Poem | |
ON THE YOUNG MANS BALD
EYES BLACK AS
NIGHT STARED INTO
FRONT OF HIM
PATHS WHERE THE
CHILDREN HAD ROLLED
THREE BALLS OF SNOW MUCH EALIER THAT VERY DAY.
PATCHES OF GREEN GRASS
STUCK THROUGH PACKED
IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS FACE
A CROOKED CARROT POINTED TOWARD
THE HOUSE WHERE CHILDREN SAT LOOKING
OUT THEIR WINDOW AT THEIR NEW FOUND
FRIEND. HIS BUTTON MOUTH SHAPED FOR
HIM TO LOOK HAPPY SEEMED TO SMILE
AT THEM AS THEY STARTED TO BLOW
KISSES AT THEIR WONDERFUL
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Poem | |
Sparkling snowflakes were falling around
Making a thick blanket on the ground
The lights on the Christmas trees
Twinkling brightly in the breeze
Carol singers sang a Christmas song
People around joined in the throng
Their lanterns casting a golden glow
Their shadows dancing in the snow
Two excited children were ready for bed
Having left food for the reindeer's and Santa to be fed
They’d left their stocking by the tree
Their eager eyes sparkled with glee
Hoping the stockings would be filled with gifts and toys
They put in their letter they’d been good girls and boys
Tommy had asked Santa for a shiny new bike
The red one in the shop was the one he would like
Ella asked for a new doll and a pram that was white
The thought of it made her eyes shine with delight
They sleepily climbed the stairs to their room
Through the curtains they saw the light of the moon
Soon they both were fast asleep
They slept so soundly there was not a peep
In the morning they bounced out of bed
Wondering if Santa and the reindeer's had been fed
Bits of straw and carrot peel lay on the hall floor
Their mouths dropped open in wonder and awe
The living room door was slightly ajar
Santa has visited on his trip from afar
Their stockings bulged with gifts and toys
Santa had kept his promise to these good girls and boys
Contest: Children’s Christmas or Holiday Contest
Sponsor Carol Eastman
~awarded 1st place~
Poem | |
I look to the skies and I see you,
Your face smiling in the midday sun
The rainbow on a damp day
Reminds me of us having fun
Brings to mind the rides at a fairground
The stalls and the coconut shie
The ghost train, where we would steal a kiss
The hit the hammer stall,
which I knew you would try
The bell rings you've done it
Hit the Highest score
Chest thrust out in achievement
Brings a thought to keep for sure
Rain brings another story I think of us
Huddled up under a brolly to keep dry
The puddles we jumped together
Rain on our faces as though we had cried
Holding hands we didn't notice how wet we were
Sneezing and coughs starting the next day
Is this the price we have to pay
For memories that I hold dear.
Snow wow now these are mega thoughts
Snow ball fights are so much fun
Rolling you over in a snow drift
Putting snow down your neck and run
Then there is the snowman be built together
Carrot for a nose and stones for eyes
Scarf round his beck completes the picture
Tears when the sun shines, it slowly melts
bringing about the snowman's demise.
Autumn with its cold nights
A log fire has been lit
Romantic music playing
On the floor leaning against you
Is where I sit.
Now I sit alone looking into the fire so bright
Imagining I can see you smiling
Saying don't worry, all will be alright.
I think of you, I always think if you
Poem | |
When Billy Bob Bunny turned one,
his mama said, “Listen up, son.
I’m sure you could get
away from a net,
but beware the guy bearing a gun!
If a gun-toting farmer you see,
you must hip hop away instantly.
If he has good aim,
you might end up lame
or worse yet, rabbit stew you will be.
So do please, Billy Bob, take good care
that you don’t end up being the hare
that loses his life
so Farmer Jack’s wife
has a soft rabbit stole she can wear!”
But it wasn’t Billy Bob’s habit
to listen to his Mama Rabbit.
