captivate me
as I am drawn in, the audience applauding in gratitude.
In this exalted state of grace, the light changed a little too fast,
and I was caught by the flash that soon will be a demand for cash.
Copyright © James Fredholm | Year Posted 2013
Post coitum omne animal triste est,
sive gallus et mulier*
Yes, no cockerel who rules the cackling roost
Will stomach slander from Latin master;
But who will stand aside and let the ghost
Of hints slur old motherhood’s register.
Manhood must of needs hang its head in pain
After all the sweat and toil in loins of love;
After millions of squiggly soldiers in vain
Drop their lean tails at the egg wall alcove.
Only the fool who dares call woman’s bluff
Shall learn hard way positions in bedstead;
Virile pride will sink in the depths of fluff
While smooth gym-trained muscles rage instead.
As they say hereabouts sur le vieil Continent
La différence, Mon Sieur: lip’s shade content.
· * “After the sexual encounter every animal is
excepting the cock and the woman.”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2005-2012. From the collection:
Poems Omega Plus, 2005. Rev. 2012.
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012
Along Came Polly and Final Countdown
are the two movies I have seen the most
both movies make me smile without a frown
I don’t watch movies that have any ghost
Along Came Polly is underrated
I think it’s funny and it’s really good
my two top movies are unrelated
and both of those movies I understood
The Final Countdown brings back memories
of a time when I was a younger man
when I’m watching that I relive glories
most memories I’ve tossed in the can
one’s a comedy the other’s sci-fi
nobody ever have to ask me why
Copyright © Robert Heemstra | Year Posted 2013
I painstakingly take down reading list.
(I thought that our dear teacher surely gist.)
“Of Bison Men”, antiquity : out o’ print;
and “Batcher in the Fry”, a concrete stint.
“Odious Night in Gail”, seen fit to ban –
Perhaps by an old “RAD at Sky March” fan.
And “Cellphone flowers of yellow and green”,
From “Loose'y in the Sky with Diamonds”, seen.
“You Lie, Sees” on top of list of sorcerers –
Our Homers being the main baseball scorers.
“Vinnie, VD, Vichy~”: Dude ate too much
I do not understand the rash and rush…
A cross all incontinence, without much flare,
there grammar mistakes is to much too bare.
1. Bison: Prehistoric animal, now extinct. Also, Bison Men Street Fighter = movie;
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
2. The Catcher in the Rye is a 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger
3. Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats
4. Radetsky March by Johann Strauss Sr.
5. RAD – abbreviation of many interpretations; also, slang for “great”
6. The actual line from “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” is: “Cellophane… “
7. "Loose'y" is slang for cigarettes sold singularly
8. Ulysses is derived from Ulixes, the Latin name for Odysseus, a character in ancient Greek literature. Odysseus also known by the Roman name Ulysses was a legendary Greek king of Ithaca and a hero of the blind poet, Homer's epic poem, the Odyssey.
9. Julius Caesar said this when described how/what he did on his campaign. (veni (I came), vidi (I saw), vici (I conquered). Colloquially used by teenagers as an expression for conquests of the opposite sex. "Vichy" as in vichysoisse, a cold potato soup
10. In the final couplet I vent my frustration with the incorrect usage and spelling which I often encounter in script; spelling and grammar which change the intended meaning of the text.
11. Written in: A quatorzain (from French quatorze, fourteen) is a poem of fourteen lines. Historically the term has often been used interchangeably with the term 'sonnet'. Various writers have tried to draw distinctions between 'true' sonnets, and quatorzains. Nowadays the term is seldom used, and when it is, it usually is used to distinguish fourteen line poems that do not follow the various rules that describe the sonnet. I followed the Shakespeare sonnet style with the volta at the COUPLET:"In Shakespeare's sonnets, however, the volta usually comes in the couplet, and usually summarizes the theme of the poem or introduces a fresh new look at the theme." ~ Wikipedia
6 July 2013
Sponsor Roy Jerden
Contest Name Malapropisms and Mondegreens
Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013
"You haven't a clue to what I'm talking about"
Perhaps that's not the best way to start off a piece.
Still I thought I'd warn you 'fore you opened your mouth,
this dire message of mine will be cryptic at best.
With rhythm and flow may you set your mind at ease,
for these words desire eager ears to stand the test.
Please allow me to pick your jaw up off the ground.
You've been gibb'ring nonsense ever since you read me.
Blind adoration in huge heaps like compost mounds,
clinging to all that my busy fingers writeth,
wasted on the teller instead of the story.
And thus the final words of a famous poet,
"You haven't a clue to what I'm talking about,
but allow me to pick your jaw up off the ground"
For the Impress Me With a Poem contest.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013
Twelve and twenty black birds baked in a pie
Sounds to me disgusting, would probably make me die
I hate those big blackbirds that pilfer on the street
I can't imagine that they would ever taste sweet
What kind of baker would bake them in a pie
Sounds like he was drinking or probably getting high
I like my pies with fresh fruit or creamy custard
I can't even imagine a pie that's filled with black birds
Sometimes those authors of Mother Goose rhymes
Must have been with Edgar cutting up some lines
Or maybe with that Lewis Carroll smoking opium
For the things they wrote back then were more scary than fun
Living in a shoe, or being Jack so quick
It seems ridiculous to jump over a candlestick.
