Best Bantam Poems
If you are cathedral of consecration
I'm the voluminous chime summoning souls
If you are the moonglade mountain peak
I'm the fedora of snow atop you
If you are the bantam flame of hope
I'm the mammoth lantern you sit in
If you are the magnificent crown of laurel
I'm the koh-i-noor glowing your majesty
If you are the whorly petals of the gypsy-sue
I'm the daggerlike thorns of flaw
If you are the bard of the Zambezi
I'm the first sonnet of your anthology
If you are the mythical firebird
I'm the scarlet embers of reincarnation
If you are the forsaken pirate ship
I'm the glubs of your drowning
If you are the ancient persian pearl
I'm the millions carats speaking your worth
If you are the sacred vial of eternity
I'm the gluck to the kingdom come
If you are cathedral of consecration
I'm the open arms of the door of mercy
Can’t catch em
Outlived my time
Click of eyes, no chime
Still young a bantam rooster
Old people seem to lose the rhyme
Can’t catch em like I u-ster
To walk alone it is my path
Lonesome on the fringe
Time sometimes brings a merry laugh
But who am I to whinge
A kiss for lovers in the mist
A cuddle neath the stars
The right one have I maybe missed
Neath Jupiter and Mars
But onward ever onward
To quest and often fail
Knight errant fearless undeterred
He seeks the Holy Grail
A determined chicken collector and her obliging spouse
Reside in a small town, inside a quaint sort-of HEN house
High upon a mountain top covered with melting snow
Displays of ceramic chickens, last count was ninety or so
A colorful brood of biddies, bantam silks and pompous hens
Perched on sills and everywhere between the Rhode Island Reds
The black cast-iron weather vane sits on the roof outside
The rooster that is welded on, quite a windy ride
A hoard arranged on counters, gently placed in rows
Silent as they cluck and strut in every kind of chicken pose
All styles and breeds imaginable from ceiling to the floor
Each room parades a show of cock-a-doodles galore
I’m not taking any chances when I wander through this coop
When chickens start cluckin’, ceramic feathers I’ll be pluckin’
While I’m cooking chicken soup
*Dedicated to my sister who collects ceramic chickens
Little Leprechaun
Abab Iambic T
a mischief, laden Irish elf
of Irish men quite bold
one collects, inspects, golden gifts
the bantam weight of gold
a legend bold of many told
the phantom thrills of chase
the race in sight of shining gold
is thither yon, the place
the thither yon, abasing race
for little pot of ore
the tricks are slick, amazing pace ……
a rich and golden store
the little elf, hombre, is spiff
a must to tether soul
the little bantam weight is swift
the little elf is bold
the Irish phantom elf of gold
a somber bearded man
of Ireland legends clearly told
a rainbow’s golden plan
the Irish rainbow bows to bond
as magic thrill unfolds
of stories one becomes quite fond
“of legends boldly told”
Babe, she was a Bantam,
And lots of eggs she laid.
While others ruled the henhouse
It was in the yard she stayed.
Harvey loved his favorite
And when he drank iced tea,
The hen hopped on the table
And drank enough for three!
It was an odd activity,
After all she was a chicken.
But, Harvey loved her more than us.
Their friendship was a thick 'un.
If you wanted to visit Harvey,
In the backyard where he'd rather,
I'd suggest you learn to drink iced tea
And maybe grow some feathers!
In this wonky day and time,
this favored temperate clime
dares suggest wisdom's course
espouse prevalent societal force.*
Family tree boundaries,
stretched by current modes
like an old elastic band,
accept new branches
hung precariously
on the old sturdy trunk.
Old Limbs are newly bushed
with leaves bearing prefixes
with measuring sounds;
third, adopted, step, half -
or followed by modifiers;
in-law, live-in, significant other.
Partners and lovers
get tied on with slippery ribbons,
names entered in a ledger,
but not with permanent ink.
Disjointed families, add-ons,
and second family births
leave our children wondering
to whom they belong.
*Adulterated quote from “A Traitor to Memory”
by Susan Elizabeth George, Published in 2001,
Bantam Books, a Div. of Random House, Inc.
