Best Ahs Poems
Jehovah's Witness' Door Pamphlets
Pious
Fly-ahs
Catholic Church During Halloween
Scary
Mary
Scrabble Night With Missionaries
Wordy
Clergy
Preacher Owning at Dungeons & Dragons
Master
Pastor
Our Holiness the Dalai Getting a Text From His Ex
Lama
Drama
Sea Anemone Makes Amends
Moral
Coral
There flows in the blooming fields of Master, Claude Monet
a tulip river that springs to life with each impassioned stroke
A painting into which butterflies would be tempted to stray
where flowers waft in currents, making oohs and ahs evoke.
A Don Quixotic windmill and an old farmhouse in succession
short strokes of crimson, muted greens and boldest yellow
blended on canvas, the artist's Impressionistic expression.
Landscapes in natural light was the genius of this fellow.
I would snip a fresh bouquet of tulips to adorn a crystal vase
and capture their scent from the canvas for perfumed potpourri.
If I could climb inside a Monet painting, in my arms I'd embrace
you beside his tulip river and then sip a glass of crisp Chablis.
There once was a little balsam
who was growing green and free,
And he hoped that he'd be taken
to be used as a Christmas tree.
He'd spent all of his early years
growing tall and full and straight,
The greenest fir in the nursery,
thus insuring his joyous fate.
It happened on Thanksgiving Day,
when a family came to choose
That proud and towering balsam,
so they paid his nursery dues.
To home, they took the little fir,
to adorn his spreading boughs
With pretty lights and ornaments,
and a chorus of "ahs" and "wows".
And there he stood, quite diligent,
through the holidays and nights,
Stunning with his proud display,
and his dazzling yule delights.
"Best tree on the street!" said all
through Christmas and New Years,
Until ... one day the family took
him down, not shedding tears.
And tho' he'd served them ardently,
it seemed his time was done,
For off came all the shiny trim,
all the garland, bulbs and fun.
They had treated him so kindly
in the weeks of Christmas, past,
Yet now they tossed him to the curb -
seemed their good will ... didn't last.
The trash truck carried him away,
with his limbs now dead and dry,
His tears of sap dripped on the street,
his boughs waved sad, goodbye,
For Christmas trees are blessings,
but there's always a price to pay -
An early end to the grandest life,
in a landfill ... cold and gray.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Contest 530 Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 6th Place ~ in the "Christmas Tree" Poetry Contest, Shadow Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
When Jill was asked to create a “Pie Chart”
She believed her teacher meant a la carte
Using a Lego set
Jill felt her goal was met
When she finished, there was not one spare part
Her project resembled a Ferris Wheel
Huge peach pie in the center of the reel
And her passenger carts
Were scrumptious cherry tarts
But Jill’s effort had an Achilles’ heel
She took care bringing the pie wheel to class
Some oohs and ahs her project did amass
But the wheel in motion
Caused quite a commotion
Pies flew to faces with a forward pass
Kids didn’t mind as they ate the remains
But most of Jill’s friends had custard for brains
A class pie fight ensued
And Miss Bigbutt so shrewd
Gobbled crumbs citing eminent domain
*October 11, 2014
The mountain, it was steep.
The snow was very deep.
Caused involuntary “ahs”
from anyone who saw.
To get up to the top
was not some little hop.
It took tram, chair and poma
to tackle that big momma.
To start from the summit,
a near vertical plummet,
took the heart of a lion,
and left most people cryin’.
He checks skis, boots and poles,
but really he just knows,
he’s putting off the trauma,
the approaching descent drama.
It’s really exhilarating.
His heart is fibrillating.
He sucks up, screams and GOES,
and attacks the chest-deep snow.
It’s man against the mountain.
On his wits he is a countin’,
for to miss one little turn,
means a faceload full of burn.
He turns, he slips, he sails.
It seems he never fails,
to again make it down,
to that quaint little town.
With heart so pure and strong,
it doesn’t take too long.
He’ll never give up the fight
to conquer fields of white.
He goes again, again
The battle he does win
between the fields of snow
and our mighty hero.
The day comes to an end.
Misfortunes do portend.
Our hero’s not come in –
Good god, what’s happenin’?
A cry goes through the town.
Our hero has gone down.
The patrolman are a scurryin’.
The crowds they are a worryin’.
My gosh, good god, oh my
catch a glimpse as he goes by.
Our hero’s on a gurney.
Why’s he on this journey?
Is he hurt – did he crash?
His head a tree did bash?
Please say it isn’t so
Come on, we gotta know.
Speculation runs a flutter.
The crowds they stand and mutter,
with faces stained by tear,
they say “Please help us here”.
The data is a mess.
His friends they won’t confess.
So people stand and stare
at their seeming lack of care.
On his buds there is no frown -
just big smiles all around.
They don’t understand the cries -
he merely thrashed his thighs.
An imaginative world is what your storytelling formed.
I was just three years old when you begin my learning.
Innateness developed and a destiny manifested;
although mom, you stated you were not highly intelligent.