Without using good sense,
he hopped over the fence,
saw a carrot and started to grab it.
Farmer Jack spied that rascal. Oh, my!
From a gun, bullets started to fly.
When a shot nicked his ear,
Billy fell down from fear.
Then he heard a small sound like a cry.
“Please don’t shoot at the bunny again,”
cried the farmer’s sweet daughter, and then
Billy could feel her
stroking his soft fur,
and at night he was placed in a pen.
Mama came to the pen and she said,
“You are trapped. I’m just glad you’re not dead.”
Though no freedom he had,
Billy Bob was not sad.
“I’m a loved pet,” he said, “and well fed!”
The moral of this story is: You can tolerate any condition as long as you are loved and well fed!
Poem | |
Whatever turns your crank
Whatever tickles your pickle
Whatever dunks your donut
Whatever waxes your dolphin
Whatever buffs your Buddha
Whatever pops your cork
Whatever pets your monkey
Whatever frosts your cookies
Whatever spills your pills
Whatever trips your trigger
Whatever humps your camel
Whatever melts your chocolate
Whatever peels your onion
Whatever chafes your carrot
Whatever flops your mop
Whatever rocks your socks
Whatever teeters your totter
Whatever milks your goat
Whatever pings your pong
Whatever peels your banana
Whatever blows your nozzle
Whatever tips your canoe
Whatever flicks your switch
Whatever zips your zipper
Whatever blows your stack
Whatever... whatever... whatever!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Poem | |
Snowy splendor of white fluffy freshly fallen snow blanketing everything that
Gets in its way, sparkling like glitter from the illumination descending light
Of the stars, moon, and lights of the street lamp.
Snowman all a glitter in the front yard, with its black top hat, a scarf around its neck,
An orange carrot nose, greeting all visitors.
Snow settled on the spindly tree branches glisten like arms with finger
The homes lit up with different colored Christmas lights on eaves for the holiday spirit,
A candle lit in the window a beacon for those that are traveling,
A warm welcoming to friends to come in and enjoy a cup of hot chocolate,
Wrapped in a warm quilt, enjoying Christmas stories
And sit around the inviting fireplace.
A fresh cut blue spruce sits by the window decorated with delicate old glass
Ornaments handed down, candy canes, toys, children’s handmade ornaments,
an a star to light up the top of the tree, wrapped with strings of popcorn and
cranberry garland, homemade cookies and cakes scenting the air
Carolers out in the chill of the winter night, all warm in stocking hats, wool
Mittens, snow boots, and warm coats singing,
Deck The Halls with boughs of holly, Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Warming people’s hearts
It’s the most wonderful time of the year
By Eve Roper 12/09/2014
Poem | |
For thirty years I’ve been a truckie who has driven far and wide,
Carting goods through day and night all across the countryside…
But hours spent upon the road, do not permit a set routine,
When it comes to dining regular, on healthy style cuisine.
If there’s time I’ll organize an esky, with ice and cans of coke,
Plus a dozen rounds of sandwiches…‘cause this won’t send me broke,
Not like the tucker of roadhouses who all serve a similar trait,
With a big bill like a pelican’s and grease to decorate your plate.
But a truckies life is not habitual; the phone’s his driving sign,
If someone’s sick, or broken down, and the company’s on deadline,
There is no time of thoughts ahead; he must consider first the load,
And it’s on these hauls a truckie must buy meals along the road.
I’d been driving fairly flat out now, for I’d say six weeks or more,
Carting produce down to Adelaide for a distribution store,
Some mornings I would leave at two, and backup a couple of trips,
And live upon that greasy take-away including fish and chips.
But then driving home one evening, I could feel that hunger pain,
Though didn’t feel that I could really cope with roadhouse food again,
For I needed something different, and then this jogged my memory,
There’s a fast food café up ahead that really does cook differently.
I stopped close to the café near the South Australian border,
And walked up to the counter where it says to place your order.