Top of Page 87
At cockcrow, I head down to the river, forsaking my little log cabin situated in the dense forest till dusk, which was strongly built by my endemic hands. I have no compulsion for rods and hooks, no bait. I have my ways. I be sincerely unwanted at the riverside. Others be fearful of my gruff, contemptible guise and demeanour. Fearful that I'd snipe their catch or peck their lunch. Incomprehensible! Hence, I descend the forested hill on which I dwell in the purpose of pilfering the village of food.
I plead the inhabitants for at least a bantam amount of vittles but it is nearabout in vain. All individuals barring an altruistic gardener be scornful towards me. He understands my plight as well as harking what myself alleges. He feeds me his residual edibles. It's his generosity that keeps me alive.
When I be passing the villagers shun me and ensconce me from their young'uns. When I be nigh to them I be able to hear mutterings under breath:
"Undesirable,"
"Accursed tramp,"
and an occasional"Eavesdropper!"
That's what they entitle me but I possess a name. I did not merely crawl up out of the loam and come into existence. I did not start off as an abominable creature spawned on the riverbed (some consider I presently be just that). I be correctly known as Grey, I be named Heron Grey.
By Sean Martin-Byrne
Creationist scientists who dig
with astro-paleontologists
As they seek the bones
Of australepithecus
Foretold in the Book of Leviticus
& the Dead Sea Scrolls
Sounded by the deadly tolls
From the bells
Harbored in the Vatican,
Those who mistake the accidents
For the sake of unholy laxatives
To be forced in controlling the pacifists
10% of your income,
& then some
The cross holds one
For ransom
It doesn't matter if your
Beautiful or handsome
Since, the endless chasms
Flood like restless cytoplasm
Induced by the
Phantom's iconoclasm
As the masses reduce
To being merely a bantam
Docile & trite,
This isn't right
What's done in the dark,
Must be brought to the light
Stand up, & fight
For the right,
Rise with all our might
& working through the nights
New World Order plights
Will never bring a fright
Fear no evil,
See no evil,
Speak no evil
They're all just weasels
Being painted on the easel
With the colors of greed & lust
Nobody to trust
But, yourself
As one must
In order to be just
With one & all
& all in one
The serpentine and ageless liquid
mercurial possessed snake
eternally swallowed
since the beginning of time
one unquenchable thirst to gorge and slake
slurping up an icy cold mountainous pebbly shake
yet fresh as an irish spring
using thy tongue o gaelic spake
then tumbling down into the cavernous abyss
subsequently carving
a deep criss cross patchwork
across the rock hard rugged topography
like the handiwork of some invincible force
commandeering a humungous rake
affixing legendary signature
quasi-indelible grooves
only for the near indomitable
chiseled masterpiece
to be erased, twisted then wrenched
by that natural landscape altering phenomena
identified as an earth quake
creating a fresh tabula rasa to begin anew
inviting waters from on high to carve
from the ebbing and flowing millennial currents
which eventually find a more direct course
beginning as trickling creek
swells from winter rains
and thence in summer while the sun doth bake
when flora blooms and fauna prance
the firmament then abandons
bent elbow oxbow lake
as a former bend in the river.
frum - thhis hen pecked bantam
which spouse will never hush
and let me concentrate at some endeavor
but please DO NOT consider me a lush
nor believe this mainline/ lower merion resident lives plush
for his values quite out of sync with majority in a rush
to chase the ole might buck
if quiet, you can hear the whoosh!
Scruffy the Bantam
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2015
Grey Mare Lane Markets, was a place I used to like
I used to go there Saturdays, riding on my bike
Down Mount Road, then Hyde Road, then down Pottery Lane
Told my Mam a snake I’d buy, she’d say “then don’t come home again”
I ended up with day old chicks, a couple for 5 bob
I used to think they’d give me eggs, and I’d be like Old Lob
but they would not even last the day,
before the poor things passed away
so next week I will buy some more,
telling Mam I’d “buy a snake” as I ran out the door.
