Best Bulk Poems
Poor Peter Pumpkin had a very itty bitty head.
So the farmer made him stay inside the garden bed.
The farmer said that he was going to keep him warm with hay.
And there the itty bitty pumpkin stayed for many a day.
Finally, the farmer came to check upon poor Peter,
measured him and then exclaimed, “You’ve grown an extra meter!
I think it’s time for you to finally go and face the world.”
Peter got up from his bed. He twirled and twirled and twirled!
“My,” the farmer shouted, “You’ve grown two legs with feet!
You’re a special pumpkin. My daughters you must meet!”
Poor Peter heaved his hefty bulk, waddling away,
following behind the farmer so he would not stray.
They traveled rather quickly, and soon they reached the house.
The daughters saw the pumpkin and grew quiet as a mouse.
The silence lasted just until at last one daughter spoke,
“A pumpkin with two legs? Is this some kind of joke?”
Her father knelt beside her and whispered in her ear,
“Do not be afraid, my child. You’ve not a thing to fear.
We can carve a lantern. It will be your Halloween treat.
Then we can make lots of pumpkin pies for us to eat."
Peter trembled with a chill to hear their horrid plan.
Jumping out the door, he yelled, “Catch me if you can!”
He ran into the pastures. Then he tumbled down a hill.
As he rolled he bumped into the couple, Jack and Jill!
“Oh dear me,” cried Peter, “I do not wish to be
a lantern for this Halloween. Please, can you guys help me!”
Jack and Jill then led him to the land of Nursery Rhymes.
His sad fate has now been told to children many times.
For he ran across a man named Peter Pumpkin EATER.
Maybe you can guess now what became of our poor Peter!
10~12~14
Contest: Halloween Co-Writes
Sponsor: Diane Locksley
Written By Jan Allison & Andrea Dietrich
~awarded 1st place~
Poor Peter Pumpkin had a very itty bitty head.
So the farmer made him stay inside the garden bed.
The farmer said that he was going to keep him warm with hay.
And there the itty bitty pumpkin stayed for many a day.
Finally, the farmer came to check upon poor Peter,
measured him and then exclaimed, “You’ve grown an extra meter!
I think it’s time for you to finally go face the world.”
Peter got up from his bed. He twirled and twirled and twirled!
“Oh my,” the farmer shouted, “You’ve grown two legs with feet!
You’re a special pumpkin. My daughters you must meet!”
Poor Peter heaved his hefty bulk, waddling away,
following behind the farmer so he would not stray.
They traveled rather quickly, and soon they reached the house.
The daughters saw the pumpkin and grew quiet as a mouse.
The silence lasted just until at last one daughter spoke,
“A pumpkin with two legs? Is this some kind of joke?”
Her father knelt beside her and whispered in her ear,
“Do not be afraid, my child. You’ve not a thing to fear.
We can carve a lantern. It will be your Halloween treat.
Then we can make lots of pumpkin pies for us to eat.
Peter trembled and grew chill to hear their horrid plan.
Jumping out the door, he yelled, “Catch me if you can!”
He ran into the pastures. Then he tumbled down a hill.
As he rolled he bumped into the couple, Jack and Jill!
“Oh dear me,” cried Peter, “I do not wish to be
a lantern for this Halloween. Please, can you both help me!”
Jack and Jill then led him to the land of Nursery Rhymes.
His sad fate has now been told to children many times.
For he ran across a guy named Peter Pumpkin EATER.
Maybe you can guess now what became of our poor Peter!
Written by Andrea Dietrich and Jan Allison, for the
Halloween Co-Writes Poetry Contest of Diane Locksley
POSSUM JUGGLING
Written By the Poets Listed After The Poem.
Possum juggling is a trick conjuring sport.
You should never do it if your arms are short.
Nasty teeth are gnashing as they're tossed in air.
The juggling of possums requires flair.
Full-grown possum are very massive fellows.
Their bulk when lifted, like handling jell-o.
They are so at ease as they fly through the trees.
Are you ever so tall? Fight them on your knees!
Though cuddly and soft, please never be smitten.
Asleep they appear, in a flash you're bitten.
Upon one look, so UN-cute the ragged claw!
Surely reminds me of my mother in-law.
In my compost bin found this fury creature.
Pointed nose, stinky as my English teacher-
For that part which sticks out of the can at dark.
Not a pretty site though pink, duck. It’s a fart!
Quickly grab his leg and throw him really high
Let the little blaster soar into the sky!
Be quick, juggler, Granny Clampett is waiting
It's possum stew she hopes to be creating
Wait, I forgot! My arms are too short for this.
Now on my face sprinkles a souring mist.
