Best Boggy Poems
I really am a golfer
And let me tell you why
Its only when I swing a club
I really feel alive
I really am a golfer
And take my driver out
I swing my club and hit the ball
As hard and I have might
I really and a golfer
My ball is in the rough
I swing my metal 3 real hard
To find the grass is tuff
I really am a golfer
My ball goes 50 ft.
It’s out the rough and in the sand
And buried very deep
I really am a golfer
I take my sand wedge out
I open up the face of it
And swing it with a clout
I really am a golfer
My ball is on the green
I swing the putter in an arc
With boggy on the seen
I really am a Golfer
My put goes 10ft past
I’m looking at a double
But the Green is just too fast
I really am a golfer
The balls beside the cup
I make it in the center
And my friends they call it luck
The challenge was to write and write
Then write and write and write , all right !
So I wrote and wrote and wrote , as planned .
It was , oh so quick ; it was in short-hand .
It was multi paged and all I needed .
I can write short-hand , but I just can't read it .
So , it might be poetry , or it could be prose .
Perhaps multi haiku , no one knows .
Sonnet , pure , in perfect rhyme
Or out of sync , and not in time .
Perhaps words of love , or maybe hate .
Or the annoying sound of a banging gate .
Sweet pleasantries , like morning smiles
Or the painful itch of bulging piles ?
It's written down in the secret code
Of leafy lanes and country road
Wild boggy fields , with waving rushes.
Or cranky couples , coping with hot flushes .
I can't explain this sorry tale
I feel the words , but they're not in braille .
Sad to say that , " that is that " .
Now I wish I could trottle Matt
As I sit in tears of tormented zest
Trying to finish words for this damned contest !
( This piece was written in 5 days , 8 hours , 7 minutes and 24 seconds ... make that 25
seconds ... sorry 26 ... CUT & FINISH .. ok 27 seconds .......
I like to think that love
is Universal – even little
green men, on boggy worlds
having such fond capacity
like to think that stars
share brilliance affectionately,
giving an extra beam, here and there,
to a fellow where a twinkle lagging
like to think, that vagabond comets,
trade heartfelt sonnets in the passing
like to think that you would love me
forever...even if I wasn't so
poetically cute and clever:)
In a mountain valley
on a moody summer day
dark pink and purple clouds loftily hang
above dense dark evergreens
the clouds reflect on the narrow stream
as it winds along the valley floor
a storm is about to brew
swaying of bull rushes
that line the bank edges
among this thick foliage
delicate blue flowers bloom
this wide picturesque valley
has become a boggy area
filled with unknown dangers
no one would dare to thread
beautiful to look at
but like the coming storm
many dangers can unfold.
An aardvark walked into IKEA
Why he did that I have no idea
Ignoring their calls
To try the meatballs
He searched for some ants out the rear
He does ‘civilised’ when he’s able
So found a flat pack dining table
He’d built one - not ever
In inclement weather
And thus it was rather unstable
You don’t see aardvarks wearing wellies
While stuffing ants into their bellies
And if he should drown
While slurping ants down
Would it show up on closed circuit tellies?
He wouldn’t be humiliated
Embarrassment is over rated
The ground was now boggy
And aardvark was soggy
His hunger was not to be sated
So he snuck in to get meatballs - Swedish
He was wet so they gave him a free dish
He ate them real quick
And then he got sick
Had somebody done something fiendish?
The police came and said, “Well I Never,
Was it IKEA food or the weather?”
They found lots of clues
They thought they could use
But they struggled to put them together.
Tamed time in my imagine store ,sky is a stage for a Drizzle Drop
Atoms pirouetting on broad high heels
Molecules are singing in mute melody
Twinkling shiny kings tend to twirl and tune like Mozarts of moon.
When I saw that marvel, my shoulders shrugged
I fetched fairly panic.
My skin got to melt sparer and leaner as my sweat
and only thing I could fit is in to a tunic.
I was curious to know the age of sky
Because it is melting much more than most of moist as rainy tears
I reason so; why is it still bearing the world in movement of misery in every crusade
And with a statement of sweet and sour sentiment it is even making me cry spicy with salty sobbing.
You may find my rain drizzle from heavens and fall woo
only to reach our soul and try to fit in our own shoe.
Every now and then my bubbly rain sleeps on sand
And it even takes part as the shade of fantasy and sad.
My rain might always has inner directed thrust
To rain down to the reign of the thirst.
While evaporation my soggy-boggy sodden rain flow high
And even, in a frown frazzled furnace of weather with thunders, he keeps on to sigh.
