He wondered if his verse was made for fools
and cretins that splish-splash alongside whales
composing dull sonnets was chased by bulls
- by elegant giraffes and racing snails.
Amid the chickens in his country cot,
while gulping bourbon the pig-farmer writes
his scribble verse turns to an artless blot
and straight he gulps one more for his insights
Oh, detrimental muse of his confused,
absconding inspiration that evades
his talent which was alcohol-abused,
and like the content of each bottle, fades:
......Inspiring advent of a healthy burp
made pigs and chickens to comment "superb"!
© G. V. 06-27-2013 All rights reserved
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Contest Name: The Lazy Contest
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)
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.
Thy sightly, blooming charm, gents' thoughts enthralled,
and attar's scent, their wonderment inflamed,
revealing and contoured thy dressing mould,
transformed their sentiments to status maimed!
The short, designer-made and bold tight skirts,
thy geodetic curves embraced like gloves,
where insolent, male feelings, made for birds,
provoked thine ardour and my savage shoves.
Thou courted wert, by the surrounding plebe,
that dull and raw, with amateurish flair,
undaunted forged inventiveness, and dweeb
they lionhearted tried to kiss your hair.
Disdained, the suitors though, exclaimed defeat,
thy beau's wrath proved their charming obsolete.
© 11-11-2013, G.V., All Rights Reserved
(Hmm... Don't let my smile cozen you. I am still very angry!)
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
I ate some fried catfish and it tasted so good!
Just how good did that fried catfish taste?
It tasted so good it made a hound dog slap a bull dog.
That had to have been some mighty fine vittles.
I ate some fried chicken and it tasted so good!
Just how good did that fried chicken taste?
It tasted so good it made a wolf howl and a grizzly bear dance.
That had to have been some mighty fine vittles.
I ate some fried crawfish and it tasted so good!
Just how good did that fried crawfish taste?
It tasted so good it made an alligator turn a somersault.
That had to have been some mighty fine vittles.
I ate some fried rat and it tasted so bad!
I had to throw it all up in a brown paper bag.
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
The girls in vain tried his sad soul to sweeten;
(why art thou laughing at his blackened eye?)
Malign and radioactive chicken,
you never loved or watered his bonsai!
Thou spaced-out sill maiden of delusion,
and frivolous, counterfeit struthio,
thy cackling leave gave tongue to contusion,
eloped with Foghorn Leghorn unto Rio.
Beloved of his aphotic thought's wit,
deserted cot due to thine abandon,
dawns sullen, chickenless, dolour permit,
- old taken snaps of you with his Canon.
Incomprehensible, soulless chicken
His saddened eye is karate stricken.
© 03-23-2013, G. V., All Rights Reserved
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.
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
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
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 man-boys,
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!
Dedicated to my wife!
His chicken vanished from the face of Earth
unhappy and distressed connected so
with sites of poetry where lost pets' dearth
transformed to versicle expression's flow.
Logorrhea of namby pamby lines
and balderdash of verbose gardyloo
bombarded him with rounds of porcupines
stampeded unctuous like rabid gnoo.
But on the other hand he met some birds
composers of refined and sightly verse,
with glinting souls and clever words,
their intellect's expressions wise and terse.
And when he searched of who to value most
received his chicken's metrical riposte.
© G.V. 09-14-2013 All rights reserved
"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.
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~
Desperately seeking companionship
Julie booked a cruise on a ship.
She met a very strange man there
with a beer belly and receding hair.
She ate the food and drank the drink;
the plumbing backed up, the whole ship began to stink.
For a solid week they were stranded there
with everyone running around in dirty underwear.
Finally the Coast Guard came and rescued them,
gave them cool fresh water and fed them spam.
Julie was glad to get back home but was sad she had no fun;
she contemplated her plight in life and decided to become a nun.
Julie knew that in a nunnery she would have no fun while there;
by this point she really didn’t care, at least she’d have clean underwear.
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.
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
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
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)
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!
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.
Swear words in Literature
A couple walking along the road, he has got a folded umbrella
she carries a parasol. It begins to rain he opens the umbrella
and they walk on towards the plateau. Rain has stopped sun
shines, she opens the parasol, a playful wind comes grabs it,
throws the parasol up in the air and broken it falls amongst rocks.
The sun is fierce and they suffer much before they reach a tree
of wisdom on the highland – the only one- and seek shelter in
its cooling shadow and green leaves.
We have suffered, the couple moan, the tree that has books
sheltering in its crown, literature that seek forgiveness for ever
have being published; full of bland, polite words and not given
wit and humour by their creators, fall down as the tree shakes
its massive crown in disbelief and says” Why the **** didn´t
you open the umbrella?”
Graciously she walked into the ballroom hall
Confidently treading, careful not to fall
Buffet on the side where careless people dropped
Grapes and other things which needed to be mopped
Graciously she walked to make eloquent handshakes
Not noticing the floor and discarded fairy cakes
A scream and then a thud she landed in full sight
Of all the guests around on this once a year night
Ungraciously she walked away to hide her reddened face
And to clean herself up and to wash away disgrace
Mutters in the room were heard, "it must have been those heels"
They stood around judgementally picking at their meals
Graciously she walked up to the venue hosts
When she mentioned litigation they turned as white as ghosts
When yet another lover flees my cat sized bed
and leaves me wild and comely in the night
I wonder if it's unknown words I've read
Or is it that my eyes have taken flight?
