Best Boomerangs Poems
My Inventory:
flashlights
high-performance yo-yo
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fishing poles
ice-fishing hut
regret
pocket knife
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Grandpa's Fishing Hat
hope and joy
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olde-tyme-radios
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camping gear
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Angel-in-a-basket
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McCoy Cookie Jars
nature field-guides
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Soup-friends
ties I don't wear
family heirloom recipes
suits I try not to wear
treasured photographs
170 poems
antique lamps
my Children's love
......and You
my Savior
....... Jesus Christ
Categories:
boomerangs, life
Form:
List
I dreamed I was inside a bulb—
a cathedral of filament and glass—
not dead
not born…..
but shumming**.
Glass walls curved like time
sealed but translucent
my fingers curled around voltage
like a secret
God was transcending.
The socket hummed a lullaby
of static.
Every breath of mine made sparks
the air electric
with grief
and longing.
I saw myself outside the bulb
in a room wallpapered with eyes—
each iris twitching
like a seismograph.
They watched
as I shimmered like an angel
in a jar of fire
as if I were proof
of something
too holy
or too hideous
to name.
The room beyond
glistened with wallpapered surveillance—
each gaze a blink
each blink
a test of identity
a hymn of entropy
and wonder.
I touched the glass—
cool as frozen memory
thin as a promise—
and the world on the other side
shuddered
like a dream woken
too soon
My thoughts turned tungsten—
spiraled
stubborn
resisting
the spark of enlightenment
or extinction
I spoke
and the words bent back
like boomerangs
buzzing
with static regret
A child approached
barefoot
real
impossibly tender…..
She looked like someone
I might have loved
if time had taken pity.
She placed her palm on the bulb—
her skin against my sorrow
the warmth of it
startling
as mercy
a forgiveness.
“Why are you in there?”
she asked
or perhaps
thought—
her voice the color
of candlelight.
I tried to answer
but my vocal cords was hardwired
my tongue
a fuse
My words came back
distorted
looped
charred
as if language
were combustible.
For a moment
I flickered
between purpose
and obliteration
Then
the ceiling cracked open
like a wound
and light poured down—
not to reveal
like revelation
like judgment—
to burn away
the questions
And I understood—
not everything illuminated
is meant to be seen
not all vision
is freedom…..
Some truths
are meant to flicker
fragile and holy
inside the bulb of the soul
unspoken
unchosen
alive.
================
**Shumming: Shimmering Humming
Categories:
boomerangs, identity, imagination, introspection, philosophy,
Form:
Narrative
I lay in my hospital bed after giving birth, Could hear the murdering, raping
Hutus approaching my bed
My baby was no more. They ravaged me. Left me alive...........
Could hear the battle getting nearer
All I was worried about was my mother, Home alone...
My husband was away was he fighting, Was he alive......
Clutching my dead baby staggered towards home, The smell of blood filled the
air. Then I saw them, The valiant Tutu's, Fighting for us. here and now
The sound of machetes clashing together. Limbs flying through the air. Like
boomerangs.
The screaming ....The misery.......
When I staggered home. Found Mother in the water butt. Hiding from the
savages. She was alive and ok.. So traumatised
Many twisted bodies on the ground. Dragged them into a pile, trying to
remember who they were. To keep a record , for posterity. Poured paraffin over
them and cremated them. Praying for their souls
We buried the baby in the hard red earth. Couldn't cry, had no tears we were.in
shock......
Date was April 7th...
So tired, we slept. Hidden from view...
I am alive, my heart beating. Yet I feel dead. Dead inside....Why I ask myself.
Why is it happening....God only, knows.
Why?......
Penned 22/08/2014 for the Genocide Speak for the Lost contest.
I used 100 days slaughter of Rwanda.
You can see the skeletons of some of the twenty percent of the tutus that were
killed,
Can see the open mouth of the cry of pain. They have been kept. A reminder to
the future generation
April 7th is called Genocide Memorial Day, the week following is a national
mourning week.
Categories:
boomerangs, life, murder, , memorial,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The Autumn Wind
the autumn wind is free tonight!
free to soar and fly tonight!
clouds of hawks one-hundred meters high
dance in the wind across the sky!
arrows of geese at cruise-missile height
dodging boomerangs in errant flight
sundown's purple, orange and red
frame booms in flight above my head
great beams of light spiral the sky!
miracles surround us, from on high
a part of me aches to be free!
jumps from my hand, eager to see!
what lies beyond, above the trees!
each throw stronger, higher, bolder!
