Long poem by
Mary Oliver Rotman | Details |
Randomling 1: Matthew Macfadyen
I believe I'm in love with Matthew Macfadyen
He inspires in me a terribly bad yen
But as poetry goes
His name 'spires woes
Cause nothing rhymes with "Macfadyen”.
Randomling 2: Birthday Wishes
For my birthday, I would like a man.
I wonder---can you get one from a can?
Or maybe from a catalog?
Maybe I'll just get a dog.
Randomling 3: Yet Another Cat Poem
toddlers in fur
senior citizens with retractable claws
lions in their own minds
lunch in the minds of dogs.
Randomling 4: Desert Woes
A sage river in a field of sand:
so flows hope in a barren land;
the crippled heart in prosthetic steel,
hacked and scarred, a vulture’s meal.
Randomling 5: Dark Poetry
Follow poetry to its source;
There find heartbreak and remorse.
Follow poetry to the bitter end,
And there find death, its bosom friend.
Randomling 6: Ode to Bananas
an underappreciated fruit
sentenced to banananality
because yellow is their long suit.
Randomling 7: Untitled
this heart is closed to deposits.
There's no more room for pain.
Randomling 8: Untitled
My heart is sealed in a cold steel vault,
and I’ve lost the combination.
Randomling 9: Joyce Kilmer 2015
I think that I shall never see
A man as useful as a tree.
One has uses by the score;
The other one is apt to snore.
Randomling 10: Bedtime Prayers
Now I lay me down to sleep,
A leaden heart is mine to keep.
If I should die before I wake--
Now there’s an offer I’d gladly take.
Randomling 11: The Devil Wind
Fury with a smoky tail
Eddies of destruction
Deceitful beauty, enchanting danger
Death sporting a makeover
DON'T READ #12 IF YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR ME TALK TO MY SON ABOUT CERTAIN ASPECTS OF THE BIRDS AND BEES_________________________
Randomling 12: A Boy's Best Friend
Your penis—it is not a toy
I told my little son.
O yes it is, he parried me
It's quite my favorite one.
Randomling 13: Fault Lines
I have a bathroom mirror
that's grown faulty over time.
My reflection is no longer true;
it's developed little lines!
Randomling 14: Shakespeare 101
“To be or not to be. That is the question.”
--Whaddya mean, THE question?
Randomling 15: Christmas?
Peace on earth to men of good credit
Who give the gift of corporate profit
in the holy name of commercialism.
Randomling 16: Musical Believer
Though my conscience sleeps,
wrapped in the Valium of
agnosticism, it awakens to
the music of Mozart--
once more knowing God
by the sound of His voice.
Randomling 17: Vacuum
I didn't write a poem when you died.
The words would not come.
Perhaps I felt too deeply,
perhaps not enough;
maybe I died too. 10/06/01
Randomling 18: Insanity
Insanity is underrated
Its drawbacks,much overstated.
How else to do what you darn well please
And accomplish it with so much ease?
Randomling 19: Dog Day Afternoon
WATER! BALL! CHASE!
salt, waves, undertow
I don't know what's going
on here, but I'm HAPPY!
Randomling 20: Opposites Attract
i am matter---love, antimatter
never to meet save to explode
i am space, love is time
parallel dimensions never to meet
Randomling 21: Puppy Love
I ride a leaky newspaper raft
Adrift on the linoleum
Anxiously awaiting an
An attack of smelly
covered in fuzz:
Randomling 22: Newton's Poultice
Apple falls from tree
Newton (ouch!) takes notice
Comes up with law of gravity
while wearing a poultice
on the solstice
Randomling 23: Ticking
And the clock on the wall kept on ticking
while my life fell apart all around me.
Sweet memories faded to shadow
as my heart fell to pieces inside me.
And the clock on the wall kept on ticking
Relentlessly ticking, ticking
While my life fell apart all around me.
Randomling 24: Untitled
a mosaic assembled from
tiles of delight and
black-glazed stones of despair
in seamless beauty
Randomling 25: Seasonal Lament
end at both end
as summer falls into the
arm of winter. arm
Randomling 26: Untitled
I didn't want
to love you.
Randomling 27: Pills
Depression is days and nights curled fetal-like
in a dark room, no interest in the world outside,
idly wondering if there are enough
pills in the bottle to kill you,
then thinking it's not worth the effort
to find out because you're dead inside already.
Randomling 28: Guilt By Association
Fresh morning light frames
the cat, surrounded by piles of
dirt and deceased plants,
Randomling 29: Bell the Cat
How do you give a cat a bath?
Maybe you can do the math.
All I know is she stinks to high heaven.
And of us there are only seven.
How many humans to bathe a cat?
Definitely more than where we're at!
Randomling 30: Muse
I want to write a poem
using the word gossamer.
Randomling 31: Ripples
Canoes rock gently
under the waxing moon.
Black water ripples,
painting a beautiful scene
under the scented pines.
Randomling 32: Sunshine Waterfall
I cleanse my face in a sunshine waterfall,
luxuriate in a sunshine shower.
