Best Chews Poems
Our sweet dog Holly lies under our tree
She is wagging her tail so gleefully,
Knocking about the light Christmas tree balls.
She becomes quite shocked as one of them falls.
Holly thinks her gifts are ribbons and bows
She chews them and hides them, where?, no one knows.
Holly loves to romp in fresh fallen snow.
Her happy dark eyes just twinkle and glow.
Her cute black face is covered like frosting
While chasing a rabbit she's accosting .
She has a good canine friend named Jessie.
Holly and Jesse's paws get quite messy.
After their long frisky walk in the park
Holly gets tired from her Christmas lark.
When dinner completes her desire,
She loves to keep cozy by our log fire.
Holly is content with pats on her head,
Then snuggles to sleep at foot of my bed.
12-18-17
Christmas Story Contest
Sponsor Eve Roper
*This is a tribute to a very good friend's two dogs,
Holly and Jessie, who reside in England.
Merry Christmas to everyone!
She’s too titty to be a preacher.
She can’t even bead a rook.
A rental deceptionist? Maybe.
At my teeth she once look a took.
As a wean clerker, she’ll never do.
I once caught her nicking her pose.
She doesn’t even hash her wands.
And she chews the tails off her nose!
For this lad sass, I see joe knob.
No mouse or honey has she.
Her life has not one pun fart!
I’m glow sad I’m shot knee.
Written march 25, 2016 for the Contest of Roy Jerden
Flying Saucers, Flake, Bar Six
Country Style, Gobstoppers, Twix
Arrow Bars and Sherbert Dabs
Sweet Tobacco, Lucky Bags
Toffee Crisp and Dairy Crunch
Grand Seville and Milky Lunch
Beta Bars, Loot, Candy Floss
The mysterious chewing gum flavour loss
Golden Crisp, Nut Crisp and Fuse
Extra, Bliss and Trebor Chews
‘99’ Flake ice cream cones
Zooms and Fabs and Toblerones
Coffee Break, Bitz, Victory Vs
Cadbury’s Special Recipes
Swisskit, Gold Mine, Apple Jack
Tiffin, Feast and Caramac
Welcome, Skippy and Sultana
Nutty, Banjo and Cabana
Chewing Nuts, Cough Candy Twist
Butterscotch and Butterkist
Crunchie, Topic, Fudge, Mintola
Super Mousse, Crazy Joe Cola
Golden Cup, Fruit Flavoured Rocks
(The secret of) The Black Magic Box
Floral Gums and Cherry Lips
Olde English Spangles, Walnut Whips
Kinder toys encased in plastic
Necklace sweets linked on elastic
Butter Mints, Fruit Polos, Yorkies
Sherbert Lemons, Sherbert Strawberries
Bazooka Joes and Liquorice pipes
Lollipops with swirly stripes
Texan Bars and Funny Faces
Mint Cracknel, Taxis, long red laces
Winter Mixture, Rainbow Drops
Jazzies, Kit Kat, Pips, Ice Pops
Toffee Bon Bons, Drumsticks, Rolos
Amazin’ Raisin, Aztec, Mojos
Barley Sugar, Chocolate Limes
Daims that changed their name from Dimes
Jelly Babies, Jelly Tots
Milk Gums, Munchies, Mars, Pear Drops
Coltsford Rock and Anglo Bubblies
Sugared Almonds, Frozen Jubliies
Peanut Brittle, Prize, Ice Breaker
Dolly Mixtures, Old Jamaica
Kop Kops, Wine Gums, Laughs and Treets
Jap Desserts and whistling sweets
Fishermen's Friends and Hacks and Zubes
Pineapple Chunks and Cola Cubes
Everton Mints and Pontefract Cakes
White chocolate mice and jelly snakes
Refreshers, Teacakes, Swizzles, Pacers
Toffee Logs, Fruit Gums and Waifers
Rumba, Dipped Flake, T Bar, Tunes
Fry's Five Centres, Macaroons
Bars and boxes of Milk Tray
Milky Bar and Milky Way
This ‘Pick and Mix’ is yours to share
With all sweet lovers
everywhere.