The cook who had his back to me, was making salad rolls to sell,
While dropping chips into the cooker, as he battered fish as well.
And the young girl, who is serving, asked me what I’d like to buy,
But before I gave my answer, one more feature caught my eye,
The cook had gone out to his cool room, and rushed back with a sack,
Then started slicing spuds and onions, while his chips are burning black.
So now by knowing that the backyard chef was well within ear shot,
I nodded, “All right love, well what about, a hamburger with the lot,”
As she was writing down my order, I had some further more to say…
I asked if I could have my burger cooked, in my own special way.
I requested that the bun I get, be very hard and three days old,
The bacon mostly crispy fat, fried onions fatty, burnt and cold,
I want the lettuce limp and bitter, and cucumber piled five high,
A slice of cheese like cardboard. Shredded carrot, brown and dry.
I want my slices of tomato, to be slushy more like juice,
With the egg yolk set like concrete, plus salt and pepper overuse,
I want the meat as black as charcoal, and cooked to a rigid phase,
Then asked her if it’s possible, to drown the lot in mayonnaise.
The cook who had been listening, looked away from boiling fat,
And rudely said, “Fair go mate… I can’t cook, a hamburger like that!”
I raised my eyebrows just a mite and then with tongue in cheek,
I said to him “Why can’t you pal? …You bloody could last week.”
Poem | |
Andrea, I am a purblind parrot
I have to borrow your carrot
(Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty)
I’m Andrea, a visitor to earth,
And I'm a Virgo; astrologically,
Stability has ruled me since my birth.
A gentle, mellow earth girl here you see.
...and heart she opened wide
The placid hue her eyes were born
A flirty blue, her eyes
Romantic eyes, with whisper of soft lavender for one
The breeze blew in
She clung to life and pondered soberly
Beyond what they had endeavored yet to do.
Her vision was an eagle's
She could see the roads along the shore
She felt no wrath, but peace engulfed her
She embraced her soul's release.
New snow, beneath the moon and stars, falls with grace
My sweet goddess Andrea
With divine thunder
Rules the poetic world, the cerulean space
WSponsor Judy Konos
rite a Poem - Poetry Contest
Poem | |
Mushroom soup for breakfast,
Carrot soup for lunch,
Noodle soup for dinner,
Onion soup for brunch!
Chow mein soup the next day,
Broccoli soup – Oh Boy,
Barley soup – I’m feeling sick –
But Poetrysoup for joy!
Poem | |
So sensationally super; Sagittarius son of John Spence
Pleasantly personable, and matriarch Maud Spence’s son
Enabling, exquisite, eloquent, evolving and enterprising
Naturally nice, no nonsense, and a nutritionist nobleman
Carrot consumer, constant comrade and cold-war veteran
Equitably enlightened, and just an elegant eggnog taster
Jumping Jupiter, a jubilant sundae lover, and just a jewel
Oppresso de liber, optimistically captivating; oratorical
Saintly passionate, succulent salmon sampler; sweetheart!
Exquisitely enchanting, enchantingly amatorious; éclat!
Playful, painstakingly passionate, pajama wearer, patient
Handsomely helpful handyman, harmonizer of happiness
Sweet as syrup, shining armor off the shelf; savoir-faire!
Red-blooded poetry connoisseur and radioactively lovable!
Won Seventh Place Position
"Tell Me About You Contest"
June 16, 2010
Sponsored by Amy Green
Poem | |
In Memory of Jimmy Dale Still, Barrel horse rider, KIA, Song Be, Viet Nam, 1/1/70
swaybacked, sand burrs in his mane.
He stands no longer hopefull by the fence up near the house,
but follows the shade around the shed,
Nearby the dented barrels
rust rank and file akimbo,
no longer equadistant prey
of steed and gladiator.
Hay in a self feeder.