Waterfall flow and warm me;
sprinkle lemon drops through my hair.
Randomling 33: Salon Treatment
Hurricanes scour everything
they touch, then rinse and blow
Randomling 34: My Window
Blue sky pokes its face
through the canopy of trees.
Heat wave is over!
Mary Oliver Rotman
Long poem by
Tommy Boy | Details |
Barrymore T. Raven III here, at your service. Last time we spoke I had hoped to set the record straight on the public's perception of Ravendom. Now that we've resolved that long-standing issue, let's move on, shall we? It has recently come to my attention that while we ravens have often been the subject of various and sundry pieces of literature, none of us can remember ever seeing a published piece written by a raven. Now, it may be that the general public feels that raven poetry is sub-par and therefore has no merit.
THAT ENDS TODAY!
(ahem - squawk, that's better!)
My Fuzzy Pillow - by Barrymore T. Raven III
I love my fuzzy little pillow
it feels like, like... (geez, left my reading glasses at home!)
uh... it feels like strawberry jello
it keeps me comfy in my bordello (wait, I forgot what that means...)
[*note to reader - three raven buds have just flown in for "the reading"]
uh, uh... my homeys from the hood
yo, we've always understood
we're a different kinda brood
HIT IT BOYS!
ooga shocka ooga shocka ooga ooga ooga shocka
I, I'm hooked on a feeling (ooga ooga ooga shocka)
I'm high on believin' (ooga shocka ooga shocka)
that you're in love with me (ooga ooga ooga shocka)
lips are sweet as candy the taste is on my mind
girl you got me thirsty for another cup of wine...
(*note - song ends, raven buds depart)
Whew! That was way too close for comfort. Now, where were we? Oh yes...
My Fuzzy Pillow - by Barrymore T. Raven III
I love my fuzzy little pillow...
* This audio transcript came in from Barrymore several months later...
(Ahem! Is this thing on? Hello? Testing one two one two. Poe was a dip, Poe was a dip, testing...)
Barrymore T. Raven III here, at your service. As many of you may remember, I recently broke my 170 year silence to try and set the record straight on humanity's erroneous view of Ravendom. Thanks to a certain poet (who for the moment shall remain nameless) many, if not most of you, were under the impression that ravens are brainless dimwits who have nothing better to do than say "nevermore" over and over again. In addition, I had hoped to dispel the notion that ravens are dark, mysterious, and evil by posting the very first (known) raven poem (authored by yours truly) entitled: My fuzzy pillow.
Well, two things. Number one, I'm still reading dark raven poetry, which tells me that I'm just not getting through to you folks. Two, my media contacts inform me that my poem was not well-received. Hello? It's a missed opportunity people. Ask yourself - when was the last time that you read a high quality poem written by a raven? For that matter, when was the last time that you read any raven-penned poetry at all? That's what I thought. As it turns out, I just finished a writing course and attended a number of workshops in an attempt to improve my skills. The following piece should hold your attention (assuming, of course, that you know good poetry when you see it!).
by: Barrymore T. Raven III
Once upon a daydream faintly, whilst I watched the boob tube quaintly,
Jerry Springer 'bout half over when I nodded off to sleep.
Soon was snoring (show was boring), suddenly I heard my bell ring,
outside it was really pouring, pouring there outside my door,
'tis a preacher man, I stuttered, standing there outside my door,
I'll be a (beanbag) chair and nothing more.
(um, this is the readers digest version, folks)
Beanbag pretend just not working, freak outside just keeps on twerking (wait! I forgot what that means)
then through my window climbs this guy who looks a bit unstable.
He stops and stares as though a zombie, asked him could he be from Bombay,
(think his jeans were Abercrombie), told him please to hit the door,
showed him clearly to the exit, pointed there toward the door,
stood there shaking, nothing more.
"Now look" I cawed with all my muster, "Get this through your thick head buster,
SpongeBob's coming on soon and I've still to take my nap."
He looks at me with subtle smile, crazy eyes that now beguile,
karma's bringing me this trial, on my knees (Ack! I don't have knees) I now implored,
would he please just take a hike, I now get up from off the floor,
he glares and says: 'Uh...Uh... I gotta tinkle.'
That's right, you now have the edited, abridged version of what REALLY happened back there in 1845. Now I know what you're thinking. Gotta tinkle? But it doesn't rhyme! Well, that's what he said folks. And it may explain why he felt the need to turn things around and make me look like the nitwit in his infamous re-telling.
This is Barrymore T. Raven III, once again, at your service!
Long poem by
Tommy Boy | Details |
three blind mice
three blind mice
see how they run
see how they run
they all ran after the farmer's wife
she cut off their tails with a carving knife
did you ever see such a sight in your life
as three blind mice
three blind mice
Dumpty here. As in Sam Dumpty. Another tale to be told, another mystery to be solved. And I'm just the guy to do it! After carefully considering all of the relevant facts, taking into account, of course, any mitigating circumstances, then factoring in miscellaneous possibilities, I have put together the pieces of this unusual and extraordinary puzzle and have come up with a working theory as to what actually occurred and why (deep breath).