Life in a Fijian village
No worries, no rush
No murmuring no fuss
Live in the village to relax
Live in the village to enjoy to the max
Life in the village can also be hard
Slippery roads and boggy yard
There aren't many shops around
Sometimes transport is hard to be found
When it rains it really pours
There is no weather protection on the horse
And the river floods and no way to get out of course
Trees fall and get carried away by the force
However, laughter can always be heard
Whether the people are hungry or fed
Bananas and pawpaws to make the heart glad
Always optimistic even if the situation is bad
Living in a village is fun
No more schedules, no more eating on the run
Start work with the rising of the sun
And Enjoy a siesta when the job is done
Waking in the morning in a fresh mood
Eating daily fresh and good food
Meeting smiling people who are not rude
Having a swim in the dark whilst nude
How I love the village life
Away from the cities with all its strife
Wandering around fearlessly without a gun or knife
Away from the cities where crime is rife
Come and enjoy living in the village with me
You've read the poem and now come and see
As I am happy you will also happy be
Come and enjoy living in the village with me
A KIDS FUNNY BEE BUZZ POEM
The fuzzy, wuzzy bumble bee
a fussy, hussy bee was he
because he lost his buzz you see
in a muggy, buggy mushroom tree
On mushrooms bitter, boggy black,
he planned an aerial attack,
but bouncing, pouncing skills he lacked
and failed to get his bee buzz back.
Now this fumbling, stumbling bumble bee
searched helter, skelter frantically
for a bigger bee to help him free
his bee buzz from the mushroom tree.
But no bee ever came around,
searched high and low, tree and ground,
but his buzz was never found,
a buzzless bee without his sound.
POOR FUZZY, WUZZY BUMBLEBEE
Liz Labadie-Reilly
October 18/2015
My thoughts wander as I wonder what I'm running for.
It's like I'm hunted cos I'm wanted for the chalk under juggernauts.
Now I ponder what I'm running from.
I took shelter against an atomic bomb.
I put distance between us like boggy swamps.
And worked resistance against urges when the horror taunts.
I grip the side of todays and tomorrows wants.
And let the world burn away when on fire watch.
I turn to gaze at the stars in the night sky and look away with desire in my bright eyes.
I stay aligned and balanced like earths globe.
With the moon and the planets with the sun burning slow
I come with passion for the past do I desert home
Do I deserve a future or do I turn rogue.
There's no sorrow for tomorrow when you watch it pass.
Forgot today in search of yesterday in the past.
My future looks like an image of a bleak scene.
I emerged from the sea still picturing a deep me.
My heart goes out to all the people that are never found.
Too much going on and feeling under pressure now.
It aint easy when surviving on this deadly ground either.
As we breath the air choking thank god we found sleepers.
Only demons there to keep us here keep us scared they're sincere.
Still considering my thoughts where I re compare.
Nightmares and dream scapes as I lie here this heat wave leaves me right here going crazy to see the change.
Trapped seeing these angles.
The tangled chap man of perception in chains where they dangle.
The manacled mans hands on pulse when he strangles throats.
Facing these battles I stand alone like a stranded ghost.
I move faster alone quick grab the rope slick catch an go.
All in the same boat now the ships mast broke.
No sails for gale winds that blow on the high seas tired trying hit that coast.
Thats my goal.
Deep in defiance when I fling that stone as reply to some social science you show signs that ya lean that low.
Ya best answer when I ring that phone. That's right man ya hear me bring that tone.
When I bring back soul ya knees flop like a bean bag dolls.
Man ya eave drop like a clique of crack hoes.
Like a dog tare the meat from the bone of bone idol spineless blokes if they fit that role.
By the side of the loch some boys at play,
when into their midst there came
A beautiful white and riderless horse
with a long and flowing mane
A redheaded boy jumped up on its back,
a daring young sprite was he
And the other bold lads, as lads often do,
followed in his lee
The boys they ranged from the head to the tail,
and more clung to the side
And the pure white horse cantered along,
with the boys enjoying the ride
But one boy recalled an ancient tale,
and wished he had paid more heed,
How the slimy Kelpie could change its shape
and become a shining steed
Then the Kelpie, in this fine disguise,
would trot by the loch or mere
And the humans foolish enough to ride,
would be doomed to disappear
This unhappy boy had a grip on the tail
and he was running last
But when he tried to let it go,
he found his hand stuck fast
He twisted and turned, he tossed and thrashed,
but all to no avail
‘til he pulled out a knife, from the top of his boot,
and slashed the creature’s tail
And in that instant the Kelpie reared up,
and flew with brimstone and fire
Out over the loch and down in the deep
of the boggy marsh and mire
The boy left behind stood on the sand
and gazed where his friends been
And though the men searched for many a night,
they never again were seen
And the mothers came to sit by the loch,
to keen, to moan and cry
And in their grief they failed to see,
a pale horse trotting by.
Margaret Foster 29th August 2011
‘each uisge’ Gaelic—Water horse—Kelpie
mere—archaic, dialect. a lake or marsh.