I tempt the sin with all my female parts.
They feel I'm like a spider with a bat,
to cure ,devour,digest my ghoulish pests,
They think they should be learning on the sat.
But some who mind me feel they have been robbed.
I give them all detention,I'm a liar.
I give them generous fare and sing sheeps' songs.
I give them comfort like a hellish fire
Oh,come back ,bad boy ,don't desert me yet,
The clothes I thrashed for you are not quite set.
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.
When I first came to Algarve I thought I had
to blend in I went to British bars and met
expats, who had never been to a Portuguese
restaurant, yet spent time whining about
the country they lived in now and the country
they had left. Undeterred I tried to fit in and
bought second hand golf clubs and became
a member of a nine hole golf course.
I found the so called sport tedious, but was
intrigued by what is called the rough where I
found bird nests, rabbits and beautiful flowers.
“**** the nature follow the ball,” an irate Brit
shouted at me. In the mood of fitting in, I did
that, but l let my membership payment laps.
Prithee fair maiden for the knight, that com'th
amid the mists the sound of hoofs birds harked
from darkened woods the Red Sox hymn he hum'th
on rocks the chestnut's hipposandals sparked.
And whither tallt he go'th, for virtue's worth
endeavors in the past and feats he wrought
eloped with thee beseeching lust and mirth,
now saileth to New England 'pon his yacht.
Whence comest thou, fair maiden of the mist?
refulgent and caliginous thy sight,
noctilucent and by the winds sole kissed,
responding with negation to his plight.
A box of chocolates doth naught to enchant
behind her veils the Fenway she recant'th.
© 06-29-2013, G. V., All rights reserved
The Terrible Ghastly Beastliness of
"THE POTATO CADAVER UNDEAD REVIVAL" (sonnet)
The Potato of Terror, April 24th 2002
They dug him up with a great pointed spade,
Awoke him from his rest of ninety years,
And O what a great bellowing he made,
And shook his fists, and twitched his pointed ears!
For there was much skullduggery afoot,
And horrid ghastly beastliness besides,
The Spud Maiden's Swan Song had taken root
Deep in his soul and tuberous insides.
Her tragic voice had roused the pixie throngs
Provoked the wrath of tuber overlords,
And small brown furry things in rubber thongs
Sprang to their feet and brandished tiny swords.
King Edwards, Caras! Hide your youngest sons!
A vast undead potato this way comes!
I know you craved for a poem
but there is a bigger problem:
I am stuck with the word seven
rhyming with the word heaven.
Maybe, from the spring I drank
merely poured verses in blank,
but no, an orphic power compels
and the poem flees and rebels.
So this is the best gift I have,
perhaps gray like a cold grave.
You may even claim it is fine
but I will not write a new line,
until my muse arouse again
and poesy is set to entertain.
I trapped the wind that made
dust dervishes dance in the back yard
Lured it into a sack with the promise
it could create a storm.
I hit the sack with a hammer this for
the wind had stolen my hair
and made me bald as an American eagle.
And Silvio works for me.
I beat the sack until the wind died.
and it got unbearable hot without
a cooling breeze.
I opened the sack and the winds was
blue as a Parisian afternoon.
Windmills and zephyrs will they ever be still?
There’s a breathless hush in the Crucible,
A racing baize and the black to win,
To miss that red was inexcusable –
His hand was shaking – too much gin ?
The “Hurricane” is blown away,
We will not see his like today,
But Hendry, Higgins, Doherty
Williams, Selby, Ding Junhui
Are hoping for that one-four-seven,
The perfect snooker, shot from heaven.
The prize at stake is filthy lucre;
To fans this is the World of Snooker,
A game that’s played in clubs and halls –
But for some, a load of balls !
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.
all is quiet
no noise slithers through the air
no one but me is there.
later, I am surrounded by
a sea of people,
their voices swarm through
the humid rain-filled air
physically I'm crowded,
mentally I'm avoided and secluded,
the air is always quiet where i am and
where i choose to be,
i look around; no one is here but me.
until i find the one who plasters
a smile on my face
the one who makes me laugh
with his humorous grace,
he hums his written songs in my ear
i wont admit, but close to my
heart i hold him dear
By The Potato of Terror 28/3/05; revised 1/2/14
Flying potatoes permeate my days,
Float gently through the attic of my brain;
Winging their way through smoochy summer haze
And tapping tarantellas in the rain.
I want to romp where tuber dreams ignite,
Where pomp is caught with naughty circumstance;
I yearn to flit where reverie takes flight
And lunacy leads love a merry dance.
Flying potatoes infiltrate my nights,
Making me dream of all unnatural things;
Like evil gnomes in capes and fishnet tights
And Maris Pipers with great scaly wings.
Flying potatoes tell me "Be afraid!
We are such dreamers as would stuff a maid!" *
(*With apologies to Shakespeare)
(a Blank Verse Sonnet)
My brain is forced to work within a zone
when writing sonnets as prescribed to me.
Three syllables taboo, use two, I'm told.
The meter stands as guard to stop the flow
and takes away my creativity.
No "ly" words or eye-in-gee to set
the stage, or words like "just" to mar the page.
while one instructor says no words like "that"
yet one will say that words like "which" are wrong.
I want to master writing words that rhyme,
to create sounds which vibrate in your ears
and touch your heart with melody of song.
Why must I stick to words with syllables
of two, when iambic itself has three?