I started my premise with a multiple query. Three things I considered: (a) How did the mice become blind? (b) Why did they turn on the farmer's wife and (c) Were the aforementioned facts somehow related?
I interrogated the farmer's wife first under the hottest light I could find and with a menacing look in my eye (for intimidation purposes only, of course). "Now look ma'am, I said, your story's just not adding up. Now one more time and from the beginning!"
"Well Mr. Dumpty, sir, as I told you already, I was baking an apple pie, minding my own business, singing a happy tune when suddenly, and for no apparent reason, in ran these three ghastly mice, screaming obscenities and threatening me in the most vulgar of terms. Why, I had no choice but to run. 'Round and 'round the table I ran, when the glint from the carving knife caught my eye. Well sir, never in a million years was it my intent to do any harm to those cute, disabled, furry little mice, no sir! But a strange wave of giddy excitement overwhelmed me as I considered the prospect of cutting off their little tails (sniff). I... I don't know what came over me. I love mice, really I do! I even keep their little tails in a jar on my kitchen windowsill as a reminder never, no never, to do that sort of thing again. Ever!"
Dumpty here. Well, now you know the story from the dame's point of view. But I couldn't help but think that a piece of the puzzle was still missing. So I decided to visit the three blind meese, er, mice, at the nursing home where they now reside. Their story was hard to swallow, but I believed every word of it!
"Thanks for granting the interview Mr. meeses, I mean, oh whatever! Now look, er, what I mean is, well, not literally look, what I meant to say is... no, hey guys I'm over here! Okay, now that I have your attention, I need to hear your side of the story, and please, just the facts ma'am, er, sirs."
"Well, the name's Ervin. Ervin T. Shorttail III. Who knew my last name would end up to be prophetic (sigh). This is my brother Earl and this is my other brother Earl. We just three ordinary barn mice, never hurt no one, no sir (thas right Ervin, tell 'im). Now there we happened to be one day, mindin' our business, when the smell of apple pie entered our tiny nostrils (mindin' our own biz) and we just had to find out what all the fuss was about (wasn't hurtin' nobody, uh-uh). So we climbed up the side of the house up that little hangin' vine and peeped through the open window (jus peepin', thas all). Well, that crazy ol' farmer's wife took one look at us, let out a terrible shriek (we jus mice, thas all) and she done maced us right on the spot (can't see no mo)! Now, Mr. detective, surely you can see that it was uncalled for! We wasn't gonna eat the whole thing, no, we was only wantin' jus a taste (jus a taste or two). Anyway, now we three blind ol' mice. But the thought of retaliation was the farthest thing from our minds (no sir). Then, about a week later, there we was, stumblin' 'round the barn tryin' to find a scrap to eat when suddenly, and without warning, comes the smell of apple pie right up our nostrils all over again (we done jus got over it)! So we thought, man, that crazy ol' bat be tauntin' us. Now, we ain't havin' it, us already bein' blind and all (can't see no mo). So, in we went, jus to talk, thas all (tell 'im Ervin). Man, you know she grabbed that knife and started whackin' away. Now we three blind mice wit no tails, layin' here in this nasty old folks home. You know, we jus mice (jus mice, thas all)."
Dumpty back. Well, I took the guys' story to my captain, and it wasn't long before we had her locked up. For good! Now you know the true story behind this seemingly unsolvable conundrum.
This is Detective Sam Dumpty, signing off!
*audio link for voice dramatization here: https://soundcloud.com/tom-woodliff/three-blind-mice
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
Herpetologist meets actress (Cameron Diaz).
If he's funny he's me.
South America or Africa (on location).
In a diamond mind.
The protagonists (lovers), the diamonds, the miners and the minders.
By minders I (he) mean (means) watchers, organizers, supervisors.
As all art must: choose a focus.
The personal is political said Cameron on the night bus to Quebec.
I had never met a girl so willing to make love in public.
Open to it.
To what extent is violence necessary? And
is that the essential question or
should violence be accepted as man's state, fate
a more essential question existing beyond or below
peace or war. Perhaps
the religious and (for the irreligious) sacred injunction
against egregious violence exists
to still ourselves
to open ourselves
to the deeper question. That Cameron Diaz is funny and beautiful
is hopeful. And the telescope and microscope have extended
the eye's appreciation. Under the microscope
Cameron becomes a collection of foreign, alien, uncompassionate,
organisms. Frightening, inexorable, fascinating
to the scientist in you!
To the telescope
vanishingly small, infinitesimal as the farthest sun
smaller by magnitudes of magnitudes of ten
and incinerated in a nanosecond. Gone
from the movie (photographs the contents of which move
for the naked eye).
I cannot help what I do or hope.
Anyway, it's a love story
or science project, socio-political documentary. An essay.
An essay about how it is actually impossible to say what you mean
but it is possible with a lifetime of meditation and study to shut up
and know what you meant.
Now I'm deaf.
I can see Cameron Diaz but not hear her.