The last time Jimmy came to break a bale,
carrot in his pocket, bridle in hand,
they were both young,
Bill's walked a trail, deep,
along the fence to the old arena.
Quiet now; full of weeds.
A place for breaking horses.
Poem | |
Onion of Passion (A Blitz Poem for Poetry Soup)
Start with an idea
Start with an onion
Onion on a cutting board
Onion from the crisper drawer
Drawer of firm vegetables
Drawer of future soup
Soup to feed the poet’s soul
Soup to cure the common cold
Cold days feeling uninspired
Cold nights feeling over tired
Tired of the same same same
Tired of this empty feeling
Hungry for a poem to come
Hungry for some hearty soup
Soup flavored with Whitman’s marrow
Soup that starts with his sort of rawness
Rawness of starchy emotion
Rawness of aromatic images
Images of stiff green celery stalks
Images of bright chunked carrot snips
Snips sautéing in olive oil (dash of salt!)
Snips of memory softening
Softening and blending into metaphors
Softening with those onions now translucent
Translucent as distant dreams
Translucent as childhood kisses
Kisses snuck behind the bushes or
Kisses from great grandma
Grandma gave this life recipe
Grandma said to let things simmer
Simmer with love like chicken stock
Simmer then add the bag of herbs
Herbs are like adjectives
Herbs like just the right verbs
Verbs of action rather than being
Verbs like heat and sear and cook and flavor
Flavor the soup
Flavor for sharing
Sharing is why
Why we cook these chunky poems
Why we cook anything
Anything at all
Anything with passion
Passion and heart
Poem | |
Here you are, only twelve, at our kitchen table.
Such a carrot top you were! Strangers used to think
you were our red-head mother’s natural son.
And here’s that photo you took of me at college.
Though you’re not in it, how could I ever forget
it was you in front of me that snapped that shot?
For I’m laughing and so glad you came to see me!
In this one, all ten of us are in the back yard
dressed in our Sunday best - our first big reunion!
I’m nearly 30; just look at my silly perm!
Folks still mistake me for Dori in this picture!
Look how Mom and Thea - for once - are smiling!
You’re standing behind me, in a lovely grey suit,
only 32 and almost out of law school!
Here from more recent pictures, this shows a rare time
we were joined, but sadly, for Dad‘s funeral.
You‘re not in this one, Dale . . . nor in any others.
That picture in our back yard was to be the last.
My dear stepbrother, the best man I ever knew -
Taken from us so young. . . you remain beloved.
Poem | |
Winter arrives and God's sculpture is seen everywhere,
Snow as white as cotton, on the rooftops of the houses.
Trees brushed with snow along their delicate branches,
Spruce and pine trees and boughs, God's Christmas Card.
Snowman white and round with eyes and mouth made of coal,
And a carrot nose, topped with a black hat and winter scarf.
The sounds of the sculpture are silent and reverent,
Only the sounds of the wind can be heard.
Parents and children creating these snow scenes,
Sounds of laughter, enjoying God's sculptures.
Mountains of snow, tall and small,
With smooth and rugged angles.
God's winter sculpture, his portrait of excellence,
To be appreciated by humanity.
Winter weather is a friend and not a foe,
And whereever you go God's beauty reigns.
Author: Gwen Meyer-Erlach Schutz
Poem | |
Horace the tortoise went out to dine
He ordered his food, and the waiter poured wine
They bought in the first course, a huge bowl of soup
In the hot broth was a rabbit, swimming in loops!!
"Oh waiter! Come quickly!"..."There's a hare in my soup!!"
And soon other patrons, gathered 'round in a group
Their eyes were astonished, as that hare took a swim
Splashing the soup, and wearing a grin
"This is disgusting"!! "Oh, what a disgrace!!"
"It's that same rascal rabbit...who lost yesterday's race!!"
"He's that same trouble maker....now he's eating my food!"
"He's come for revenge, that rascal's no good!!"
"Call the authorities!! Someone, please call the cops!"