Deer poet tree righters fore the cite
Pleas will ewe bee sweet
and worn me if ewe have scene any miss stakes eye have maid
butt eye no my speeling and ewes off English is prefect!
Eye am knot shore if eye have ever tolled ewe
that when eye right poet tree at knight ore in the mourning
eye don’t knead too ewes a smell chequer ore a theo sorearse
Off coarse, eye don’t no weather aisle get a first plaice inn the con test
butt eye want John too chews me sew eye can crews two victory!
HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU THAT...... Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
11/11/20
For Timothy Lee
My fried anxieties and crisped lonely would unite in my sleep's
repeat nightmares where a roster of random monsters pursued
their viewed, vile end of me. My pulsing terrors urged I run fast
but my feet always turned to absurd concrete, freezing me caught
as monsters qued for fleshy chews.
Then came you with blue eyes sparkling love-shades. In time,
you subdued my frantic bits and wooed me spooned in shared
sleep. There, my dreams altered to tame, chiffon waters where
I sat, posed, upon a beautiful swan who gracefully glided me to
happiness, beside wonderous, sister swans.
Suddenly, you, yes, you suddenly turned my monsters to swans who
fulfill me in dreamy captures as we sleep clasped in love as depth-cast.
Nightly, swans sail me thru morns detailed in dawn’s hue by love's truth.
Regal swans grace my dream-phased sleep because you love-chased me.
our God is bountiful because
Jesus is Robin Hood turning the tables in the forest temple
and Friday treasures an island of hope in my child’s mind
‘you can be a pirate as long as you don’t turn a blind eye’
patches up sorrow and heartache tattooed in its wisdom
bountiful when the snake shares a candy apple with Newton
as everything hangs in the balance of gravity’s fallen sword
when you remove the splinter from blind sighted cataracts
before asking for a new lens without polishing your view
bountiful when kind men from Mars soothe night terrors
because aliens are friends and ride on Dinosaur’s wings
the world becomes as you see it in the light of your dreams
and the chocolate bar holds coconut filling every now and then
bountiful when the cross rots away and nails get a grip onto
new pastures and the sweet tasting promise of sacred droplets
for tears are washed away in the face of anger ceding to faith
and water baptizes the soil for small seeds to nourish the soul
bountiful when the cocoa smeared lips’ immaculate smiles
prepare innocence for that hardship of life bearing the fruit
of patience resolve and happiness that derives from the source
and chews at the gnawing feeling of doubt until it melts away
our God is bountiful because …
11th November 2020
Sir Homophone came to meet the maid that somehow stayed so slim.
Her feat was to stay chaste to him and yet by his feet be chased by him.
She had recently lost some weight by refusing to partake in evening sup.
It seemed the more that she pared down the more likely to be paired up.
All night the weak maid prayed so meekly for the Knight that she sees.
But the Knight preyed to be made thrice weekly and she at night to seize.
She hoped he would meet and see her and then choose to wed,
But it was the supper meat that saw the sear that he chews instead.
She sewed her dress then pared the wood and the holy altar made,
He sowed distress when he prepared his wood to wholly alter the maid.
“Maid please tend to me now you’ve said you weekly have sordid sex.”
“Knight please you misunderstand I said I weakly have sorted sox.”
She begged, “Please be discreet with what it is that we’ve discussed.”
He shrugged, “You are awfully discrete in what it is that you disgust.”
But love conspired to steal, his heart soared and they were off to wed,
Then lust transpired to steel his hard sword and they were off to bed.
He was happy because of her sighs and she was happy because of his.
This concludes my good Knight tale and all of this good night tail biz.
You read it didn’t you? Shame on you, I had to read it because I wrote it
but you had a choice. Benny Hill would be so proud.