'till time stops beating
.......to pause and wonder
the autumn wind is free tonight!
free to soar and fly tonight!
by James Marshall Goff
Categories:
boomerangs, sportsautumn, autumn,
Form:
Couplet
Unquotable quotes – XIII
Follow love for it’s free, free love and it’ll flee.
Do unto others as you would have them undress you.
Easy come, eenie meenie mini go.
Practice makes sex a maniac.
God helps those who help ten elves.
Never kiss a gift horse in the mouth.
People who live in glass houses should not throw boomerangs.
Two heads are no better than none.
Actions speak louder than burps.
A watched pot suffers from boils.
You can’t make a cutlet without breaking legs.
Hang on the hand that feeds you.
All good things must come to a fiend.
If you can’t beat ‘em, grind ‘em.
If it ain’t broke, don’t make it work.
Dislocation is the greater part of valour.
There’s no place like eohm.
A picture is worth a thousand broads.
Better late than dump her.
The pen is mightier than the sword for those who’re
illiterate.
One man’s trash is another man’s pleasure.
Beauty is in the dye of the painter.
Myopia is the mother of the optician.
Familiarity breeds when people camp unkempt.
Good things come to those who know how to put on weight.
A drain is only as long as the longest drink.
Absence makes the heart go ablunder.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him blink.
In teaching others we teach ourselves to teach others.
If you want something done Right, don’t look to the Left.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Categories:
boomerangs, education, humor, inspirational, parody,
Form:
Epigram
The Creator designed some mighty ridiculous looking creatures.
Among them are the kangaroos with some very curious features!
One of them is its massive tail that balances its pear-shaped frame.
But I suppose 'tis that ponderous pouch that really gives it fame!
With its hind legs it kicks like a mule much like that of rabbits.
(Oft I've pondered - does it exhibit the rabbits's prolific habits?)
Kangaroos don't pollute the atmosphere due to its virtual absence,
(Unlike that well-known curse of cattle) of bloated bowels of flatulence!
Little joeys lounge about in the pouch like an extra piece of luggage.
(I assume should she be blessed with triplets there'd be ample storage!)
Down Under is famous for its G'days, boomerangs and Steve Irwin's zoos,
But we're probably more familiar with those ungainly, cantankerous kangaroos!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 7 in Nikko's "Yay for "K" Contest - October 2010
Categories:
boomerangs, animals, funny,
Form:
Rhyme
Morning drizzle
Skyline looks teary;
Jogging feet struggle
~~~~~~~~~
New penthouse suite
By midtown place;
Blessings of peace
~~~~~~~~~
Time moves swiftly
Flying away;
Seize interlude
~~~~~~~~~
Small talk empties
Chit-chat delays;
Time oozes fast
~~~~~~~~~
Two black birds
Morning choral;
Balcony duet
~~~~~~~~~
Tropical heatwave
Humid sticky sweat;
Air-con relief
~~~~~~~~~
Mall sales boomerangs
Petty touting;
Urgent campaign
~~~~~~~~~~
Toy dog runs barking
Pink hair dye;
Same as lady master
~~~~~~~~~~
Childcare kids
Sing-song repetition;
Old nursery rhymes
~~~~~~~~~
Fragments of writes
Verse lines on-the-fly;
Haiku mood swing
~~~~~~~~~
Shopping lists
Foodstuff to buy;
Procure satisfaction
~~~~~~~~~
Time beyond
Chance upon;
Space now on
~~~~~~~~~
Mailbox full
Nobody's home;
Other matters call
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
10 July 2016
Singapore
Categories:
boomerangs, change,
Form:
Haiku
What fools do sing of Karma?
Justice meted out like some kind of sick equation as though
any thoughts or theorems are constant.
I'm sure Pythagoras and Euclid would be very proud of all of us.
See this place and time:
Sigma batwings beat like boomerangs,
doors slamming out the dust-choked sunlight,
trapping sinners in the saint saloon.
An argument!
There at the corner table where
pink flesh meets inlaid wood and
the oily leather squeaks and cracks around the
ultimate geometry machine the
steel bed for brass and lead and rifling.
This is bar-graph justice, an
erxcercise in mean and percentage, or
was it median?
Bam!Bam!
Like a prophet fired from the kiln those bullets eat the air
between the foresight and the torso.
This is aborigional justice come
'round full circle on a decent man.
Categories:
boomerangs, cowboy-western
Form:
Still a bit cool out tonight. I drove to my boomfield anticipatin' gentle winds
and sweet returns. All my booms impress and amaze me, 'cept for a
couple of 'em, which I know always takes me a few tosses to figure 'em out.