As that rascal munched a carrot....then, quickly he hopped
Right out of the soup bowl, and over the table, down to the floor
Hopped through the restaurant, and right out the door
Hippity hop, hippity hop....nibbling a lot, couldn't be stopped!
Grinning a lot, and spouting "What's happening, Doc?"
Hippity Hop, Hippity Hop...all the patrons were shocked
He hopped down the sidewalk! Leaving poor Horace distraught!!!
Poem | |
The mighty line their pockets,
And the workers pay the price.
Racing along in the jaws of the rat,
As we fight for moral life.
Wrongs no longer righted,
Paying through the nose.
Suffering for a wealth of greed,
As apprehension grows.
Domino’s standing in a row,
Just waiting for that push.
Not knowing when it’s coming,
Left dangling on a hook.
Heads just above the water,
Braced for more to come.
Working harder paying more,
Subsidising on and on.
Swallowing the lies no longer,
We're seeing what is true.
The freedom of choice is dwindling,
There’s nothing we can do.
The safety net has long since gone,
Leaving broken and shattered trust.
A nation with fading identity,
Slowly grinding into dust.
What once made us who we are,
Disappears each passing day.
As rules and regulations change,
Human rights are stripped away.
Feared to voice opinions,
Lest we’re branded for our views.
Seemingly cornered, no way out,
Hoping we make it through.
The worst around the corner,
And so much more to come.
Take it on the chin, stiff upper lip,
Left to bravely soldier on?
The mighty fall eventually,
A cycle that time has repeated.
The price is high for working man,
As resources are depleted.
A lump in the throat of the future,
And what awaits us there.
For those we chose to lead us,
Line their pockets, is that fair?
Too blind to see, with carrot dangling,
And now we pay the price.
In a crazy suffocating mess ,
Just another day in paradise.
Poem | |
There’s magic on the tungsten sea
That brings forth spittle in waves
Like giant sheets of paper uncurling
On a table.
There’s magic in the carrot sunlight
That makes pale skin warm and silky
Like a peach that softly meet’s the
Lips of a beauty.
Impossible is commonplace when mind
And world collide and magic conjures
Idle musings .
There’s magic in the breeze that carries
Distant garbled voices muffled by the
Whooshing waves I hear in the giant
Poem | |
it was the perfect start to a day
sitting in the sky a wonderful display
a huge morning cauliflower cloud
a pureed golden creamy shroud
the light sprinkles in a purple spice
blends in sparingly some spanish rice
throws in exceptionally diced spuds
then a dash of cayenne hot to the buds
finally ends with a carrot slice
to the eye seemingly cut twice
you know this is nature's lure
freshly brewed soup du jour
P.S. yummmmm! yummmmm! for an encore. brought out more.
after a delicate taste. added some tomato paste.
freshly baked and churned buttered bread.
for what was a simple soup quite the spread.
a splendid chat. tip of the hat
and that's that. out, like an ali kat.
Poem | |
Continued from Pt 1
In the living room I could hear my parrot. I reached in the refrigerator to grab a
carrot. In the living room I found momma's sewing kit. I grabbed lots of buttons for Mr.
Back outside I looked at your snowman. "Something is missing for you." I made a face
and I knew. Back inside I grabbed my Yankee's hat - it will have to do. I walked over to
grandpa's chair, "A pipe for him too!"
I returned to Mr. Snowman. He was beginning to look cool as a fan. My Yankee's hat
on his head would be his only clothes. A carrot for his nose. It would be uncivilized if I did
not have two buttons for his eyes. Too bad I did not have a wig for some kind of hairstyle.
So I added several buttons to make him smile. He was beginning to look his best. I placed
the remaining buttons down his chest. He was the perfect snowman prototype. I finally
added his pipe!
I snapped lots of pictures playing in the snow; So you would know how much fun it is
from my personal view. As if on cue, I pressed send. Hoping these pic's would convince you
to visit me for a weekend.