The moral of this story, surely you see!
Never juggle opossums! Just let them be…
Contributed Poets (in alphabetical order)
Charma Chircop, Austin Daver, Carolyn Devonshire, James Frazer, Robin Gass, James M.
Goff, Raul Moreno, John Robbins, James Peranteau, Dane Smith-Johnsen,
I watched it emerge
from out of the fog, monumental
in size, a sheer cliff face of steel
moving pass me, almost
quieter than my breath
but for a whispered wake
running from its bow.
Something this big
should have made
more noise.
A black hull bore scars
of scrapings and rust bleeding out
of fissures along its length.
The fog seemed to oil its way,
its shape looming large
then slowly growing smaller
as it slid down river until
it dimmed and disappeared.
In that moment its passage
was a mystery, a brief apparition
of something beyond the dimension
of ordinary things. The quiet
of its passing, the dark bulk
and beauty of its presence
was magnificent
and overpowering.
It was like a shadow cast
by a mythical beast
coalescing out of history,
infiltrating the mind then
dissolving once more
into a place somewhere
hidden in its magical past,
suddenly brought back
to this world
with its registered port
written in rusty lettering
on its stern - MONROVIA
Migrating southward before Autumn dies;
flocks of geese split the air with honking cries.
And snow clouds dapple Winter's ice-blue skies;
as winds kiss the trees with audible sighs.
Dawn's first light ignites an ice-cold sunrise;
long-gone are the songbirds and butterflies.
Yet, some creatures have learned to improvise,
turning food into fat, they winterize.
Hibernating bears must bulk up their size,
not gorging in the Fall would be unwise.
A long Winter could lead to their demise
should the need to wake up early arise.
Inclement weather tends to brutalize;
for nature doesn't react well to surprise.
Fighting starvation and all it implies;
some species evolved to cannibalize.
The main purpose of life is to live rightly, think rightly, act rightly. The soul must languish when we give all our thought to the body.
Mahatma Gandhi
___________________________________________
Winter is a suitable time to savor,
Silent, quite starving for, my only flavor.
Quiet seclusion enhances my languish,
Providing pause, meditation, and favor.
Frozen days of chilly nip raise my anguish,
Apply comfy sheets, light for cold to vanquish.
A dreadful bulk of cloud and a brisk breeze,
Inspire sloth in a book respite, prankish.
Beautifully arching shrubs and trees,
A ballet of nature's dreams and appease.
White feathers tumble to the soil below,
As sapphire shines, emerald first wheeze.
Fumes in chimneys coil, merge, and grow,
I burn a recollection as shadows undergo.
Crystal-clear river, frozen pearls, pristine,
Wind gusts at dusk in a cold stream flow.
It's peaceful in my heart and serene,
And mesmerized by the gorgeous scene.
Calm and eased by the stark lightness.
Winter is when I languish, purify, and shrine.
Indigo optimism overlays placid rightness,
Potent nature pride ethereal brightness.
A lovely mix of purple haze made it lighter,
Insignia aesthetic—only ebbing politeness.
I meet you in Laos
as a seed
just a simple
existence of hard rice
seeded inside Huay Xai’s dirt
until water plains
cradle and nourish your infant body
'till you sprout above water banks
where you tickle yourself
with sunshine
like a child who spends all
day with the wind
when you mature
people pull your roots
carry you in bulk back home
along with your friends
moisten your skin
steam under flames and
boiling water
only a bath where
dirt splashes off
while you try to hold
breaths underwater
your skin does not wrinkle
only softens
to stick with other rice
and sink in perfection
of the basket
where my mother’s hands
shake and shuffle you
into a ball
to roll on a plate
now fully grown ready to
liberate our hunger
with your body
that is how we meet
everyday even now
when I chew you in big bites
you never fail to fill
my head with steam
and make my tummy your
cozy home
sometimes I eat you too fast
you burn my tongue
and mom says
I am crazy for eating too fast
but it don’t matter
when I can cool
squeeze to pebble-size bits
dip you in fish soup
or papaya salad
Kao Niew
my family sits together
on the floor legs folded
or on a dinner table
you cuddle inside our bellies
warm our lips
all
the way
down
our throats
in cold evenings with no heaters
you sacrifice to
fill our stomachs
so we can stick to each other
and swallow
our love whole
If I were a dragon, burning old bridges
with the fire that I breathe,
I would perform tricks, from way up high,
and eternally seethe,
lend a daring claw for those in need.
If I were a dragon, I wouldn't cause mayhem
upon the people.
Although I'm sure I'd be tempted for those
sovereigns high on their steeple,
not the matador, but the bull.