The ruffle of fleece at her neck
makes her feel manufactured, not born—
brushstrokes of windswept wool,
all soft edges and curves
the color of old milk.
Her lips were no artist's accident,
nor the smirk as she lurks
in the corner more knowing
than any ewe usually dares.
Coy smile, a pearled necklace
of fur and her hind-end musk—
drew the brown ram sniffing
while a dirt-faced ex-love nearby
chews through the cud to find
whatever’s left of her.
Closer to the cliff than either,
she teeters, grazing weeds
like the dutiful daughter of lamb stew,
like she doesn’t know the cost
of this life: skin blistered by sun,
meat slow roasted to melt
on the tongue, bones cracked
for their marrow, dreams curdled
and spun into the itchy arms
of some strayed-from-the-flock husband,
all too eager to forget
the warmth of her body.
But Clover knows better.
Knows that sheep go one of two ways—
a fireside comfort or the fire itself.
Knows the herd will go
where they are led,
always too late to see
the teeth of the cliff.
She stands alone,
the day's last shadows
pooling at her feet
masticating through daisies
and regrets. And then she leaps
toward the yellowing horizon
gathering salt-wind in her wool
along with the cliff-kissed breeze
of freedom that promises nothing
but the opposite direction.
Dog In A Purse
I have the very best pet, the absolute very, very best
There is no comparison he is better than the rest
Funny story how we met one hot day way out west
He was handed to me in a Prada Purse I must confess
I first thought him a pest but he quickly passed my test
He won me over in 2 seconds or less, oh but his name is a mess...
We named him Prada you see, yah after the purse, so you get it
He is a stud, definitely, all male but his name, yah I regret it
So I call him Pra-Dawg instead of Prada because of my own ego
Yep, uh-huh, he is a Chihuahua but not like any other that you know
He is happy go lucky, loves rubber duckies, isn't nervous and won't relent
He barks at big dogs at the fence, the backyard Prince, he's never tense...
He fetches the ball bringing it back to you, dropping it every time right at your shoe
He has this cute overbite when he chews, and loves to watch the evening news
He is lightening fast but not furious, flying around and so damn curious
He listens, obeys, won't run away, or worry us, he is really just super flus
No matter what he never goes potty inside, not even once has he tried
I am his Master, he is my guide, always and forever Pra-Dawg by my side...
02/26/2016
When love becomes a masochistic moth
That yearns to feel the heat of passion's flame,
It chews a hole through sheets of ardour's cloth.
Its wings ignite, too close to blazing shame;
They glow at first with fervour as they feign
A beauty that becomes a painful game.
The tears can't quell the heat or halt the pain.
They fall to feed the weeds of sprouting dread
And drench the heart with beads of acid rain.
But rest assured that time will smooth and spread
The memories into the shrouded past
And stitch the lesions with a healing thread.
The day will come when joy will blink awake
To leach the sorrow from that phantom ache.
For Craig's "Terza Rima Sonnet" contest
If you'd have lived and worked on Juno Ranch, you’d have come away better for it. It
may not have seemed like it at the time but Pancho (Uncle Frank) would put it to you, an’ it
was for you to decide to do it, what to do with it, or to fight. The motto was, “You either work
or fight, there ain’t no quittin’ on this-here ranch.”
Pancho cultivated a reputation as a living legend in his fifty-some years in the Devil’s
River country of the Texas frontier. He loved his life, family, work and felt plumb lucky to be
livin’ it. He believed there was art in every undertakin’ an’ practiced the highest standards in
dealin’ with any an’ all comers. He savvied horses, cattle an’ the land; and death was just the
gate that opened into higher pastures.
Ride 'em Pancho!
The cowboy wakes before each dawn
With blurry eyes n'a mournful yawn;
Gets breakfast down, just bacon'n eggs,
An' biscuits dunked in coffee dregs.
He feeds the stock some oats an' hay
In growin' light of break o' day.
