She walked the night like dynamite
her rice sparkled in the moonlight;
blackhead of hair flowing astray.
She was a huntress, he; her spray.
A mouth shaped with deepest dread
slowly spoke. As her tulip spread,
soft worms came out into his ear
"I want you for my Fallow Deer."
"I can make you two-pair of dice,"
she said; he was mitten in a trice.
A night of fashion, net, and lace
with him Banshee til morn took place
When he was woke, she was not bare
despite they both did love beachwear.
They found him dead and gonisqueen,
and so, they laid him on the green.
Limpid she lay, languid on the boardwalk ledge,
Arms akimbo, not a ray missed by the water's edge,
Not a hair out of place, nuanced and bronzed,
Glowing and golden, the Fonz would be out-Fonzed.
Ultra cool and 'look at me', each movement choreographed,
Idiosyncratic her beachwear apparel, make up expertly graphed.
Distant and aloof her womanly wiles, pouting lips slightly parted,
.....as she bent over to pick up her bag, the heavenly vision farted!
Oil Painting 4 & 5 Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Annie plays alone at the beach,
Sand sloping down to the sea,
What beautiful golden hair she has,
Daddy says she reminds him of me.
Gentle sprays of windy mist,
Condensation within the air,
Relieving her from the heat,
Wearing her new beachwear.
Tips and toes and skipping around,
Little girl with an imagination,
So content and satisfied,
With looks of fascination.
Ready to skip stones with her daddy,
While I gaze at their wonderous bond,
Here and there and to and fro,
Pebbles begin soaring toward beyond.
She grabs the basket for lunch,
Watermelon and MacIntosh apples,
"Don't eat too fast my dear,"
Our constant swimming battle.
But right before we decide to go,
She tosses me the frisbee toy,
I toss back the plastic disc,
Oh, the beach is full of joy!
Written By: Laura Urbaniak
Date: November 21, 2015
A men only poem, well I never-
that is something odd, for a start
submissions from men
who pick noses and then
will polish it off with a fart.
We undress like drunken mime artists
look like we get dressed in the dark
steer cars like we're swimmin'
and then complain women
do not have a clue how to park.
Our cooking skills are just amazing
we're known for our barbecue fame
coz we somehow have learnt
just which food has been burnt
when it's black it all looks just the same
Our acting is worthy of Oscars
or any such Thespian cup
stagger home fully juiced
with some drunken excuse
but we still avoid getting beat up
In beachwear we are an Adonis
our styling choices are quite bold
from speedos so weeny
to full on Mankinis
...it's small coz the water's too cold....
The world would be worse off without us
devoid of intelligent life
there's nothing to rival
our power of survival
except for the girlfriend.
Or wife.
She told me to put that bit in.
Yes, dear.
I'll be right there.
Submitted with my missus' grudging permission for contest 'Men only #2,
sponsored by Kelly Deschler
July 16th 2015
Is it possible to ever attain
a truly objective evaluation?
A beachwear fashion designer
and a post-mortem surgeon,
sitting as judges at a beauty
pageant swimsuit competition,
may share some convergences,
depending on their imagination,
but their views shall widely differ
due to training and profession.
One may gush over much money
cascading from sales of lingeries,
the other thinks about the health
of intestines and throbbing arteries.
Objective evaluation, possible
in the oglers' rapt attention ?
Blasted through the arteries of great wide open spaces
like fuel-injected bullets from some laser-sighted gun,
over-priced and deathtrap built, nothing cars to nowhere places,
trailing prisms of bleeding sump oil underneath the cooling sun.
From the money-grubbing fingers of a travel agent slaughter trip,
thrown a pitch in shadows of a power station pleasure park,
where sheep are glowing green at night with radiation flavoured dip,
the very soul of Mother Earth succumbs unto the leeching dark.
Rabble rousing bodies spill their flesh upon the mosaic floors,
a crunch of black sand sticky feet through hotel foyer abattoirs,
these patrons clutch at local maps, get lost inside revolving doors,
then dance around the nuclear core in plastic palm-tree disco bars.
A haemorrhage of bleeding skies damped down with streaks of sulphur grey
is fused onto the dark horizon by a deeper shade of red,
yellow bikini beachwear melts leukaemic on the judgement day,
the swallow cardiac arrests, the last of summer drops down dead.