If I were a dragon, beautiful
and so meticulously preen,
the world would give me the dunce cap,
every crawling thing would be so mean,
provoking me to intervene.
If I were a dragon, burning old bridges
with the fire that I breathe,
I'd hide my great bulk in the darkest cave,
my claws would be always sheathed,
and forevermore I would grieve.
For the Mythological Animals Contest.
Here I rest, a rusting hulk
Alone, aloof, within my bulk
The hiss of steam within my veins
The pistons pulling at the reins
Mere memories now of a loyal life
Now round my rivets rust is rife
No clank of coal, no whistle shout
No churning wheels, no water spout
Now rust flakes fast to line my grave
Where only leaves and litter pave
This epitaph to a faithful slave
And don't deny I served you well
Yet now condemned within my cell
Of rusted rails that bind me fast
Those guiding hands of days long past
When smells of grease and hissing steam
Echoed gleams and children's screams
As stones and steel rushed past my head
Now tears of rain make up this bed
A burial cloak for a servant laid
To rest and rust in romance dead
On a lil busy route,
For a lil dizzy fruit
They're humming everywhere.
In a bulk, unaware
Layer upon layer
Taking concrete up the stair
burring vanilla skies
Jesus couldn't dare
For no one they will stand
This plane is scared to land
So will crash at the end
From wrinkles to the pinks
All are humming without a blink
stacked themselves by themselves
In the subway named sewers
The sewers, about to sink
Robots of flash they are
Lost its shine, a deformed star
Humming humanoids won't make it far..
-ankit dedha
(Velocyreptor@gmail.com)
ANKIT_DEDHA@instagram
How splendid to be fancy-free,
A perfect morn upon the sea,
Just the surf, my board and me,
And yet, a murky form ...
Obscures the water, warm.
Angled shapes there, dark and grave,
Hidden, deep inside the wave,
As I use my board to shave
Sea foam off the wake ...
A perfect turquoise break.
Sinister, and time to bide ...
Shaped for speed, with silky hide,
Churning shadows in the tide,
Patient for a chance ...
To end my wavy dance.
No way in hell that I'll bequeath
A piece of me to ragged teeth,
Of somber bulk that looms beneath,
This day is much too bright ...
To end ... in bloody fright.
Fear
The venom that rains
Got you
Drowning
In the desert
And a spirit
Weak in brevity
Strong but unbelieving
That’s what fear fed on
Fear fed on you
Society cuts
Flying wings
As to drain
The courageous soul
Of its hope
And then
People die
Rich with power
Power they never used
That’s what fear fed on
Fear fed on you
I see plain pain
In your eyes
Hurt laughing at you
You’re afraid
To ever love again
Because your past
Caused you wounds
So you walk agape
Running
In a cold escape
That’s what fear fed on
Fear fed on you
I see your dried tears
Inscribed
On your broken face
But a determination
You’ve been robbed of
That’s what fear fed on
Fear fed on you
So will you
Forever sulk
Forever your conscience bulk
In a pessimist bask?
Or will you
Your mantle take
And fear forever shake
For you live dead
When fear drives your head
That’s what fear fed on
Fear fed on you
This wise old bulk twined and furled self mended throughout
She shows me her bark churning scars inside out
Sage sentry her silver green cascade caressing the blue
I plop on her half felled limb to pick gum from my shoe
Broken some storm ago during her long century stance
Her arm does make a most perfect perch to romance and glance
The old city hall by the falls where our two rivers meet
She whispers to me it's her insurance this seat
Long since the violent heave thrust back into earth I see
She has curled again skyward to emerge gold a new tree
17.09.17
Composed for Kim Rodrigues
"Personification Of Plant" Contest
English "Master of Suspense" director Alfred Hitchcock
would appear in his own movies, a character with bulk!
In "Psycho," one of his best movies from long ago,
Hitchcock's cameo appearance was at the start of that show.
Within the woods, stood a wall of stone
molded by hands from a distant time.
Though roughly hewn, it had endured.
What narratives could it tell of its past,
this ancient bulwark, built to last?
My fingers traced each pitted wound.
I wondered as to the tragic fate
of one missing mortared rock.
I dared to peer inside the hollow;
the scent of age overpowered me.
A sudden dizziness rattled my senses
with a brief glimpse of a long ago battle
when weapons pricked the rampart's bulk.
This bastion had served as a battlement,
a barricade between differences of opinions.
Was the victory worth the lives forsaken?
Because of it, were families torn apart?
With need to offer words of compensation.
I paid homage to the unyielding wall,
whispering, "Stand strong, brave soldier."
October 6, 2020 ~ A Wall in the Woods
Craig Cornish ~ Sponsor