Then Pancho comes an' rigs a hoss,
An' chews his butt, 'cause he's the boss.
“The sun is up, you little bride!
We're loosin' light! We gotta ride!”
So they ride out to make their rounds
In echoed clops of hoof-beat sounds.
The sun is high 'bout half-passed noon,
An' dinnertime is none too soon.
He eats his beans an' taters fast,
Then rolls a smoke an' rests at last.
He dreams of how he'll spend his pay
When he's in town on Saturday,
An' where he'll go to have some fun
With gals who'll laugh and call him, "Hun..."
He gets his hat an' pulls it down,
Forgets the dream of gals in town,
Cause if he ain't just damn near dead,
The work comes first on Pancho's spread.
The Mastermind isn't keen or shy.
Though some have deemed him pretty sly,
His life just keeps on passing by
And in the end, he’s a normal guy.
He speaks good French but he's not from France.
He lives in a dream, dwells in a trance.
His life never quite seems too advanced
But he thinks it’s a fine song and dance.
He gets a lot of his elation
From instant-messaging conversation
He also puts to application
His years of gathered information.
He doesn't go out very often,
Or refer to himself in the third person,
He did this time though, to get a grin
And he wants to learn the violin.
The important part is yet to come,
He chews his nails instead of gum
He sings a tune and hums a hum,
While calculating his life's sum.
The Mastermind is sharp and slick.
He counts the seconds as they tick
Things tend to click in his mind pretty quick,
And he carries the Devil's walking stick.
Like everyone else he dreams of fame,
And like some out there he plays The Game.
People tend to mispronounce his name:
He pretends to care and thinks its lame.
He's not very sexy or defined,
But considers himself a rare find.
If you meet him he'll be very kind,
That's who he is... The Mastermind.
A group of older men gather
once a week to talk about life
after a heart attack.
Old Len chews tobacco still
and tells jokes in a voice so low
no one can hear the punch line.
Another man asks Len
to talk louder so they all
can hear the punch line.
That’s when they discover
Len's been telling the same joke
at every meeting, over and over.
The joke’s about a loan officer
who lends a man $10,000 for a
face lift that turns out so good
the lender can’t find him.
With heart attacks in common,
the men yell “Tell it, again, Len!”
Donal Mahoney
On The Prairie
Congregated on the prairie western clear with beasts
Cowboy chews tobacco, swirls black liquid, spits
Projectile clean, target hit, lizard quick
Long tongued creature stunned
No time to snatch a timid bug
So much hungry love undone
Reptile rolls over rounded rock pin ball like
Looks both ways before crossing into dark
Cowpoke silhouetted, floated on campfire
Smiles Clint Eastwood style
Slips a small stogie through cracked dry lips
Moves it from left to right
Lights it, inhales harsh life
Jagged teeth, yellow, tinted by time
Clinched while he thinks about old wars
A warrior down to the core
Grins at the beans bubbling up
Old iron skillet and the western sky
Gazes at the long lost stars through smoke
Shakes sand off hat and boots when done
Speaks not a single word
But with a sigh he rises and rides off
She is a deep feet
She has beaten to drown many she feeds
Her face is a black green skin
she waves her tail large the size of her teeth
Her hungry is a mystery. kill
Her fangs cold like an adder's venom sting
She is a regurgitating beast
chews her cods slowly
raises her prey up down up again and down then up
the third time and finally
swallows after some days in her deep
she vomit it prey stiff, stilled,
many forgotten souls lie beneath her. deep
The villagers chant songs and wail. deep
Like a hawk she dives prickly
On its prey at a glance sweeps
Like cyclone and steals
At the brink
of her teeth
Another villager
she
drinks
who gone to be with the river. Last man of his clan, last fishermen of his age mate, only surviving son of late chief only to be seen again days on top of her black green skin, stilled eyes pop out white .River Ethiope is a beast She never get filled
7/5/2020