The guy, the herpetologist, at first colorless turns out to be
colorful as a bird or snake!
He knows a lot about snakes, and birds! Not only how they mate
but what they eat
where they rest
what they do with their pain. Do they get depressed?
Can they have guests?
How do they judiciously employ violence to organize and defend
The international collective remains insufficiently organized
resulting in violence and threats of violence that interrupt
commerce, procreation (love) and the pursuit of happiness (Cameron
at least for certain populations, sometimes.
Otherwise, most men, most times, live in peace excepting
flood or fire God or man may
choose to impose.
I lay in my bed and listen naked.
Have a good day (Diaz).
The goddess does not exist, except as bone.
Around this time (July)
the queen yellow jacket (redcoat) searches
blind and deaf
for a ledge or cavity to build a city of her descendants
safe, that they can defend.
and sleeping peacefully, overwinter. We, however,
remain active, Cameron Diaz makes winter movies or
love stories in South America, and I
delight to imagine her herpetologist. Or one who
discovers the sun
around which a habitable, understandable, compatible
orb orbs. Or
maybe the movie's about the revolution, soldiers dying defending
this dictator or that dreamer
and the movie completely failing, not even trying, to explain how
the sons and daughters of the dying soldiers (miners) feel
fishing alone, hunting for wisdom, thereafter.
Sure, these men chose violence, not Cameron Diaz, and were not
farmers, botanists or herpetologists
their tools could have been and should have been the telescope or
but are there enough microscopes and telescopes to go around
and did we not (taxpayers, movie makers) encourage them to
defend Cameron Diaz?
Man's world is insufficiently organized to preclude violence
in allocating resources (Cameron Diaz).
When we invade Iraq
to defend our allies and interests
with rockets and rocket throwers, Rockettes and Cameron Diaz
each man (each Diaz) must make his
own individual choice
whether this war
is worth fighting for or the next or the worst.
Go to jail, go directly to waterboard, at the hands of
your local police, chamber of commerce.
Learn how to walk the desert and the universe.
The names of rocks and planets,
that being the only answer to the hyperorganization that is a cancer on
our insufficient organization.
I was reading Foreign Affairs
The Case Against the West by Kishore Mabubami (Cameron Diaz).
How can I relinquish my privileged position
sit still, lie naked
until what constitutes consent of the governed and non-violent change,
to her herpetologist
Long poem by
Roy Jerden | Details |
Sipping cherry limeade, driving in the car parade,
we're cruising in the Lone Star state.
Didn't want a bucket seat; the thing it couldn't beat,
was sitting up close to your date.
One hand on the wheel of daddy’s Oldsmobile,
my arm around my brown-eyed girl,
feeling pretty sporty, radio on Top Forty,
I was cooler than the Duke of Earl.
The lady of the cruise had her penny loafer shoes;
her bobby socks were turned down twice.
With a little eyeliner, she couldn't be much finer,
too much and it wouldn't be nice.
There’d be no wild oats under those petticoats;
she’d never go all the way...
just a perfect flip-up 'do and cute look number two
practiced in the mirror all day.
Hear those tires squeal when I make the rubber peel
for the fly-boys waiting on the bus,
to take them to the base where they don't feel out of place,
not cruising like the rest of us.
I was the drag's head honcho as we pulled across the Concho
and we saw the lights along the riverside.
We'd had quite a lark there at Neff's amusement park,
playing Putt-Putt and going on a ride.
The cheerleader squad rode a killer hot rod
with a spinner on every rim,
a perfect tuck and pleat on every single seat,
courtesy of Wanda's Auto Trim.
Candy apple red, it would really knock you dead;
it was a drop-top Pontiac.
One was there to steer and three were in the rear
posing up on the back.
Those football beauty queens in their skin-tight Levi jeans
were followed by their biggest fan.
Checking out those lasses in his Buddy Holly glasses
was the nerdy little Aqua Velva man.
In his stainless steel braces he grinned up at their faces;
they iced him with a haughty air.
He never would forget it; they would later on regret it
when he became a multi-millionaire.
A four girl bevy in a big finned Chevy
were riding west on Sherwood Way,
four guys right behind in a pick-up state of mind,
all ready to make their play.
Thought they were the smartest cruising pick-up artists,
but those gals were pretty astute.
When they stopped and the guys started telling all their lies,
the chicks started putting on the cute.
We turned the car around and headed back downtown,
cruising down the boulevard.
Stay cool daddio, bear right at El Patio,
and take it down Beauregard.
There were lots of pleated skirts and those button-down shirts.
The flattops were everywhere galore.
From a Lincoln Continental, we heard an instrumental,
Mister Acker Bilk's “Stranger on the Shore”.
We slowly pulled through BJ’s, listening to the deejay’s
announcement of the next hit song.
Leaning on their doors with their Brylcreem pompadours,
two hoods were playing Mr. Wrong.
Completing their disguise, they slouched with narrowed eyes
and did their best at looking mean.
With a twist of his pelvis, one was doing Elvis.
The other did a fine James Dean.