Oh, your whims and your ahs excited a child.
Carrie you put the sparkles in her eyes.
Growing older, we moved from Briesch Street.
You and your six siblings established in New Edition.
You would ask me for my guidance.
You informed me of the world outside.
Ah, you were the best and your children were possessive.
Carrie your caprices and your outcomes guided, thus far, successively.
As a single mother, you were more than that.
You were father, brother, and sister to all of us.
Your oldest son and daughter demised prior to you.
You have went home also.
See, you are eternity and rapture to come.
Ms. Carrie Mae Sexton, may your will be done.
“Be assured that just as an hour is only part of a day so life on Earth is only part of eternity.” C.L. Allen
_____________________________________________/
Holiday Dangers
by Odin Roark
‘Tis greater to give than receive,
Begging the question: “Of what?”
Stuff remains the easy answer,
Cloaked in its brightly colored paper and ribbons,
Urging “Oohs and Ahs” from receivers,
Few can resist .
But what of a kind gesture in place of goods,
The finding of compassion and sympathy for the truly less fortunate,
Exercising that ephemeral spark of humanity once primary,
But now rapidly becoming an endangered principal of our species.
Hope hangs on…
The aware heart knows,
Like much of nature,
Humanoids can’t last forever,
That gathering of a materialistic image,
Buttressing the seductive illusions of generosity,
Be they religious or secular,
Knows only an all-consuming downward spiral,
A self-destructive glitter that blinds
As it drills deeper into itself,
Disintegrating at the end
Into the loss of “caring”
Fate’s delivery to a wide-awake darkness.
How habitual these temporal leanings,
How belittling to what innate mankind once wished to be.
Children squealed as others cried and grown ups simply clapped.
A giant Catherine wheel spiralled up and burst in flares.
Most colored pyrotechnics beneath the clouds got wrapped.
The ohs and ahs were heard as the sight dispelled all fears.
A giant Catherine wheel spiralled up and burst in flares.
The smell of gun powder filled the air, but no one cared.
The ohs and ahs were heard as the sight dispelled all fears.
It was a time to feast and cakes and iced beers were shared.
The smell of gun powder filled the air, but no one cared.
Most colored pyrotechnics beneath the clouds got wrapped.
It was a time to feast and cakes and iced beers were shared.
Children squealed as others cried and grown ups simply clapped.
30 December 2020
13 syllables per line
Fireworks Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Non descript hedge rows sculpted into ornamental animal
via botanical artist wielding pruning shears and chain saw
carved, limned and sculpted with wrist wrought voila uber
prestidigitatiously head turning botanical picturesque Sun
kist animals at an exhibition transformed miraculously via
Te Deum divine fist bumping, whence realistic fauna burst
alive with an explosion of colorful twist and shout of foliage,
where scalloped superfluous detritus manna for naturalist
deciduous detritus capacious carpet boar animation punk
chew waiting groundswell Liszt ghost would arise from the
grave to produce magnum opus without a beat missed such
shrubbery mimicking the likeness sans glistening fleshy sin
yew, and gist about ready to become bone a fide (green be
hind the ears) thriving vox populist, per species and genus
wrought thrashing into birth as delicate craftsman promised
to imbue life, liberty and pursuit of happiness whittling away
leavings, thus did exist the nascent then omnipresent visible
entity emerging from cocoon an herbalist metamorphosed
from the imagination of a skilled, practiced and mentalist
conniver viz extracting the initially obscure blessed beast,
where with august magic wielding tools of this specialty vis
a vis bringing breathing manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans
formed from wood to flesh), whereby finest dexterous
chiseling blistering hands baffle onlookers as coterie of
topiary harvest breaths mind bogglingly astoundingly
authentic rooted ready to frolic in the grass menagerie
a gamesome group of linkedin live progeny, the Michel
Angelo of dirtiest canvass, an earthen tabula rasa of sorts
where application threshing re: electric cool laid ahs hid
test brings out chlorophyll doppelganger green hued key luster.
Do you see me ..
I grab a chord of air as if it was a violin
Approach pulsating swarms
Of cackling birds
As I move toward the horizon of my joy
As the skyline lies down in the distance
I lie down on the gravel
And the water flows over me
The wind strikes my solitude
And the sun burns my face
Do you see me ..
Where are you, where ..?
Behold the night's veil, it flows;
And the soul wanders between ice
Sometimes between dewdrops
Telling the lonely star of hope
Behold I am abiding here like water
A mirror of attendant memory
Concealed behind
Echoes of childhood
Ah, how heavy my throat
Of a thousand Ahs
If you come back ..
I'd follow bees to their flowers
And birds to their nests
My soul but a star
Whirled between ice and dew
Do you see me ..
Here I am inscribing
An ultimatum of torments
The first and last chapters of my life
So forget me ..
I am but a night dream
I'm but the shadow of Mirrors
But a spectrum of phantoms
Passed once in dreams.