The air is sweet with the promise of Spring....colorful ducks and geese fill
the sky. Quickly, sundown approaches, winds abate and peepers from the
creek at the edge of my field begin their harmonies.
Suddenly! in a dead-calm wind.... I feel it, only in Spring at sundown!
a cool creek breeze, waist-high, slowly waves over me....redolent with
moisture-filled Spring perfumes released from their winter slumber, while
the air above my waist stays warm!.... a sensation unlike anything I've ever
felt or smelled before!
Then it comes to me.... hmmmm.....stationary warm thermal above...cool
air below.... MTA time! ( a special 'rang shaped like a small hockey-stick, called
maximum time aloft) ... I begin tossing sweet flights (for me!) and eagerly
catch 'em low, reveling in the different temperatures, odors and sensations as
I reach to bring 'em in near the ground. An overwhelming sense of well-being
floods my mind.... as I thank my boomerangs for taking me deep into
April.... in Minnesota.
Categories:
boomerangs, seasonssweet, spring, me, spring,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Moon drips are like gigantic slides and cloud surfing is very very exciting particularly when shoved with a broom. Base jumping off smaller spheres can be hazardous and mind the cats on the way down. They can pickle. It is often wise to omit zero shine to a coat. As many layers can spring around. Touching all areas. Yet stagnant in none. And all the time the warbling sounds. The jeering molluscs. Suited in rows. Caterpillar women with beady eyes. And large bulbous land based porpoises. Well, they will never get to create a pretty picture on the sandy ground. Such is the rationalisation of the purple winking frog who hops over global obstacles with a swoosh. Reverb is not an easy option so never swing back carrying ten cups of tea. Merely a cataclysm. In catacombs. In chasms. And often in pans. Pinnacles of diamante peas can fall. And tomato ships will arrive in a tray boat. Winds whipping windows wildly wildlife xxxx and treatment of a small disc shaped fish. *** chicken chicken peck peck peck ha ha ha whilst pock is neither a sunny synonym for it is a wondrous concoction of sound. *** level not a bun nor a beard nor a bread. *** and now swim in 900 metres of juices from a tree. Xx treasures unknown and unforeseen....*** ha ha ha question not a queue xxxx basins baby babies booming baboons boomerangs books bookshelves beads...*** prana prang xx piranha pyramids *** trepidation of tortoises xxxx pig presentation *** ha fortifications *** 83% of a dust particle *** physiology *** deliberation. Z.z.z. Boom. *** in a mild temperate climate a calling cattle moves. Xx momentous x z z z x
Categories:
boomerangs, age,
Form:
Gundabooka Sam
Old Sam squats at Gundabooka
Somewhere out the back of Bourke,
He lives in a shanty hut,
Doesn't seem to do much work,
He wears rope-held trousers
And a long-john undershirt,
His crumpled hat's seen better days
Always covered in red dirt.
Old Sam he has a kookie
That sits upon his hat,
It always laughs its loudest
When Sam reaches for a pat,
He also has a hairy-nose
That follows him around,
That is when that wombat's
Not digging in the ground.
Sam, Sam, from Gundabooka
Always quick with an outback yarn,
Tells tales of outback men
And how some came to harm,
You can hear his raucous laugh
When he cracks a bush joke,
Rolling, rollicking, frolicking,
He's one hell of a squatting bloke.
Sam’s hair and beard are quite red
Although the locals aren’t quite sure,
If it’s just where the red dust gathered,
Maybe they were black well before,
The time he came to live
In his Gundabooka shack,
So far off the beaten path
Even the boomerangs don’t come back.
Categories:
boomerangs, funny,
Form:
Lyric
Confronting conflict
So much to say;
Not much said
Momentary surge
Foolish inquisition;
Curiosity rambles
Trial and error
Foresight blurring;
Curious burdens pain
Age feels fatigue
Turmoil in body-mind;
Forgetfulness lingers
Wandering in circles
Arrival starts ending;
Hurl new departures
Moment to moment
Change boomerangs;
Jigsaw puzzle gamble
Hidden agendas
Many pieces void;
Crazy feelings loiter
Empty passageways
Dark dreary corridors;
Ancient musky odours
Ice cream vendor
Push-cart existence;
Rainy weather losses
Self-destruct mode
Severe gambling losses;
Avaricious woes
Joyride nightmare
Cold sweat agony;
Morning uprising
Uncertain agenda
Confusion descends;
Insane mentality
Man in the street
Mind your own business;
Law of the jungle
Leon Enriquez
14 June 2014
Singapore
Categories:
boomerangs, mirror,
Form:
Haiku
The suitable ramblings of a plate of acorn and carrots to a listening ear of a squirrel squire is very very good news for a bed of voltaic leaves.Vehemently described by a small stone to be akin to radio station chattering. Babbling brook then. Oh good. Oh how one must look in amazement at the many radishes who arrive in uniform with badges. Clanking a clicking. Clocking a clinger. Danger is in the harbours where resides a 8000 long lobster. Whose antics are unpleasant and displease the many ships of cakes floating upon the waves. Juniper is Jupiter. And juvenile crimes of a pile of mud is an archaically archived delivery. How quite pleased is a 67 metres of a sky. Bus building baking breathing breastplate boomerangs breadsticks bang. And in a Penang architecture is often quite outstanding. Far freezer freeing fakes formations. Was washing wasting waiting willing wildly wildlife. And look there is a tiny two inch caterpillar many legs many boots many miles many many moons. Ha hmm xx Stupefaction *** z .