Like a sweet potato vine, the bride of Frankenstein
was entwined around the Marlboro man.
With the passion of their make out, they should have gotten takeout
and opted for a bigger floor plan.
With her black beehive hair and his fancy western wear,
they were putting on quite an awesome scene.
I had to give a chuckle at his huge silver buckle,
but those M.L. Leddy boots looked mighty keen.
I pulled the Olds on through, and we bid BJ’s adieu,
and I put us back onto the street.
With those four whitewall tires, we made for McIntire's
to get ourselves a bite to eat.
We stopped for some fuel, over near the school,
in those days they came right out to you.
Best place on Earth, ‘cause with a dollar’s worth,
they’d check your oil and clean your window too.
The drive-in, painted green, was quite the social scene
with people mingling car to car.
Everyone was caring; the drinks were all for sharing,
(especially when in a mason jar).
She ate a big banana split, and then left me for a bit
to comfort an old friend not feeling right.
A moment more to linger with that final steak finger,
then I took her home and called that one a night.
That was many years ago, but some things you don’t outgrow,
and I think back to when I was a teen.
When doors were left unlocked, and children safely flocked,
unchaperoned at night on Halloween.
And sometimes at night, when the stars are big and bright,
and I’m deep in a Texas state of mind,
I think of that lass who was in my high school class,
And I wonder if she thinks of me in kind.
August 10, 2012
Long poem by
Tommy Boy | Details |
"who's afraid of the big bad wolf
the big bad wolf
the big bad wolf
who's afraid of the big bad wolf
la de da de da"
Dumpty here. That's detective Sam Dumpty - seeker of fairy-tale truth, righter of literary wrongs, supporter of the wrongly accused and defamed. The Three Little Pigs. The story told never seemed quite right to me. Why, I'd known the big bad wolf for years, never seemed much interested in pigs. Once told me he hated bacon, too fatty for his taste. No, he always preferred sheep, ever since he cut his first fang. Most knew him as Mr. Foxy (a name he always hated because, duh, he was a wolf!). But I knew him by his given name - Elrod. In any case, I never could figure out why he suddenly developed a taste for pig. So I've spent a considerable amount of time trying to solve this seemingly unsolvable conundrum.
I decided I'd start first with the pigs' side of the story. I went to Youly's house (aka the smart pig who made his house of bricks).
"Thanks for meeting with me Mr. Youly Pig, sir. Nice home you have here."
"Why thank you er, oh yes, Mr. Dumpty sir. Oh dear, anyone ever tell you you resemble an egg? Shame on me! Can we start over? I'm not normally so ill-mannered!
"Uh... no problem. Could you please explain your thoughts on why the wolf turned on you and your brothers? And please ma'am, er, sir, just the facts."
"Well, to be honest, we never feared the big bad wolf until that terrible day. Yes, before that he would pass us by, usually with a bloody sheep hanging from his jaws, and give us a nod as if to say 'how do you do,' and he'd be on his way. Never once did we ever feel threatened in any way."
"I see. So what do you believe was the straw that broke the camel, er, wolf's back, as it were?"
"Well, I've never told a soul the truth. But I'll tell it to you now. Best it come out before I die and the truth stays buried forevermore in fairy-tale lore. As you know, my brothers, that is, Edly and Midly, were aspiring musicians. Edly loved to play his flute, while Midly preferred the fiddle. Truth be told, they were simply awful! Couldn't hit a note to save their lives. The wolf used to come to my home begging me to have them cease and desist. Apparently, wolves have very sensitive ears, and the dreadful sounds coming from their attempts to play were literally driving him mad."
"I think I'm beginning to see the light. Go on."
"Then one day, I heard a strange sound entering my ears from downwind. Sure enough, it was Edly and Midly. They had written a song together, and it went like this:
'Who's afraid of the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf. Who's afraid of the big bad wolf, la de da de da.' Between the shrilly sound of their voices and the clash of their instruments, why, it was enough to drive anyone mad! I noticed a difference in the wolf's demeanor from that day forward. No more nods when he passed by. A wild, perhaps even evil look in his eyes as he glanced our way. And the salivating. Always salivating."
"So it's your belief that the lyrics and music combined to ultimately drive the wolf mad, so mad that he developed a taste for pig where none had previously existed. Is that your story Mr. Youly?
"I'd swear to it on my mother's grave (god rest her curly little tail)!"
I had fully intended to interview the wolf for his take on the pig's story, but was told by the director at the state asylum that the poor fellow was little more than a vegetable now. Oh, he'd recovered from the nasty little burns that he'd received at the hands of a certain pig by the name of Mr. Youly, but it appeared that the combination of physical and mental torment had simply pushed him over the edge. He sits in his rocking chair day and night, whistling a tune that no one seems quite familiar with. I'll bet I can guess what said tune might just be.
So there you have it folks. The true, unabridged account of what really happened, and why. All these years we've been led to believe that the wolf was the bad guy. It took an honest pig's confession to set the record straight. Now the next time you hear the song: Who's afraid of the big bad wolf, you'll have reason for pause.