You receive text messages from Jimmy Matthew, and you see several cute pic's of me
in snowshoes. You notice my lips are cold and blue. Finally you see several pic's of a
snowman for you!!!
Note: Here's Pt 2 of your snowman poem Charma:)
Poem | |
I SHUDDER TO THINK
I shudder to think about the way
Some vegetables are abused every day -
With physical and psychological slights
In gross violation of their vegetable rights.
Handicapped vegetables have no chance to fight back
Like eyeless potatoes - poor blind mites,
And baby carrots , aaw! Or peas-in-a-pod,
Eaten before they’re even born and take a breath.
Imagine those frantic runnerbeans
Desperately trying to escape.
No surprise that peas are strained.
My over-tired mum used to say, “Oh, I’m shredded.”
So I understand how tired shredded-cabbage must feel.
What about the potatoes who diced with death and lost?
Jerusalem Artichokes - “chokes” is horrible!
Why not “Jerusalem Passes Aways” ?
And ”Squash” ! - Please speak more politely:
What a way to go - we should say “Press Lightly”.
No wonder some clean-living veg are angry :
Parsnip - an angry snip from parson or clergy;
Swede resembling a tall blond person, Stockholm based;
With horrid ethnic humour ( bad taste)
Like sauerkraut (also bad taste)
(So-called humour about a surly German).
Look at insults basd on vegetables for a human -
“The IQ of a cabbage.” What ethnicity insults !
I’m sorry for tomatoes - all this veg talk results
In them being called a vegetable dish
It’s like calling Scots people English.
Sheer vegetable racism is the worst. Mixed potato and carrot salad?
Not in apartheid South Africa – their salad had to be pallid.
Oh yes some veg are spoiled like children :
Coddled cauliflower warmed in milk ; then
Brazed egg-plants (please call snobby ones aubergines)
Suntanned slowly at their leisure;
And butter (not margarine) beans cooked with pleasure.
It’s too horrible entirely, the abuse is complete
I’ll stop being vegetarian, and start eating meat.
Poem | |
((( THIS POEM IS A DEDICATION
((( TO MY nemesis and pest Silly Billy theKidster
((( HE JOINed MY CONTEST AS A JOKE
~~~~ both # 1 are for fun ~~~~
*** CHEERS ***
____the Fox and the Kidster____ (slam)&(bam)
I wrote about my inner animal on a blog.
Like a snake Silly Billy began barking like a dog.
I followed him all the way down the river bank.
Than I smothered him with the water he drank.
I put my foot on his head and enjoyed drowning him in the lake.
It was funny to see how much the kidster a$$ could take.
I than released him and I said "silly hound your no match for this fox!"
Now move along before they finds your carcass and stuff you in a box.
Don't try to KIDster your way into my ear.
I'm tired of seeing how you wet your pants when I am near.
He yips he yaps like a dirty PARROT,
I made him cry when I called him a cracker and ate his carrot.
Silly Kidster how dare you strike me with lies.
Preying on the poetry, with your horny eyes.
Sadly this hound has no bite and no bark.
As for me I'm just a sly fox playing in this ball park.
So little William H. Poe"
You will never know!
The donkeys rear end will be your only show.
So, don't go stealing my lines from our first low blow.
I give you an A+ today for calling me a Royal pain in the ass.
Next time you want to play give your mini slam some better class.
Lesson learned from my poetry (Fox and Kidster) tale.
I will always be a silly sly fox with a silver bushy tail.
____Sly Fox____ (couplets)
This is for Nikko's 'inner animal' blog.
Perhaps I should tell her my inner animal is a dog.
Nope! That can't be, I'm no where near obedient!
My inner lioness comes with the perfect ingredient.
When it comes to my own, I will always protect my cubs.
When it comes to a male lion, he can get his own grub.
Let me see I love the colors of the peacock.