Copyright © Jennifer Marie Oliver | Year Posted 2013
Her flawless beauty caught his eye
His head turned his heart followed
Skin of creamy translucency
Her body motion, he saw it flowed.
As a yacht upon the azure sea
Her body she sashayed down the street
Skilfully tacking from windward to lee
His eyes and heart all at once did meet.
His body yearned to feel her close
Her hair flicked windward calling him
His skin tingled inside his clothes
Feeling stirrings an exciting whim
Growth did begin but stung back to reality
With his wife by his side afraid of his mortality.
© 10/03/2013 ~GG~
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2013
Why do we delve in school all day and night?
Sunrise and set, both see egos engrossed
In education used by us to boast
And overtake, regardless of how slight.
Our Grade Point Average must define our worth!
Exams, essays, homework; praise them wholly!
Our university’s prestige decrees
Whether or not we each deserve our birth.
A battle fought with cap guns, noisy toys;
The animals, stuffed full with bulging fluff
Dress up, our feet are touched by dad’s shirt cuffs;
These games are played by infant girls and boys.
How easily high intellect astounds
The geniuses with brains of Play Dough mounds!
Copyright © Kyle Maples | Year Posted 2013
Listen up guys I have got some news
This is the latest gossip about my muse
She threw her dummy out of the pram
Sometimes she is such a stroppy madam!
She didn’t mean to cause such great alarm
My ‘Bite Me’ poem didn't mean any harm
I agree it’s not my normal cheerful style
But my muse changes once in a while
I have to go with the flow of my pen
It catches me unawares every now and then
I hope that I have cleared up any doubt
My vitriolic muse has been given a clout
So humourous muse is back, she’s here to stay
My deep dark muse is on an extended holiday!
To fully understand this you need to have read my 'Bite me Bite me poem http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/bite_me,_bite_me_678663
1st June 2015
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
While languishing, I find myself (again)
forlornly wandering into this room.
I spy the one for which I have a yen,
but merely watching cannot quell my gloom.
A blue, like robins’ eggs, and cherry red,
the colors of her roses that entice,
adorn the velvet sheet of white that’s spread
upon this temptress, stimulus for vice.
I know I should be strong and never start,
but like some rodent crazed, I want to crawl
my way into that center creamy part,
then wallow there and feel no guilt at all.
But since I'm sweetly beckoned, I partake,
my diet foiled by luscious birthday cake.
(An oldie to post since I am not inspired enough
lately to write for any contest)
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013
Pitter Patter on my wall, who is it
I hear call.
In my room I sit alone
but I hear you send me a
Are you telling me a tale
of all who has stayed here alone
Oh my friendly titter tatter,
won't you tell me what is a
Are you lonesome too? or is it
just a ghostly boo.
Asking me to notice you.
Copyright © Sharon Gulley | Year Posted 2014
Can’t write me a good sonnet
It’s a bee in my bonnet
The words will NOT rhyme
It is such a crime
Others have gone and done it!
Piece of pie with the quatrains
Them beauties tickle my brains
I just cannot stop
The words they just pop
But dang sonnets sure are pains!
It’s clear that I’m no Shakespeare
But I try, now what’s the fear?
Might fall on my face
And be a disgrace
A laugh for many a peer!
And then there is the tanka
Help me, or I’ll just spank ya
Keep wanting to rhyme
I get stuck each time
Praise me, and I will thank ya!
Don’t let me start on haiku
I try with so much ado
That blasted third line
Just won’t turn out fine
You’re laughing now, aren't you?
For Andrea's Contest
Show me the Funny (Part II)
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013
Born Again (For Contest)
Y’all come and join me while I set a spell
I’ll tell a tale that stirred in yonder dell
I reckon I might miss a word or two
But this happened here as I say to you
There lived a man here who was so nasty
His soul was so cussed that we all could see
Ornery and riled up as he could be
Then one day he met a cute little lass
She lived by the Book with plenty of sass
In time she wooed him and taught him the Word
Anger left him like a wee little bird
Now he’s in church with a dumb looking grin
I still wish he was the way he had been
July 9, 2015
Copyright © Ralph Sergi | Year Posted 2015
Firm against the tempest we stand
Hip to hip and hand in hand
And when your hair flicks my nose
An excited shiver reaches my toes
As we stand beneath shining full moon
I shuffle a little to create room
To fully appreciate the breathless sight
That is your beauty by silvery light
Then I look upon that incongruous stanza
Doubts roll through me like a German Panzer
But stressors melt at the touch of your palm
For when we embrace my mind goes calm
We hang our destinies on the same hook
And into a hazy future together we look
Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2015
TRENCHANT WENCH FROM THE UNROMANTIC MIDLANDS
In the pub, I serve out the pints
My comely bosom gives a hint of home
And what men are escaping from – dreary sex
With housewives who scour the sink with vigour
Trim the joint and lard the fowl
Gristles of fat clinging to their knuckles
As the froth of beer clings to men’s beards.
England is a riff between the breakfast table and tea
Where homely condiments drown the flavour
Of each day, and newspapers live on scandal
The seamier the better. It makes the ordinary man
Happier than ever not to be one of the toffs
Glad that she can be had for a song
Save the one that lies buried in her throat.
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley | Year Posted 2015