Sam Dumpty, detective extraordinaire, signing off!
Long poem by
cherl dunn | Details |
At the final stroking of saint Halloween eve, it seems not so long ago,
That my trusty SUV, transport vehicle unceremoniously broke down,
Right outside the local pet cemetery, what a marvelous place to
Spend the spookiest night of the year, changing a flat tire right next
Door to the graveyard of the barking dead!
Ha, ha I thought to myself these children of the night better be at
Rest, I’m just not in the mood for playing fetch the bone, with
Any undead beasties tonight!
That’s when I heard a hellish sound, coming from this unconsecrated
Ground of Fido’s lost and found burial mounds, it started out low,
But grew with every shrill passing moment, I dropped the jack,
Picked up my throbbing heart, and became brave Balto of the
Polar North fame!
Inch by inch I approached, these iron bars gates that which were
Oddly left Unlocked, approaching the very center I stopped dead
Within my tracks, just as metal basketball rolled at my very feet,
Within two red glowing eyes meant mine, what the #### ####,
Is this thing, this it within a bob-wire metal shell?
It had very little hair, more like a grizzly patch here and there,
A ratty tail like a mouse, but what really caught my attention
The most was its sharp talon like claws, but it cried so, my
Mother instinct overrode my sinus of reasoning, it’s helpless,
Tender howling touched the darkness of my deepest Edger
Allen soul, so I picked it up, and took it home!
Now, now I told it, don’t be afraid, I’ll cut you free from
Your iron cage, it seemed to understand me in dark
Level that I can’t explain, my little creepy dude,
By the way such became his name, my undead pet
From the realm of the unknown!
It growled and hissed at me at first, almost nipping
At my bare fingertips, I’ll have none of that biting
Business, I told it just be patient I’ll have you out
In just a few minutes!
At long last it burst free, running attempting to
Flee far away from me, but I was quicker than it,
This terrifying thing, that captured me with it’s
Now my little creature feature, you need a bath
It shivered at the mention of the word, meaning clean!
But it had a very foul musty odor of brimstone, and
Rotten fleshy decay, into a vat of Mr. Bubbles it so went,
This it thing, my creepy little dude!
After I brushed and towel him off, I feed him a mushy
Mush of oatmeal and milk, but he spit it at me, “ok what
Does a thing like you eat than,” I asked!
The creature than went to my fridge just as if it were
The most natural thing in the world to do, grabbed a
Bottle of spuds suds, popped the cork, and sat next to
The old boo tube, now just you wait a cotton picking
Minute, I thought to myself, no way!
It than snatched a slice of day old pizza from a nasty,
Cardboard box sitting in my waste paper bin, gobbled
It down in a moment, than burped out soundly,
It’s gratifications satisfaction!
The whole time I’m wondering what the #### did I bring
Home, this it thing, that now reminds me of my ex-husband,
Beer, pizza, and TV burping, but just as I was thinking about
Taking it to the dead creature’s animal shelter, it captured
My inner heart all over again, in a flick of my heart
It had nestled in my lap, growling in a purr, than
Tenderly clawing at my tummy, it snoozed!
From that point on it this thing, fondly known as
My creepy little dude, could do no wrong in my eyes,
It stayed just the same size, even though it eat night
And day, it drooled on everything, from the baseboards
To the chandler but I didn’t care, for he was my
Creepy little dude!
Than the next Halloween night it happened,
I got a knock at my pantry door, it was two
Creatures, a female werewolf, and a male
Choapa Cobra, excuse us Miss Have you seen,
A metal basinet bob wire ball?
My little creepy dude ran passed me, in a flash yelled momma,
And the jig was up, these unusual parents thanked me,
Hugged their baby and left, I never saw the it thing again
After that, my little creepy dude was gone forever!
But I’ll never forget, what happened not so long ago,
On a Halloween night, or my treasured pet, the it thing,
Known as my little creepy dude!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO BEN STRONG-THE ORIGINAL CREEPY DUDE
Long poem by
Kody Walters | Details |
A Dozen ways in which women confuse men: A Sarcasm Piece by a Confused Man
I set out to accomplish what’s considered by most to be an impossible feat
I somehow wanted to summarize the ways women confuse me
As you all know this is quite the task
A challenge which may not have an answer
In actuality there could be a text entitled
The Infinite ways in which women Confuse men
As I obtained a massively excruciating headache
I pondered the o’ so many ways women confuse men
Miraculously I boiled it down to a mere dozen
A dozen which I have so kindly compiled here for you
The order they are delivered is of no importance
What is though, is the message this simple man is trying to get across
Confusion #1 is that you say you want a nice guy
But your choices show otherwise
As you always choose the bad boy
For there is a reason the saying nice guys finish last was invented
And still exist today
Confusion #2 is you women and your hormones
Women’s hormones fluctuate more often that the South Carolina weather
We poor men are neither intelligent enough nor hardwired
To deal with someone that is happy one second
Then crying over their toenail polish the next
Confusion #3 is that Just like Jennifer Aniston in The Breakup
Women tell men, that they want them to want to wash the dishes
Ladies, what does that statement even mean?