If my inner animal was a rabbit, would you be in shock?
How about a little yellow ducky in a tub?
Oh no! It's the sly fox holding my 'ace of club'.
___Coyote -wolf -fox___ (haiku)
coyote is cold
what happen to pretty fur
my coat keeps me warm
blood all over wool
not a single wolf around
boy yelled out big foot
fox in rabbits hole
hunter lost with out hound dog
attack of rabies
Poem | |
Dreaming of dessert that’s mighty fine?
Something rich, creamy, lusciously devine?
Not many desserts would I dare refuse,
but, carrot cake, aah, I will always choose.
My lips smack on that delectable treat,
my hips expand three inches in a week.
That’s why I watch my caloric intake,
to keep my body at a desirable weight.
But my carrot cake should I bake,
I may lie about the true intake.
All that frosting atop that cake--
temptation's too great to alleviate.
Confectioners sugar, cream cheese and butter,
add pecans; now that’s a booger!
Cake layers thinner, more icing to cover,
stacking them high one on another.
I shred my carrots really fine,
stirring and mixing to thoroughly combine;
pour in pan, await oven's chime;
closer now to lip-smacking time!
Won 3rd place in Linda-Marie Bariana's
"Dreamy Desserts" Contest
June 6, 2010
Poem | |
Fields filled with stalks of corn
A plow that is dirty and worn
Jars of milk and eggs from chickens
For breakfast cooking in your kitchen
Cows are mooing-- Roosters crowing
Planting seeds for veggie growing
Muddy pigs are such a fright
Goats eat everything in sight
Horses neighing in the barn
For a carrot to munch on
Dogs are rounding up some sheep
Hay is stacked in big tall heaps
Porch swings used most every night
To see stars shining oh so bright
Country songs are playing loud
To attract a dancing crowd
Neighbors waving and say hi
Every time that you pass by
Country life is hard and fun
Lots of work is getting done
Good times start and never end
Until the sun wakes up again
Poem | |
He looked out at the snow and ice,
As a cold wind whistled winter
Through the door, bringing hope
Of making a real-life snowman,
A special friend for a lonely boy,
At least in his world it was so.
He ran out of his room and leapt so
High, sliding down the banister as if on ice.
Then, putting on his boots and scarf, the boy
Flew out of the door into the depths of winter,
Laughing, scooping, sculpting his snowman,
His pal, his accomplice, his hope.
He rolled about without a hope
Of caring for the cold, and so,
Wrapping his scarf around his snowman,
He skidded about on sparkling ice
Losing his boots to the big mad winter…
And there was no happier boy.
A solitary but cheerful boy,
No others there to spoil the hope
Of finding secret delights in winter
That only he believed in so,
Secrets long buried in solid ice,
Yet found inside a snowman.
He danced and chatted to his snowman
And he in turn smiled down at the boy,
Complete with carrot nose and eyes of ice
It filled his heart with warmth and hope,
Showed him the meaning of life so
Full of love, in coldest cruellest winter.
Back inside he looks on winter
Watching his own precious snowman,
And though the fire roars and sweets so
Tempting fill the senses of the boy,
Nothing gives him more joy-filled hope
Than gazing on two lumps of ice.
The darkest winter, that lies inside a boy,
Is brightened by a snowman, a light of hope
That friendship gives so, through frozen ice.
Poem | |
Day in and day out, white coated lab rats try chopping me into smaller and smaller pieces as if I was no more significant than a carrot or an onion. Enough, already.
But there’s more. Those irrational humans throw piles of money at
Elongated underground tunnels for the sole purpose
Of smashing me into nano-somethings.
I could think of better ways to spend a Sunday.
When those “geniuses” get bored with trying to split me,
They attach little circular imposters together with pins.
Why they revel in their intelligence by playing
With clown noses is beyond me.
To be born an atom is exhausting,
But I’ll outlast every one of
Those meddling humans.