A weird disturbance in the belfry….werewolves or worse?
Batwing held on a bit tighter to her bulging old purse.
Count Dracula’s red eyes bounced open in morbid surprise.
Spooky goblins chasing ghouls. Gargoyles smiles are on the rise.
October is the month for things to be slightly amiss.
The ebony toad hops away from warm cauldron’s kiss.
Witches on wispy broomsticks, showing off strange tricks.
Coffin sleepers glory in trick-or-treating shticks.
Magic in the air, anticipatory sheen.
What day is it daughter? Of course it’s Halloween.
Grab your mask, your costume and orange madness boots.
The owls are all atwitter, hooting pumpkin shoots.
Categories:
batwing, halloween,
Form: Rhyme
Do come to our symposia , they’re sure to be such fun.
First topic for discussion will be campanology.
Newcomers will be shown the ropes and methodology.
The vicar is providing tea and scones for everyone.
Bell ringing is an ideal form of mental stimulation
And for those ladies worried about drooping batwing flab
It tones the biceps within weeks, they'll soon be looking fab
And hearts will be uplifted by sweet tintinnabulation.
I hope to have convinced you that the benefits are clear
Of taking up a hobby which holds such euphonic pleasure;
A family-friendly pastime for those wintry hours of leisure.
Ring out the old, ring in the new in this forthcoming year!
14/09/18
' Symposia Poetry Contest' Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Categories:
batwing, community, encouraging, music,
Form: Enclosed Rhyme
When I die take me to Texas
And lay me gently in the sand
Just dust me off from time to time
And softly pat me with your hand
Talk to me lowly with that voice
That I heard for so many years
And tell me what's been goin' on
Since I caused you to shed those tears
Then take a cup of Texas sand
From atop the grave's hallowed spot
And take it to the county line
Where that old Honky Tonk was hot
Now if that Honky Tonk is gone
Just dump that sand out as she pours
But if that place still stands today
Carry it through the batwing doors
Then set it on the bar, my love,
And tell 'em just who lies beneath
That ought to get you one free beer
But you cannot expect a wreath
For those were wild and wooly days
And we were young and out of hand
Now I'm gone and I'll lie buried
In the farthest west Texas sand
7/21/2017
Categories:
batwing, death,
Form: Quatrain
I don't care about tomorrow
And can't remember yesterday
I'm just drownin' here in sorrow
Because I lost my love today
She told me once she was goin'
I didn't think that she would go
I stayed where whiskey was flowin'
How could I know I'd miss her so
I couldn't pass up neon signs
And juke boxes with sawdust floors
Fiddles play while a guitar whines -
The little "whoof" of batwing doors
Yeah, I'm drownin' here in sorrow
I had my head up in the fog
Shed more tears than I can borrow
She took my pickup and my dog
Yeah, I'm drownin' here in sorrow
I had my head up in the fog
Shed more tears than I can borrow
She took my pickup and my dog
7/16/2017
Categories:
batwing, lost love,
Form: Lyric
An old cowboy still wore his spurs
As he entered the cool dark bar.
He brushed his jeans of cockle burrs,
Waved his hat for a whiskey jar.
He looked 'round at the Friday crowd,
Smiled and recalled his younger day.
And then he heard him brash and loud -
A young cowboy with hell to pay.
He slammed through the old batwing doors,
Sat down at the old man's table.
He said."Pop,I'll give you 'what fors'
If you don't leave while you're able."
And then the old man kinda smiled.
He said, "Son,I'd leave were I you.
Things 'round here are 'bout to get wild.
You're 'bout to lose a tooth or two!"
The young cowboy leaned back and grinned
As the old man swung the bottle.
They swore that you could feel the wind
As he hit the chin full throttle.
And then he laid there 'neath the table
With a changed view of these old men.
Don't take on more than you're able -
You don't know where these guys have been.
4/17/2017
For contest And Then..
Categories:
batwing, humorous,
Form: Cowboy Poetry
The haze did a dance before the saloon
in the ghost town of my dreams;
the batwing doors swung a nervous creak,
rusted hinges, muted screams.
A high noon clock with a warping hand
failed to count the seconds pass,
and the whole world froze in a fiery frieze
like dust in a whisky glass.
Tumbleweed bowled along the street
where the blood of ages dried;
and the hot tongue of the firebrand breeze
licked the bones of that which died.
My tears they fell and turned to ash
as they struck the shifting sand,
with my dying wishes planted deep
in the dirt of a barren land.
Prayers from the barrel of an old six gun
fired on the distant plain,
into the sky in the blink of an eye
to never be heard again.
Gundown my hopes and all my faith
in a random hail of lead,
a forty-five calibre massacre
that left my love for dead.
Gundown the future and the world
with an aim so straight and true;
only leave just a hole in the dark of my soul
where the light may again shine through...
Categories:
batwing, life, love, people, sad,
Form: I do not know?