What man in his right mind wants to want to wash the dishes?
Confusion #4 is that women say that they are or want to be independent
Yet they call us for little things
Like to kill a spider
Confusion #5 is that not all, but a large quantity fuss at their man about having a 5’oclock shadow
But yet during Winter
You ladies climb into bed with Sasquatch legs
Confusion #6 is that once again not all, but a large quantity tell their man he should bulk up
But then you gain a measly pound or two
Say you need to diet
So we, your man, too must now diet
Confusion #7 has to deal with women walking in during football games
You walk in, say, “You know I hat sports,”
Grab the remote, change the channel to Gilmore Girls
Then yell and handcuff us men to the couch
As we try to leave and watch the game in another room,
Saying, “We never watch what I like.”
Confusion #8 deals with how women subtly tell men thing
A woman casually buys a pair of jeans for her man the next size up for him to wear
Subtly telling him he is gaining weight
However, when a man does the same
Women yell, cry, and say we are jerks
(Guys trying to be nice this way results in a loss
It cost us males any sort of sexual intercourse
Possibly resulting in flowing tears from that male
As he cries confused as to why his woman is upset
It’s not as if he called her fat)
Confusion #9 deals with women and the favorite article of clothing
You say that we have a certain article of clothing that you love
When we do wear this favorite article though on a couple of date nights
You tells us we wear the same thing too often
Confusion #10 deals with sexual glances
You ladies fuss at us about staring at your breast
As you so casually gaze at our groins
(Yes for all you that did not know
Groin gazing is a thing)
Confusion #11 deals with deception
Women confuse us men so much
That when you cheat on us
We want to fight the other man
While this may be the result of male stupidity
More so than the genius of how women confuse us
Arguments can be made either way
Confusion #12 deals with vanity
See you ladies tell us men that looks don’t really matter
That personality tis what matters most
But in your purse you carry
$200 worth of Lancome makeup
After compiling this list
Once again another thunderous headache arose
I consumed a Goody
And reflected upon the words I did write
Then I did ponder
What would be on a list composed by thee?
What about men confuses Women?
As I thought, I came upon a sad realization
Women would not be able to compose a book
In fact all the probably could create is a list
See, men are much more simple and complacent
In other words, we me are too simple
Too simple to be confusing
One day though I hope to read such a list
Though I think it will be half as long
Long poem by
Karl Nkecha Safindah | Details |
I had gotten to that stage,
Where true love was but a mirage.
When one is hurt too many times
By these daughters of Eve,
The heart must surely cease to give
Until such a time as right
To smile again and see the light.
Miranda, fairest of them all
Adored our trips to the mall.
I could tell from her charming eyes
That her love would be my demise,
So I fled with what coins I had left,
For her love was akin to theft.
That was when I met my Nora.
By all that’s sweet, she had an aura!
Pretty young thing, genteel with her voice,
Of many boys she was the choice.
Flawless, petite, her looks were fine.
I swore by love to make her mine.
Lovely were those nights we shared.
But like I’m sure you must have heard,
The flawless ones are just as marred within.
She had a love affair with gin.
Then came the age of Olivia,
The sight of whom did make me shiver.
Kind with words, light on her feet,
The kind of girl you’d love to meet.
Many were those that saw the sight
Of our love, both day and night.
Looks of envy, of jealousy
I mistook them all to be,
For they were looks of pity,
As it turned out my Olivia
Was liberal with her Banana.
Pauline rescued me from distress,
Mended me like a seamstress.
I gave my heart, to her my all,
I felt so bad she fled with Paul.
Was at the base, looking up,
When I saw a damsel stop.
Lovely, round, Quinta was her name.
Her looks were calm, her manners tame
I really wished she’d stay the same,
But to when she left, from when she came,
Deception was her only game.
My path to love had been so rough,
So hard, rugged, it made me tough.
It wasn’t long ‘fore I met Rose,
Pretty, sweeter by the dose.
To her I took an instant liking.
But once we went bike riding,
She met a long lost cousin,
T’wards whom she showed uncanny liking.
Well, that was fair, or so I thought,
Till the day in bed, them both I caught.
Like I said, I’d become tough
And her little act was not enough
To get this old stallion
Weep from pain and feel alone.
I marched right on.
The wind brought in Sylvia,
So pious, in love with prayer.
Nearly was I fooled
By her style, the way she schooled.
Saintly demon she proved to be,
Sworn to stay the same eternally.
Thelma just didn’t get it right.
She lit a quarrel, then a fight.
Her seasoning too was prone to loiter.
It’s thanks to her I’m free from goiter!
Ursula, a foreign girl I met,
Was close to base and thickly set.
Many were the times her mind was set
On losing all my savings in a bet.
She saw no bars,
She kept no laws.
The time we shared was but a loss.
Why all this fuss?
Why all this pain?
I held them all in such disdain,
And swore by life I would detain
My heart with bonds of chain
Till came that time when girls be sane.
At last it came, or so I thought,
As Vanessa, misfortune brought.