Spindly stretching brambles rebel from main form
Amused bending stems eject spikes of rhino horn
Thorns barely a repellent for birds resourceful
Tweezer glowing twilight globe, a bitter morsel
Fresh field alien green cone births berry's infant
Chantilly lace pale pink petticoat wraps nymphet
Confetti celebratory moult bulges her fertility
Eighty protruding bulbs shiver in vulnerability
Stern season carousel chastens scanty branches
Snow swallow, boggy terrain new tepid attaches
Saw edge foliage unfold, twitching fox ears
Clusters encombour limbs, absinthe adheres
Florid flocks tossle, augment midnight family babble
Morning dew melt sapor stains fingers which dabble
Outcast tongue teaser, lumpy rubber cleaved
Mauve motivate jaunty juice, mouth received
9th August 2022
Written for Contest:
Thoughts on Blackberries
Sponsor:
Matt Caliri
As I plod along the boggy fields
Master on my back
The heavy armour on my chest
The mud upon my flanks
The smell of blood in the smokey air
Of man and beast entwined
The thrust of decay beneath my hooves
Tension in the skies
As cold April winds
Lash into my eyes
I keep myself in check
To heed the masters voice to me
And his command upon my neck
His spurs, they push into my flanks
As the enemy approaches
I twist and turn, rise and fall
As metal upon metal clashes
Fast I must hold, stumble not
As the master fights the battle
Heart beating hard, mouth dry as earth
Blood coursing down my chattles
Treading hard upon the ground
Regardless of the dead
Then the day is won,the bugle sounds
"Homeward men its over"
Wearily I trot beneath the sun
To green fields of grass and clover.
A boggy wheat? Smell of the feet. And a festival fist of a differential calculus of praenomen poppies. Swaying in a misted setting. One should plant trees in an arc. And Aechyryptipical is very renounced for being a boating lake. Eyes open then eyes shut. Eyes travelling then eyes resting. Training train traverses trailing traffic territoriality so deeply into a glamorous bowl then. Hahahaha weeding a cake. Hahahaha number of concrete consciousness's in a beat. Lalakala and a prick of a beetle nest. Malakanagiri making a curry and a furry coat watches a clock. Cluck cluck cluck. Carnage in a weaponry cross pleases platforms but spits on crocodile crowds. Imperialism *** dot co dot doesn't disentangle disease. Hop hoops hop hop hop and a big snout in a very vertical tree. Xxxx z.
So we’re going on a picnic with the pygmy, Pixie Poggly, being the quirky queenly
quaintly quickly person she is and her friend a raunchy rascal reverently named
Andy Bailey. As you remember he was in the Aussie army association, barely
battling the banshee that were bawdy blackly bloody in the boggy boundary briefly
in the outback, and lets not forget pixie’s perky prominent pal that is a bossy,
bluntly, brainy, bookie, breathing brashly, balmy, bits of boogie bookie chatter to
all the cheery, choicely, chunky crowd around his choosey, cheesy, cheaply
choice of chummy spots, and in his coarsely cocky way, he coyly clamors crafty
creepy words that really don’t say what they needs to say, but confuses even the
gentle, ghostly, gaudy, gawky, gabby, gypsy genie down in the gaily, gabby,
ghastly valley town called Gatsby. I hear even Fatty Fannie the fancy, fleecy,
flimsy, flowery, and foxy maiden that has her doggie, “Dotty” watching her dreamy,
dressy, downy, dowry. And to make things easier Pixie’s dumpy daffy deafly, dinky
donkey named Dixie is going to carry all the supplies, and we are going to the
daffy damply dainty little dairy where the daisies grow daily in the deeply densely
droopy grasses next to the hay, and it sounds like it will be a giddy, giggly, goodly,
goofy, goosey, grabby good grammar in all its Grammy award wining grandeur
day.
Parts of this poem were copied from another poem that I cannot display here, but
that I did write, it is called “The Picnic” and I thought this would be some fun
reading for all here.
Skiing Is…
Skiing is…
Alpine thrill ride on four inch boards
Boggy in the bumps – a schuss to the lodge
Carving a turn leaving icy rooster tails in the air
Drag lift to ride on thick moving ropes
Skiing is…
Extreme black diamond runs on endless terrain
Flat hills of green for bunny slopes
Googles of amber for blizzards or flat light
Hardpack and boiler-plate; blue ice and corn snow
Skiing is…
Into the heart of pure mountain splendor
Jet sticks on snowfields under blazing blue skies
Keeping upright avoiding face plants
Lift lines of frustration at chair lifts and gondolas
Skiing is…
Moguls that hide crafty snow snakes
Nordic dance of short swings in fresh powder
Outside skis with a mind of their own
Powder hounds piggin’ through aspen trees
Skiing is…
Quick turns called weidlin from Austrian lore
Runs of legend like K-2 and Exhibition, Wild Child, The Plunge
Sitzmarks the size of a lunar crater
Telemark turns on frosty cross-country trails
Skiing is…
Under the smile of the crystal solstice
Vertical drops into wide open bowls
Weighting unweighting parallel turns
Experts and bunnies apres ski with tall tales
Skiing is…
Yards sales of googles, poles, hats and lost skis
Zest for taking your life in your hands!
2-28-23