Painted ladies
Platform boots
Mini skirts
Stockings, garter belts
Low slung Vs
Bubbling over with mottled mummeries
Hanging around Butcher’s Corner
On the hook
The pray orbit
Slowing down, speeding up
Slow…gone
Around a corner, back again
Red car arrives
A Tom tentatively
Extends his index finger
‘You’
Chubby whore saunters over
Too much sass
For that much ass
She leans in the car window
‘Head?’
‘Ten quid.’
He scans her lumps, ‘I’ve got five.’
‘Go on then.’
[We’ll be eating tonight]
Opening the door
Pushing the passenger seat forward
Saying
‘In the back, stay low.’
Ums and ahs; disgruntled, shamed
Hard times, little pride
Squeezing titanic thighs in-between fake leather
Beehive head pressed to the back seat
Familiar odors filling her lungs
Milk, cough drops
Shampoo, crayons
Telltale signs of little ones
Nostalgia boils
Gulping, suppressing tears
Shoving guilt from her nut
There’s work to be done, no regrets
Tires churn pebbles
Arrival at Rubber John Alley
Her office
A life
His zipper strains a loaded gun
In under five minutes
Dirty deed done
Not even time to soft boil an egg
With blind ego intact she declines a ride back
Done for the night, enough flow
Over the road
Into the park
To three little girls identically dressed
On swings, dangling legs
Ultra-white socks to their knees
Giggling
we must decide to stop pollution before it to late, natures struggling it won't wait!
misuse of fossil fuel, deforestation, habitat destruction, plastics, failing to recycle is sealing our fate!
that is what the green party environmentalists are always preaching, you bet their fretting!
climate warming, no, climate warning, look, the green party their pants they are wetting!
i will speak on their behalf for they are right, we should all fear!
next general election vote them in, don't wait to hear the tories say, "oh dear"!
labour once a cracking party, still is, check out all it's splits!
most thought it favoured green, with good intent, now a load of silly gits!
lib dems, omg! nearly lost it all, have to get their act together,
in fact, stop acting, live life for real, throw away their tickling feather!
next time, what ever party gets into power must remember the clock is nearing midnight!
were not talking Cinderellas glass slipper, we are talking cinder hell ahs! right!
mass extinction, yep, all seven point three billion in one big puff!
let us not forget all the other fauna, flora, all that stuff!
we can talk parties all night and day, parties talking fun, done!
facing self-destructing, come on, poll lotion, rub it in, life can be fun!
~~^~~
The courtroom sat in silence as if issuing a dare,
a mountain and a hillside told each other to beware
The judge was in his chamber with the deputy in charge,
they couldn’t hear the little hill claim it was very large
A ticking clock was counting as the minutes slowly passed,
darkened by the shadow that the mountain’s girth did cast
Things were getting very tense, the temperature did rise,
as the mountain and the little hill compared each other’s size
Suddenly from in the hall another did appear,
walking through the courtroom door and it was very clear
All the people turned to look, the oohs and ahs did sound,
for there they saw a valley that made all of them look 'round
The valley said in echoes “What’s the meaning of this fight?
It matters not how big or small, it doesn’t make you right
I wouldn’t be a valley if this mountain didn’t hide
and not without a little hill there on my other side
I need you both to get along so everyone can see,
how beautiful we all become with you two here with me”
The mountain then said to the hill, “I think you’re very tall”
And in response the hill replied, “And you’re not oh so small”
The three of them then went outside, the people wore a grin,
for they could see the beauty formed by nature once again
there is a moral here…
(Hint: It is not the title)
“A poet’s pestilence – dash off from him away!
He is sickness and, because of this,
you, crazy, bring on home the plague
but you don’t know the verse bacillus is.
He’s garrulous, a tawdry trouble-maker,
plays rattle in the gaper’s front,
the rogue who wanna burn with water
and now he’s spoiling for the fight!
Like a musketeer he has a wick.
He keeps his powder in a musket.
With naked pendant, tight-rope freak,
of the untrodden thicket he’s a midget.
All jumble from the farce he takes.
He’s loopy not having any clue
and if you’re curious in ahs an` ohs
then you should know that all is from a glue”.
___________________________________________
The poet thinks all these words to himself.
God gave him gift not just for weight.
He’s bothering his soul to save
it from the wicked spirits hate.
Long Poems
What is it about long poems?
Won’t people read any more?
They certainly will not accept them for
An anthology, and that is a bore!
People write tiddley poems,
A couple of lines or Haiku
Expecting us all to say jolly good
Followed by Ahs! and an Oooo!
I read a review from a “liker”
Of a poem that’s five stanzas long
They give me five stars, comment on the length,
And I feel I’ve done something wrong.
Shakespeare put it succinctly,
He knew how to make the words fit,
He had Polonius in Hamlet exclaim
“Brevity is the soul of wit!”
This is true if you have something witty
And really clever to say,
But setting the scene and the context
Is what, I think, makes the play.
And don’t get me wrong I like Haiku
I think short poems can be fun,
But you really can say so much more,
In long ones when all’s said and done!