Her looks were fine,
Her smile was nice,
But all she knew to make was rice.
Winifred too followed the cue,
And like you know I wish I knew,
She was a night rider,
A hidden foe, a crouching tiger.
Many were the nights
My phone will ring,
And I’d hear the same song sing:
“Winnie got drunk and hit the gutter,
By all that’s holy, please come get her.”
Xena was one like none I’d met.
She broke a lie without a sweat.
I recall one time I heard
Her on the phone, caught every word.
“Who was that?” I had to ask.
It proved to be no sweating task!
“It was my dad”, I think she said,
But she forgot her dad was dead!
I had to go, I could not stand
The way her stories sank in sand.
Yvonne, this girl I met in school,
Had eyes that made you drool.
I did her bid, I played her fool,
It’s sad to know I was her tool.
Zenobia, legs that wouldn’t stop,
Passed by and made my molars drop!
Scantily clad, she caught my eye,
That’s how it works, don’t ask me why!
I loved her gold and blue hair dye.
This was it, I’d found my love
Sent to me from up above.
But she was a business woman
Out to sell to the richest man.
“Does love exist?” I asked myself.
I should just shove it on a shelf.
Please don’t conclude, don’t get me wrong,
I love the ladies, mind not my song.
Just an art, nothing negative,
So please let’s not get sensitive.
This is fun, it’s all a joke.
That was me just being a bloke!
Karl Nkecha Safindah
Long poem by
Bill Lindsay | Details |
It was many years ago now, before my wisdom teeth
had forced their way through my big mouth, they were still underneath.
I had an awesome job within the motor industry;
not building them, but selling: an ‘Executive’, was me.
We had more than one franchise and we covered quite a range,
no matter what your budget there were deals I could arrange,
I longed to sell expensive cars - each morning without fail,
but my role was with the Ford range, at the bottom of the scale.
One day as I was watching my boss prepping a Ferrari
I strode across to see it and then jumping in the car, he
asked if I could help him and he handed me the keys
‘We’ll store it with the Fords tonight, but tell nobody, please.’
The truth was that his showroom was as full as it could be,
but he couldn’t leave it parked outside – and mine had spaces free.
‘We’ll slide it in this evening after all the staff have gone,
and take it out at 8am, it won’t take very long."
As darkness came we pushed the sliding door of glass aside,
and moved the Fords around to make a bit more room inside.
Trying not to make a sound, as careful as could be,
we shoehorned the Ferrari ‘twixt Fiesta and Capri.
Early the next morning we came in through the side door
to huge relief, sat splendidly amidst the Fords, we saw
the red Ferrari Boxer: ‘Would I get a chance to drive?’
"Yes, but let’s just get it out before the staff arrive!"
‘Start her up, I’ll get the keys for the big sliding door’
I was dribbling like a baby when I heard its thunder roar;
In the rear view mirror, my boss passed me with the keys
I saw blue sky, the sun was up, the roof was down, ‘Oh, please,
Allow me, God, this one big chance to drive this gorgeous car
this could be the highlight of my whole life - and by far.'
As I slid her into gear my dear heart began to sing,
the boss slipped into his office as the phone began to ring.
I revved her up and moved the mirror, yes; the sky was blue
and eased the clutch up slowly as the world came into view;
then, suddenly, a wall of sound and my heart missed a beat
and showers rained on the Ferrari, purring in the street.
My ears were ringing as I prayed this shower of rain to pass
but I wasn’t getting wet; which meant this shower was of glass!
The boss, keys still in hand as my foot firmly held the brake
popped his head around his door and did a classic double-take.
He shook his head as if to cast aside the grisly scene,
was I in Heaven or in hell, or somewhere in between?
The glass, still falling, peppered the new Boxer’s scarlet hood;
the boss, confused, still jingling the keys, transfixed, he stood.
My poor heart beating fit to burst as now the thunder waned
and I wondered how much more of my career now remained.
What seemed like hours passed before he slowly made his way
toward the dead Ferrari, ( forty grand’s worth, might I say )
He stood before me, looking at the car, the keys, the door,
he frowned, he smiled, he tapped his brow and then he frowned some more.
His mouth flew open and I waited for the curse to come
and though his fingers wagged, he now appeared to be dumb.
A few more seconds passed before a smile grew on his face
and I grinned inanely in the hope of saving me some grace.
I wound the window down, his mood had cooled - I had a hunch
‘They weren’t the right keys after all, I’d taken the wrong bunch’
'It’s not your fault, he quipped,' still kicking shards of glass aside,
'and how were you to know I hadn’t pulled the door aside?
It’s down to me, last night I hid the keys beneath the mat
and of all the things I’ve ever done - I wish I had done that!'
We contacted the customer, explained that there had been a delay with the paperwork and delivered it a week later, after extensive and expensive repairs had been carried out. Some weeks later, however, the car was returned, completely burned out – the insurance company deciding that a foreign body had somehow entered into the wiring harness ...
Written October 2015
For Trashed #3 Contest - Sponsor, Broken Wings.