One day I got a fighter, who made it through the day,
a real bantam rooster, who decided he would stay,
he lived just down the garden, in my dad’s little shed
I always called him Scruffy, ‘cause of the black mark on his head
He was afraid of nothing, not dogs or cats or me,
and I always threatened him, one day you’ll be my tea,
then he was gone, I don’t know where, I guess I never will
I like to think he chased a cat, and is trying to catch it still
Bertie Brown the Bantam weight was training for the fight
The tickets sold the seats laid out all ready for the night
‘Buster Brown can knock ‘em down’ the posters all agreed
But this one worried Buster sending tremors to his knees
He badly needed solace to prepare him for the war
but all he found were cronies and the Yes men at the bar
so with seven pints of Guinness drunk to sharpen up his wits
Bertie slipped down off his stool and flexed his mighty fists
To the cheers of husbands everywhere he set out for the bout
Followed closely by the eager mob and half a dozen louts
The front row seats fell silent as Bertie took the stance
belt pulled tight, and sleeves rolled up, shirt tucked into his pants
his opponent came out swinging, a jab, a swinging right
as full of Guinness Bertie swayed with all his wobbling might
But as he counter punched his right with a wild and powerful swing
He spun round twice and lost his feet and landed on his ring
Then struggling dizzily to his feet his face now pale and wan
He didn’t see the knock out blow from Elsie’s frying pan
The Friday fight was over, and the crowd dispersed quite sad
It hadn’t been the best of scraps, though the best that Bertie had
At least she hadn’t cut him up, or blackened both his eyes
For Berties missus, Elsie was at least three times his size.
For fifteen years each Friday night Bantam Bertie fights the fight
But up against a heavyweight it’s not a pretty sight
So Guinness drinkers everywhere remember and relate
When fighting after drinking, never punch above your weight.
I know of a gentle young lady,
who told of a mystery,
that's ancient and bold, a myth of old,
so curious to people like me.
This amiable lass,
a woman of class,
and violet hair to boot,
laid eyes on me,
my naked belly,
and proclaimed with exuberant fact,
"Did you know you've a deep belly-button,
a cavern as deep as the sea?"
and then she said,
straight from her head,
something I couldn't conceive.
People like me,
with this bantam innie,
are deep creatures emotion-ally.
I purchased a bantam in Feckham
And named her Victoria Peckham
This scrawny old bird
Just can’t cluck a word
She's hoping the farmer won't neck em!
Our rooster is called ‘Coq au vin’
He tries to fly just like Batman
If Victoria sings
He starts flapping his wings
At least the old bird’s got one fan!!
I've just returned from a moonlight walk with my hubby ... we were just going past a farm and I had to stop to write the first limerick down and wrote the second when i got home ... I do worry about my muse!
4/4/18
Breakfasts of strawberry pancakes
Hot and made with love,
A regular childhood occurrence
In kitchen where odors of love and comfort
Soothed the hurt the bully left
And made one feel stronger.
One pulls courage from comfort food
Strength from those who care,
For the bully is actually a coward
Who preens and acts the bantam.
Percy would stand up and sidestep and tap dance while the bullets bounced around him....
Percy laughed at death
and the Grim Reapers sickle missed him..
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush/
PERCY WATT.
Percy he was as thin as wire there was none as game as he...
In Syria where hot lead did fly, bullets zipping round him like a Bee. ... (1941)
Percy walked across the open ground, as we watched him from the trench...
I'd call 'Jesus, Perc get down', as he'd dodge the bullets, French....
For he never was a moment still always shifting changing place....
He'd taunt the Vichy French to kill, they just couldn't hit this Ace....
He was a great morale booster, this lean boy we did admire....
Game as a young red bantam rooster drew the Foreign Legions fire.....(French Foreign Legion)
And then in New Guinea green, when sudden death was all around.......(1942)
Bullets bounced where Perc. was seen while the others hugged the ground.....
I'd yell 'Get down young Percy mate those Jap's will surely kill you!'
He`d laugh and say 'They can`t shoot straight, they're so bung eyed that it`s true! '.....
No they couldn`t hit young Percy Watt yet he lived where others died....
Came home alive it was his lot,...
Though the bung eyed Nip's they tried.....(my father worried about a 17
year old)
Don Johnson....Percy is in the Toowoomba cemetry :( old age got him.....
Percy was a young ex sunday school teacher about 17 year old in Syria. He was convinced he
couldn't be shot in war and never was hit by the many bullets fired at him .
In close quarter fighting he was deadly with the bayonet parry and butt slap on the Jap.
He worked in the Toowoomba foundry after the war.