With grandpa on the Thames to fish,
Our boat sailed north like a Croc,
Meandering brackish waters,
Waiting for a feast of catfish.
Pike, perch, and zander were grandpa's wish;
Barbel, carp, chub, and bream his catch.
Halibut and cod were my desire,
Their flavours always buttering my palate.
The fun was full,
Until a Croc rose for our catch,
Its eyes fixed on my shiny leg,
As if one bite could sate its hunger.
I trembled at its timid stare,
Unaware it was hypnotizing me.
I tapped grandpa and whispered, "See a Croc…"
His fearful shout sent it fleeing.
Then I realized how poor grandpa’s eyes were;
My youthful sight saved us from the Croc—
Grandpa might have filled its appetite,
While I became its appetizer instead.
The food was chased by a bent tine fork
Along the surface of a smooth glass plate,
Eventually was skewered with brute force torque.
A similar force confronted an unyielding cork
But for this event, on this mechanical date,
The food was chased by the bent tine fork.
A stab of grace presented the French basted pork
And lingered face front like scavenger bait,
Eventually was skewered with brute force torque.
Such moaning and discontent, could it have been more late
From a Five Star Diner in the village of York?
The food was chased by a bent tine fork.
It was not prepared by a chef but by a dork
More worthy of satiric praise than glowing hate,
Eventually was skewered with brute force torque.
The Maitre d’Hotel offered his black plastic spork
Immensely gracious but too late.
The food was chased by a bent tine fork,
Eventually was skewered with brute force torque.
Flavored content in the white mug
Is my morning motorable drug
Boiled eggs with the centers mashed;
To yolk-dust add salt,
Mustard, mayo, minced pickle
Fill whites with mix and
Top with olive crowns;
Spice-sprinkle…
Joy.
Have you ever known a skier’s mind
when the leaves turn yellow and red?
As frost forms before the drive to work
and the lawnmower is put to bed?
When all you feel is a bracing chill,
and southwards all the large birds have fled?
The first taste of what is lying in wait
will start a snowstorm within our minds.
While leafers drive, see orange and brown,
inside of our poor brains you will find
a landscape painted all up in snow,
we keep watching the low temps at night.
See Fall is just an appetizer,
not a final flourish before sleep,
taunts us with hints of snow on the air,
we start praying that it’ll fall deep;
doing a snow-dance, gifts to Ullr,
do not let this year be mild, please!
Reading what’s new at our best mountains,
web-site says they’ll be opening soon,
a ribbon of white amidst the brown,
spotting those first tall snowmaking plumes,
can’t wait for frigid air in my lungs…
I don’t care if you think I’m a loon.
Voices swarming from a room
High pitched and with synchronicity they loom
Constantly overwhelmed, I sit here and stew
Thank god for this hoppy brew
Stepping outside I beg for peace
White smoke rises as I inhale and release
Waving goodbye is the sun
Behind the mountain top she runs
Everyone here grab a spoon
Revealed my punchline will be here soon
The episode is over so now they go
Down our driveway covered in snow
Now I can concentrate with appropriate ease
Challenging your appetite I begin to tease
We are all hungry here in this group
So I serve you my heart with poetry soup.
By Dustin Riddle
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.