Categories:
boomerangs, america, animal, april, art,
Form:
Compared with us, the kids today
Too little play and too much weigh.
Alone indoors they snack and sit
And buttons hit, while we stayed fit.
We'd quickly chores and homework do,
Then dash through doors to fun pursue,
To basketballs and arrows shoot,
To jump with ropes, and footballs boot.
We'd earthworms dig for fishing bait,
On scooters glide, and roller skate.
We'd hopscotch, seesaw, chase. and swing
And boomerangs and frisbees fling.
We'd tackle, dribble, leap, and throw.
We'd tunnel through and shovel snow.
In haystacks dive and wagons ride,
On ice and into bases slide.
We'd whittle wood and baskets weave
And pennies pitch and horseshoes heave.
We'd yank the strings so tops would spin,
When wrestling, try to shoulders pin.
We'd kindling fetch and firewood chop,
Inflate balloons to later pop,
Sink numbered balls in billiard halls,
And topple pins with bowling balls.
We'd weekly swim at downtown Y,
Our kites and model airplanes fly,
We'd darts and putts and marbles aim,
With lens or flint set twigs aflame.
We'd sneak beneath the sideshow tents,
Climb ropes and poles and chain link fence.
We'd hike and camp with scouting troops,
Rotate our hips in hula hoops.
We garden weeded, hosed, and tilled,
We'd soap box car and treehouse build,
At picnics joined the tug-of-war,
And barefoot romp when rain would pour.
We raced on stilts and pogo sticks,
Made pies of mud, our pets taught tricks,
Were paper, pin, and altar boys,
Ignored complaints of too much noise.
For caddie tips, we'd golf bags lug;
To jukebox records, jitterbug.
We'd carpets beat, played kick-the-can,
Collected rocks, and errands ran.
To school and back on foot we tread,
Down steepest hills and alleys sled,
Played pitch-and-catch in yard with Dad,
Pushed mower that no motor had.
We'd rake the leaves and chestnuts crack
And toddlers carry piggyback.
With feather pillows fight in bed,
Our cap guns fire, and fall down dead.
We'd wildly flail at punching bag
And batted balls and passes snag.
We'd zig and zag, avoiding tag,
Till tuckered out, we'd homeward drag.
No trophies or applause we'd get.
Our play was real, not internet.
To kids today, I this advise:
Get off your butts and exercise!
Categories:
boomerangs, children, fun, growing up,
Form:
Quatrain
Like many heroes of mysterious Marvel Comics,
Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange is a bolt of magic mix;
Spells of supernatural kinds he works, abundantly,
Crimsons, crystals, ice, rings, chains - in constant redundancy...!
Pile of pure pulverization and annihilation,
The Bolts of Balthakk has become eternal damnation;
On any stuff - solid or liquid - the bolt does explode,
Like iron-oxidation, all powers it does corrode...!
Bounds, rebounds, rings, winks, blows, boomerangs at its master's hands,
Swishes, swooshes; whizzes, whooshes like winds in desert sands;
None in heaven or hell could ever its gravity hold,
Like swift, sly electric current it does its force unfold...!
Is it terrible torch of fire? Or lake of lava?
Is it hydro-nitrogen bomb resembling baklava?
From hands of Doctor Strange, like gold dust they serenely fly,
Clapping, crashing, flashing, dazzling, booming, zooming they spry...!
Doctor Strange manipulates these bolts like liquid plasma,
For him, a magic-surgeon, it's mere mental miasma;
An awesome third eye adorns the forehead of Doctor Strange,
For mesmerized kids, these are, delightful amusement-range...!
30 August 2022
Doctor Strange Spells Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Categories:
boomerangs, allegory, analogy,
Form:
Rhyme