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Best Jon A Cavanaugh Poems

Below are the all-time best Jon A Cavanaugh poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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A Mother's Sorrow

I can't see past rain and sleet
All's obscured beyond two feet
I can't see a road or trail
Through this harsh and blinding hail

I can't see obstructions near
In time to safely steer us clear
Can this heater keep us warm 
Through this nasty winter storm

I can hardly sit and steer
Kids and great dane interfere
This is driving me crazy!
This is driving me crazy!

I can't see to safely drive
Dear, I hope we all survive
Dear, the car is acting odd
Dear, I hope it's not a rod

The road is packed with ice and snow
That is why I'm driving slow
I must stay alert and drive
So that we can stay alive

I've become a mom of woe
Weaving helpless through this snow
O! no, I can hardly see!
Weather, weather blinding me!

I think that I shall sigh a sigh
A gas station just passed us by
I will quickly turn right here
I see no policeman near

O! how timely gas tank dry
Now we've got a fresh supply
My energy has fled and gone
We're nearly home so let's press on.

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2012

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Jails parody

Send the convicts to the jails -
Local jails! -
What a world of confinement as their court case fails
Hear the jingle, jingle, jingle
Of the handcuffs as they walk
Now with men they only mingle
They may as well be single
Doing time, time, time,
For a thoughtless bungled crime
As their ratting, pigeon, stoolie partners send them with their tales
To the jails, jails, jails, jails,
Jails, jails, jails -
To the friendly and the cleanly local jails


Send the felons to the jails -
Fed'ral jails!
What a world of isolation as the judge prevails!
Hear the hammer, hammer, hammer,
In the dead and dark of night
As they're locked into the slammer!
All the other inmates clamor
To the jailers delight
Doing time, time, time,
For a botched "ruinic" crime
Which not admitted but committed and their last appeal fails
While in jails, jails, jails, jails,
jails, jails, jails -
While in insufficient and deficient jails

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2012

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Summer Morn

I love to rise on a summer morn
And feed the game birds old stale bread
The distant hunter sounds his horn
Takes sharp aim and shoots them dead
Oh! What delicacy

To go to work on a summer morn
A job I do without a fear
A calling for which I was born
But for reasons still unclear
Perhaps because the mines are near

Ah! Then at times I drooping sit
The coal mines drain me of my power
Soot covers black as night
I'd like to sit just one more hour
But it's time for bed I'd better shower

How can this little parakeet
Sit in a cage and sing
The creature that the gases beat
And that shall soon my stomach meet
What a shame but such a treat

O! Father and mother when buds are nip-ped
Though my strength be blown away
I'll enjoy the beers I've tip-ped
And think no more this weary day
Work tomorrow? Oh dismay

How shall the summer arise with joy
Unless perhaps vacation's near
A small reprieve which griefs destroy
What's holding up my round of beer
I hope it shows sometime this year

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2012

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The shooting star

The meteoroid 
Circumvents the void
'Til captured by the atmosphere
It then plummets toward the Earth
With glowing core
As a meteor
But after a dazzling fiery flight
On impact
is a meteorite

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2012

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Enigmas

Hidden within Precambrian rock
Lies "a tiny mystery"
A veiled secret in the dark
A puzzling piece of history
A radioactive photograph
A polonium halo possibly

Buried in a cryptic curtain
Its secret may elude us
But what's certain
Should we presume to solve this riddle
We'll be hurled back in the middle
Of more dilemmas or enigmas endlessly



Published in the 2012 International Who's Who in Poetry
As "A Tiny Mystery"

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2013

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Even this shall pass

My friends say this magnificent rose
Gives off the most wonderful aroma of spring
I am catching a scent somewhat obscure
As yet no recognizable thing
For I'm losing the sense 
Of smell in my nose
Perhaps what I'm smelling 
Though peculiar and unselling
Is this lovely flower 
This most fragrant rose
Most likely it's the pasture
Expelling natural gas
Which is nostalgic and familiar
With its hint of ammonia and pungent aroma
But, I fear, even this shall pass

There's the most angelic sound in the meadow nearby
That is what my lovely neighbor conveys
She jots down the melody with each bar and clef
For I cannot hear it
I am practically deaf
But I do hear the shrill voice 
Of my neighbor's young lass
Which is nostalgic and familiar
Though disconcerting and frightful
And never delightful
I fear, even this shall pass

The most beautiful creature stops at my house
It arrives every day to feed
This is just what I've heard
To me it's all blurred
For a new pair of glasses I need
But I do see the glare 
From a bonfire of grass
Which is nostalgic and familiar
Though odious and weedy
And noxiously seedy
I fear, even this shall pass

My neighbor is bringing a dinner she will baste
Which others around highly praise
The sensation for me is hardly a meal
I have lost the better part of my taste
But I savor the peppers
She always brings me in mass
Which are nostalgic and familiar
Though indigestible and spicy
And especially dicey
I fear, even this shall pass

I fondly remember my wife's gentle touch
But this sense too I now lack
If it weren't for the fall
I'd have no sensation at all
But, for these sharp piercing pains
Down my back - Alas! Alas!
While nostalgic and familiar
And though crippling and painful
It is nothing disdainful
And I fear, even this shall pass

Now when I'm gone all will be quite sublime
I will have transcended to the sixth sense
I will be free as a bird
Free from the limits of time
Reunited with the Lord of Providence

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2012

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Wondrous Poems

Wondrous poems are melodies
Emancipated from live trees
Freed at last from trunk and limb
Freed at last to sing their hymn
Transplanted in the hearts they've torn
Transplanted by the poets they've borne
Echo in our hearts as rhyme
Echo through the sands of time
Written down with pen and ink
That all,
            That would,
                             Might stop and think
How wondrous a poem can be
That's written deep within a tree

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2012

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Pathetic Poems parody of Wondrous poems

Pathetic poems are parodies
Chopped and severed from mad trees
Which escape from limb and trunk
Then appear in books as junk
Transplanted in the minds they've fried
Transplanted till their poets have died
Echo in "ruinic" rhyme
That degrade through passing time
Written down as so much clutter
They find their way into the gutter
How hilarious these poems can be
Poems also known as parody

                                       




ruinic - a fictitious word derived from runic as obscure and ruin as degraded
          - a degraded and obscure rhyme

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2012

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Pack Rat

I am sneaking
Down a side street
I see trashcans
In a backyard
I walk over
To look in them
Refuse waiting
To be picked up
I am happy
To collect it
Because I am
Just a pack rat

Copyright © Jon A Cavanaugh | Year Posted 2012