With your red rubber cup that makes suction.
You have come in handy many a day,
when there has been a flushing obstruction.
I think you deserve hazard pay.
You've saved toys, an unfortunate cell phone or two.
Then there is always the times your needed,
when we are visited by You-know-Who (pweh).
So your heroics bears being repeated.
Your sacrifice it knows no bounds,
entering murky waters, stopping floods.
Or pulling to surface the items you found.
Now aren't you glad you don't have taste buds?
Some seem to see you as just an extractor.
Yet in movies, your comic timing is beyond belief,
when your stuck on the face of a leading actor.
That you didn't quit your day job is a great relief.
Though everyone knows you on sight so well,
To be an unsung hero, seems to be your lot in life.
Taken out and plunged into porcelain hell,
Where only you would dare to dive.
So Plunger, Oh Toilet Plunger,
as we kneel here before the throne.
Let us sing out your praises,
well, maybe after we can stop these groans.
Entered in the contest: 2nd chance
Sighing softly, a gentle breeze,
dances amid my clothes line.
Sweet the scent, refreshing tease,
as sheets, its hug entwines.
This night, on Spring, I shall recline.
For the contest: English Quintain, A Spring Day
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
'Tis now known why the Willow weeps,
a tragedy of love, its memory keeps.
For once a young man and young maid,
on tender grass, beneath branches lay.
Though pledged by birth to another,
from clans they hid, to be together.
Thus, the gentle Willow was their choice,
meeting beneath, till love they could voice.
The Willow held these secret lovers dear,
so would lower its boughs, when they drew near.
Thus tucked away in the Willow's womb,
could lay as one, yet this love was doomed.
For jealousy lurked within the pines,
spying young lovers thus entwined,
behind Willow's curtain of slender limbs,
He swore the maiden, would yet be his.
Thus, it came to pass one day,
as young maid softly made her way,
to their Willow, deep within the glen,
espied the branches did already bend.
Timidly, as she did draw near,
soft sound of sorrow fell upon her ears.
Parting Willow's branches to look within,
a dampness did touch upon her skin.
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears,
for the young man, in death, was near.
'Twas an arrow that had been used,
a potent poison, the tip infused.
The maiden, now blind with grieving mist,
pulled out the arrow, held it, in clenched fist.
Whilst cradled in love's arms, did he draw last breath.
Then, young maid, plunged the arrow, into her breast.
And so it is, that this story is told,
as the Willow's grief would not be consoled.
For unable to stop what had befell,
the young lovers, it had hid so well.
With will broken, as lovers lay dead,
the Willow, its branches, never again spread.
And because it is the memory it keeps,
it is to this day, that the Willow weeps.
Ten little toes, precious and sweet.
Connected to, chubby one year old feet.
Running across, my freshly washed floors.
Muddy footprints that start at my door.
Ten little toes, painted hot pink,
from under the hem, they peek beneath.
As she stands barefoot in her moms dress,
in the mirror, a seven year old fashion success.
Ten little toes, steps into her gown.
So happy in love, her feet don't touch the ground.
Standing there waiting, for the first note,
shoes in one hand, the other, the vows that she wrote.
Ten little toes, a miracle to see,
connected to, chubby new born feet.
Soon to be running across my floors.
A Granddaughter carried, through my front door.
For the contest "Barefoot"
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
If, entrusted were I, with a magical purse,
one that held what was needed, but not monies curse.
One that neither bulged, nor would ever be empty,
so when I reached down within, there I'd find plenty.
A handful of tolerance, I would pull each day,
to pass out to those in need, I met along the way.
I would take a fist full of hope, to toss aloft.
Scatter it among the throng, letting it land soft.
I would enter into the turf of gangs and their wars.
Trading peace for their guns, so they would kill no more.
I would go to Washington, there I would invest,
two handfuls of honesty, perhaps ten, would be best.
Charity, I would share, with those who live large.
Help them to give some away, so no one need starve.
I could change so many things and alter many lives.
But, I could also do harm and make so many cry.
As it is so easy, to think one self's above,
to take control of lives, forgetting about love.
So for myself, I'd take a bit to keep myself humble.
So that I and my purse, never, ever stumble
The sound of thick bubbling,
with the smell of fresh blackberries.
The stains upon our fingers and clothes,
all part of my homemade jam memories.
Growing wild along the roads,
the brambles tall and thick.
Pails and buckets overflowing,
eating our fill as we would pick.
The kitchen, busy as a beehive,
those tasty berries getting mashed.
The "Women" all worked together,
young or old, we each had our tasks.
Four generations, making jam.
"Puttin' back" as it was called.
I still remember the stories told
and the laughter from us all.
Not just a smile does it bring,
a calmness pours soft over me.
A giggle will well up time to time,
at my homemade jam memories.
For the contest: Sounds and Smells
Hosted by: Frank Herrera
Placement: Honorable Mention
She sings in sweetness, with the night.
Of dreams, where love is satisfied.
The melody flows soft and light,
yet tears do flow from midnight eyes.
Of dreams where love is satisfied,
she weaves a world of fantasy.
Yet tears do flow from midnight eyes,
for in truth, she knows it's fallacy.
She weaves a world of fantasy,
a maze to wander and find peace.
For, in truth, she knows it's fallacy,
from where she wants not released.
A maze to wander and find peace,
while the moon rides high and full.
From where she wants not released,
until she feels the new days pull.
While the moon rides high and full,
the melody flows soft and light.
Until she feels the new days pull,
she sings in sweetness, with the night
This, I do so, willingly.
Without reservations of the heart.
I offer my shoulder to thy wheel,
my strength, to thus impart.
My voice, I lend to your cause.
Champion, to which you undertake.
My arms, I spread to encompass,
kith and kin, you now care take.
A heart, that beats strong and true.
That has known joy and felt deep weeping.
One, so full of love for you,
I give, unto your keeping.
If there were the need so great,
as to sacrifice completely.
My life, I 'd give, for yours to spare.
This I do, so willingly.
Wind drinkers flow with strength and grace.
Thunder pounds from their hooves.
Run wild Mustang, Run.
As one they "run" across parched earth,
born free and "wild" from the time of birth.
Their manes flow "as" water, in the wind.
Hooves dig in, "the" desert floor, they rend.
Full moon at "midnight" leads their way,
while in the night "sky" their ancestors play.
For the contest: Middle Of The Road
Sponsored by H Garvey Daniel Esquire
In shadow, shade and angled light,
memories echo, when given time.
They persist, though out of sight,
when even bells will loose their chime.
To torture, teach or reprimand?
Why then comes, the weathered old?
The heart and soul hold scars and brands,
when even stars burn out, turn cold.